This Is Not a Love Scene

by S. C. Megale

  “Nah,” said Mags. “It’s just Peter Mayhew.”

  “Chewbacca is the shit,” I argued.

  Mags shrugged and stepped over to the refreshments table a few paces away. She threw out her smoothie and grabbed a juice box, then came back to me. I heard her crinkling open the wrapper on the straw.

  “You should get a Twitter, though.”

  “I feel like the last thing people want is a play-by-play of my life,” I said.

  “Are you kidding?” said Mags. She punched the straw into the juice box and handed it to me. I flushed with grateful warmth. It was awesome how she did what I needed without me asking. “You should write a whole book about your life.”

  “Sounds egotistical.”

  “Exactly.”

  In the corner, stuffed next to enormous, real-fur coats that Mags and I would probably protest under different circumstances, the pop star’s parents stood. Her dad was this overweight, hairy Italian guy with a gold chain Miraculous Medal, and her mom was homely with bright orange lipstick. They were grinning and ecstatic the whole time. Nate 2.0—Mags’ … boyfriend? I guess?—was standing next to them, holding the film clapper. He was charming them, making jokes I couldn’t hear. Nate was smooth, always, and sometimes I liked him when his jokes weren’t directed at my expense. Too bad they often were.

  “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” said Mags, and left right in the middle of Billings calling action again.

  I tried to pay attention to the production, but it was hard. Whoever’s idea the style was—the music video company, maybe even her parents—I would have done everything differently. First, I’d have her not looking as if she were twenty-three. Then I’d suggest dressing her up and editing her as two characters: one setting the trends and one struggling to keep up with following them by hastily throwing on one outfit after the next and looking more and more helpless. It would show a lot more relatability and add a layer of depth to the lyrics, which were themselves superficial. Right now, she was just belting them out with no double message and as much flair as possible.

  But Billings was into it, and his genuineness and earnestness made it a little better. I knew what it was like to be in the zone on your own set.

  “So.” I jumped. Someone squatted down next to me, and I looked over.

  It was Nate. His curly brown hair gleamed in the excess fill light next to us, and I liked whatever Axe body spray he used, much to my chagrin. I recognized the old Nintendo 64 game logo on his orange shirt.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” said Nate. His voice was high-pitched and always sardonic. “Mags been saying anything about me?”

  I cleared my throat. Awkward paradox Nate and I were in. We both were aware of his unexplained antagonism towards me, but I was also Mags’ best friend. If she was going to tell anyone a secret, it’d be me.

  “Nothing much,” I lied.

  “Hmmmmm,” said Nate. “Keep an eye out for me? Give you something to do.”

  See. That. It was comments like that. He assumed I had nothing going for me. I sighed.

  “Maybe.” A pause. “I like your shirt.”

  Nate clicked his tongue and gave me finger guns. He rose and wandered back over to the pop star’s parents.

  “Is he being a dick?” KC emerged from the clutter behind me a moment later and shoved his hands in his khaki pockets.

  “No,” I said. “He’s all right.” Maybe it was in my head.

  KC stared steadily at Nate from across the room. I studied KC; I had to admit his plaid red shirt was handsome on him. I had to admit his sure way of maneuvering through the mess of this store—climbing over shit and slipping through cracks—was attractive. I thought I even saw some fluffy hair sprouting from his jaw. Was he trying to grow a beard?

  “So, wait,” I said. “You texted me late the other night. I was worried about you. What happened?”

  “Huh?” said KC.

  “When you just texted my name. It was, like, two a.m.”

  “Oh,” said KC. He didn’t go on.

  “Were you—?” I started, but Mr. Billings called KC’s name.

  “Can you tape that wire down again?” said Billings. “Or get me a sandbag or something. Gotta pick up the pace, guys.”

  KC moved to Billings without answering my question. I chewed the inside of my cheek.

  “But yeah, you should totally get a Twitter.” I jolted again when Mags reappeared out of nowhere. Damn, with me being so stationary in these tight quarters, I felt like my friends just rotated around me in a carousel.

  So Mags and I spent the next few takes creating a Twitter account for me. She chose a not-horrifying profile picture of me from my gallery—thank God I’d remembered to delete all my dirty ones. Then she chose the username before I could stop her: “Hotwheels215.” That was the number of our Video II classroom. Then I filled in all the other info, including—what the hell—my real name under the username. Maybe some film people could network with me. Maybe I could pitch my scripts to agents in 140 characters or less.

  “It’s 280 now,” said Mags.

  “Oh, fuck that,” I said. I followed Mags’ account and sent out my first tweet: Hi.

  We laughed.

  While I was at it, I followed Elliot, One Take Blake (it looked like one of his commercials was up for a local award), our audio guy (his profile picture was a radio), creepy Nate from Video I (could be amusing), and KC. Sort of like his Facebook, KC’s Twitter had a bunch of depressing heavy metal song lyrics jammed into 280 depressing characters. The words death, nothingness, and torment appeared at least once in each excerpt.

  “Look at you, already following me.” Mags pulled me back to the present.

  “This might be a good place to show off my disabled pickup lines,” I said.

  “Hit me with them,” said Mags.

  “All right, are you sitting down?” I said. “’Cause I am.”

  “Bad start.”

  “Here we go: Baby, this isn’t the only joystick I know how to handle.”

  Mags choked with unexpected laughter … or disgust. “That’s the worst.”

  “Yeah, I put the joy in joystick,” I said.

  “I hate all of these so much,” said Mags.

  “There’s more. Ready? Baby, you don’t need blue tags to park in this spot.”

  “How about, ‘Let’s see if you’re handicapped accessible.’”

  “Nice,” I said. “I mean, I can always ask someone to be my ‘physical therapist’ and see how that works out.”

  “Porno material,” said Mags.

  Another hour passed, and everyone was starting to lag. There was just one last take to get right.

  I got a boost of energy when my phone buzzed and I picked it up, hoping it was Cole. It was a Twitter notification.

  Someone already was sending me tweets with the @ symbol. Usernames I totally didn’t recognize.

  Hey angel you inspire me

  I raised an eyebrow. Okay …

  There was another.

  You’re really brave and thanks for sticking up for disabled people

  What the hell?

  More came in. Like, ten more. All real people, not spammers. All praising my crippled divinity. Why?

  I clicked on my profile to see if these would show up on my Twitter page. Then my eyes bulged.

  “Fuck,” I breathed.

  “What?” said Mags.

  “My Twitter account. My followers.”

  “How many do you have now?” she said.

  I looked up at her in shock, but I was actually worried. Why the hell was this happening?

  “A thousand.”

  19

  “Okay, wait. What is going on again?” Elliot held open the door to the camera shop for me later that afternoon, and I sighed and rolled in. Mags started to explain behind me.

  I clicked on my phone and looked down at the article that pretty much accounted for everything: My photo, my damn photo in front of the inaccessible ice c
ream parlor, was published in the Huffington Post. And three guesses who was behind it.

  Maeve Leeson of Spotsylvania County, VA, is calling for bold reforms to the antiquated (and not wheelchair-friendly) downtown Fredericksburg, according to her former camp counselor, Patricia Weinhart. Weinhart runs the city’s only camp for disabled children, which offers accessible activities such as adaptive gardening, pottery, and even a creative alternative to soccer.

  I imagined dozens of motorized wheelchairs driving around together on a field like bumper cars. Jesus, I’d rather be the ball.

  Weinhart is very proud of her alumna-turned-activist. “Maeve is exemplifying everything we encourage here at Caring Hands Camp,” says Weinhart. “Every disabled person sent to Caring Hands leaves with more confidence to face the world; every donation we receive goes to their future.”

  My blood boiled my bones hard enough you could paint them for Easter.

  “So why don’t you just tell your mom?” said Elliot as he walked in last, the glass door closing behind him. “Isn’t she terrifying to people who get in your business?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but I technically wasn’t supposed to be out that day. I skipped physical therapy and told her I was taking a make-up test.”

  “How would she know?” said Elliot.

  “’Cause she drove me there on a weird day. I guess I could lie more and say it’s an old picture.”

  “I mean, I think at this point…” Elliot trailed off. “A thousand friggin’ followers in sixty minutes?”

  “Yeah, I deleted the account immediately. Fuck that.”

  Mags whistled. “Want me to take out this Weinhart chick?”

  “Maybe,” I said. I wondered if Cole would be protective of me too.

  “I’ll drive the getaway car,” said Elliot. “What does she want with you, anyway? Why not exploit one of her real campers?”

  “I don’t know. At this point, it’s probably revenge. We really pissed each other off at Quinten’s.” I didn’t feel like explaining it further, but what more was there to do? I deleted the Twitter account, my Facebook was private; people would simply forget about this false news, right? I just needed to make sure Cole never saw it. It was pathetic.

  We gravitated to our usual table in the camera shop. It was towards the back, near the register. All around, cardboard boxes were piled on grated shelves. Foam pellets littered the floor, which was black tile. It smelled of duct tape and Pine-Sol in here. All the walls were covered in either stage posters or Nikon ads. Elliot and I were more Canon lovers ourselves, and we engaged in debate with the storeowner often. The store sold more than cameras too: lights, audio, clappers, even theater products like props, curtains, and makeup.

  We sat at the square workshop table where some lenses were out, a soft rag next to them. There was one chair left where KC usually sat, but he wasn’t interested in coming with us today. He’d sketched skulls on his wrist with a black pen in the parking lot of the music video shoot and just lifted his shoulders. Elliot had thumped him on the back. And obviously Nate never came.

  Elliot sighed. “I really don’t want that music video on my reel.”

  “Dude,” I said. Agreement.

  “Whatever, nobody cares,” said Mags. “Honestly nobody.”

  “Damn right,” boomed a new voice. We turned to where the storeowner walked towards us, having come through the warehouse door behind the register. He was a big guy with dark skin and gold-rimmed glasses. Late thirties. His Afro made him look like he belonged in Earth, Wind & Fire, but he kept it short and well styled. It was a little theater punk.

  “Sup, Roman,” said Elliot.

  “Mags, I don’t mean to hop on your cynicism,” said Roman.

  “Go for it,” said Mags. Roman huffed.

  Legend had it that Roman was adopted by the couple who founded Shakespeare in the Park and performed as black baby Jesus twenty-six hours after he was born. Verifiable truth was that he spent the beginning of his career doing set design in New York City for the Radio City Rockettes. He knew all the latest equipment and trends, kept some contacts up there. But his real dream was to make it to Hollywood, like Elliot and me. He had a huge break once; Christopher Nolan was this close to hiring him to set design for the next Batman—finally getting him recognition in the big leagues—but somehow, for reasons Roman won’t talk about, it all fell through. He ended up here. In this little shop. Hanging out with eighteen-year-olds.

  The light in his eyes always seemed a little broken to me.

  “Music video sucked?” said Roman. We all nodded. “Well, I got some good news for you. New Blackmagic in 4k came in.”

  “Sweet!” said Elliot.

  Roman tossed his head towards the warehouse door. “You can go play around.” Elliot wasted no time taking up that offer. He leapt up and headed for the warehouse.

  “Do you still have those Bobbi Brown makeup packs?” said Mags. Roman leaned his arms on the table and nodded slowly as if to say, Naturally.

  “Acting section. Aisle F.”

  Mags went off, leaving just me.

  “And what’re you looking for?” Roman turned to me, smiled. A little.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Not this time.”

  “Hmm,” said Roman. “Actually, I have something for you.”

  “Really?” I said. “Why?”

  “Because you need it. Follow me into my office.” He pushed himself off the table.

  We passed Elliot rummaging in the new shipment box in the warehouse filled with reflectors, gels, and lenses. Roman shoved aside black boxes with his large foot so I could squeeze into the tiny room that was his office. I forged in and had about a centimeter to spare on my back wheel as he closed the door. His NYU college degree was framed on the wall, as well as a landscape-size photo of the Rockettes kicking in a line. There really weren’t any family pictures on his cheap oak desk. Sticky notes with phone numbers covered his computer. Roman swung his weight around behind his desk and bent to retrieve something.

  “Here,” he said, box in hand. “It’s a camcorder stabilizer. I ordered it for you to attach to your wheelchair. Figured you’d make the best dolly ever.”

  “Whoa!” I said, lighting up. “You mean this could hold the camera for me?”

  “Yup,” said Roman. “You can film alone now.”

  “No way.” I beamed at the box and inspected the photo of the black metal stick that could be attached to anything to hold up the camera. “How much?”

  “Nothing,” said Roman. “It’s a gift.” He exhaled and collapsed into his desk chair. A little sweat on his face. I thought I caught a sad note in his voice, though. I thanked him breathlessly, and he didn’t look up to meet my eyes.

  “Hey, Roman?” I said. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “How did it happen? How did everything … not work out?”

  Roman was still. And then he threw his gaze over his shoulder to the Rockettes photo. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  I was quiet.

  “Right?” said Roman, looking back at me.

  “Maybe,” I said, unconvinced.

  Roman sighed and looked down. Paused. Then he spoke. “It was my fault. They terminated me because they didn’t want me anymore.”

  I blinked. For sure, I’d thought it was something beyond his control, some impersonal conflict.

  “Nolan’s people liked me at first. They had some improvements they wanted to see to my set designs. So I revised them. I just … could never get it perfect. I kept trying.” He removed his glasses. “Finally, I explained to them why I couldn’t get this one set to match their vision. I recommended we come back to it, move onto the next part of the set. They called the whole thing off; said they didn’t trust me, couldn’t work with me anymore. In one irrevocable email.”

  My heart hurt for him, and he didn’t look at me.

  “I couldn’t face Manhattan after that. It was my fault, yeah, but the city broke my dreams,
and I returned here. Never went back.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I said.

  “Who’s gonna believe that?” Roman scoffed.

  “Me,” I said. Silence. Roman pressed a curved look on me, but I didn’t yield. He almost softened.

  Before he could speak again, I jerked towards something caught in my sight: a framed white poster stuffed in the corner of the office next to the trash can. It had a rose on it.

  “What poster is that?” I pointed to it. Roman glanced over. He swiveled around the office chair.

  “In the corner?” He heaved himself to stand. “Something I never got around to hanging.”

  Roman grabbed the framed poster from the junk at his trash can and held it out in front of him in both hands. He gazed at it like an old basketball trophy.

  “Production I did a long time ago,” was all he said, and he turned it so I could see.

  My heart thrusted against my throat.

  The poster was Broadway’s Beauty and the Beast.

  * * *

  Before dinner that night, Dad punched the tiny little beeper horn button on my joystick in passing.

  “Family meeting in five,” he said. “Living room couch.”

  I looked up from playing Temple Run 2 on my phone.

  “All right, lay it on me,” I said five minutes later as I wheeled into the living room. Mom and Dad sat together on the sofa.

  “Are you guys pregnant?”

  “No,” said Mom.

  “Getting a divorce?”

  “No.”

  “Are books banned again?”

  One time the hardcover book I was reading in bed fell forward on my face and I didn’t have the strength to lift it off me. I’d laughed and yelled for Dad. He banned books for a while. But that wasn’t it.

  “Are we moving?”

  “No…” said Dad. He placed a hand on Mom’s knee, and they looked at each other and smiled. “But you kinda are.”

  “What?” I said.

  “You’re going to college,” said Mom.

  “I know,” I said. “Go Grizzlies.”

  “Not the community college,” said Mom.

  A pause. Then slowly my mouth dropped. “Away to college?”