Happy Messy Scary Love

by Leah Konen

  This book is dedicated to anyone who’s ever nerded out in secret—here’s to not being afraid to be who we are

  JIMMY

  You know, they say you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.

  ONYX

  Would you mind sparing me the basketball metaphors until after we’ve made it out of here alive?

  –The Bad Decision Handbook by O. Knight

  I Know What You’re Doing This Summer

  “What are you doing this summer, Olivia?”

  They’re the words I dread, scarier than any of the movies I watch at night, any of the Stephen King novels I read, or even that true crime documentary I watched in April.

  We’re sitting in the gym at Xaverian High School in Brooklyn—me and Katie, and the other girls from French class, waiting for the final assembly, one little event that stands between us and the glories—or pitfalls—of summer vacation. Our French teacher, Ms. Padma, let us out of class early, and now the five of us are surrounded by a plethora of chairs waiting to be filled. The air in the gym is stale, wood floors dusty, metal chairs screechy, as if the school is ready for us to get out of here more than anyone.

  I scratch underneath my collar as Tessa stares, waiting for an answer. My uniform is itchy and the thought of my sad little secret makes it itchier. “I already told you,” I say, plastering on a smile in lieu of a real answer, and then quickly—oh so quickly—looking away.

  If I were in a horror movie, if we were trapped in this school with some crazed killer or monster on the loose, this is where I’d suggest to the crew it would be a good idea to split up. Of course, that’s a total trope and never a good idea, but then I wouldn’t have to answer Tessa’s question—or look at any of their eager eyes. The ins and outs of everyday high school are way worse than anything waiting for you in a horror flick, that I know for sure.

  Tessa cocks her head to the side, her glossy hair cascading across her shoulders. “No, you didn’t.”

  I know what each of them is doing, since they’ve all been talking about it, ad nauseam, for the last few weeks:

  My best friend, Katie, is going to the acting program at the New School that she’s been dreaming of for years.

  Tessa and her family are doing a house swap, trading their tiny Brooklyn apartment for a “pied-à-terre,” whatever the hell that means, one block from the Eiffel Tower.

  Fatima is interning at an NGO in Africa.

  Eloise is leading meditation workshops at a “mindfulness sleepaway camp” in Vermont.

  And me, well . . .

  “I’m keeping busy,” I say, tugging at a particularly unruly curl and scratching at my chin. Since I found out I didn’t get into NYU, I’ve mainly kept the questions at bay by saying how things were “still up in the air,” but it’s evidently too late for that now.

  “Busy?” Tessa asks with a laugh, and I realize it’s exactly what my uncle says, the one in Iowa whose schedule revolves around telemarketing work and feeding his four cats. Keeping busy. What you say when you have nothing to keep you busy at all.

  “Wait, weren’t you going to that NYU screenwriting program?” Eloise asks. Her voice is even-keeled, calming. Of course she’s going to be a meditation instructor. It’s a perfect fit.

  “Jealous,” Fatima says. “I was in the Village last weekend, and the dudes there are just . . .” She brings her fingers to her lips. “Mwah!”

  They laugh, but internally I cringe. I won’t be anywhere near Greenwich Village this summer, that’s for sure.

  Back in January, when the future had seemed all bright and glowy; when I had twenty-seven words written and at the top of my Google Doc, titled The Bad Decision Handbook; when the pulsing of the cursor was encouraging, not chastising—I’d told everyone who would listen: I’m applying to NYU’s screenwriting program this summer! I want to write horror movies! I swear, they’re more freeing and feminist and just . . . awesome . . . than any other genre. Forget Wes Craven, George A. Romero, and all the dudes who’ve dominated the genre. There’s a new crew of ladies in town, and I’m going to be one of them!

  I’d had big plans, plans so large and daunting that it somehow became impossible to get past word number twenty-seven. It’s not that I didn’t want to write. It’s more that I didn’t want to write anything bad. So I spent a lot of time doing research—er, watching horror movies.

  And then suddenly, without even realizing it, it was March, and the deadline was quickly approaching. The fifteen-page sample I needed to submit was no more than a couple of “FADE IN”s and “INTERIOR CABIN – DAY”s and one line of voice-over—“I didn’t believe in monsters until I visited Shadow Lake”—which even I knew was just about the worst way to open anything on earth. Hello, heavy-handedness! On top of that, it felt like my one bad line of dialogue had become an actual monster, reminding me that no way, no how, was I cut out for this.

  Even worse, I couldn’t help but think about freshman year, my heart thumping wildly as I stood on that stage, stumbling over my lines for my audition for the school’s production of Dracula, and of the cast list posted outside the drama room.

  It didn’t matter that I had a screenplay idea that had been bouncing around in my head for months—I didn’t have a single thing to show for it. When March 15 came along, I did submit my application—my parents had written the check and everything—but I can hardly even remember what I wrote. Run-on sentences, things jotted down way too fast, racing against the clock of a deadline. I pushed it off so much, I didn’t even give myself a shot.

  The girls are still waiting for an answer, and Katie, blond hair stick-straight and skin clear as anything, shoots me an understanding look with her gray-blue eyes. She’s the only one who knows the truth about what I’m doing this summer. And it is, drumroll, please . . . a big fat pile of nothing in the big fat middle of nowhere!

  I’ll be up in the Catskill Mountains with my mom and dad, at this little cottage in the middle of the woods, where my parents and I spent six weeks last summer, right after they bought the place. Even though the internet is hardly fast enough to handle my very full queue on Netflix, Amazon Prime, and HBO Now, I’m secretly kind of relieved. It’s nothing compared to what my friends are doing, but at least I’ll be away from the pressure of Brooklyn. Maybe I’ll even actually make progress on the screenplay that wouldn’t be.

  Besides, the internet isn’t too slow to get on Reddit. I snap at the elastic band on my wrist, pushing down the anticipation of a new Reddit message I’m awaiting from a certain someone, and I look at Eloise. “They’ve got a really strict admissions process . . .” I let the words hang in the air.

  Then, just in case: “I didn’t get in. I’m going upstate with my parents.”

  A shuffle as the gym doors open and students pile in, and yet there is an excruciating quiet as my confession hits these girls, my friends.

  Katie, as per usual, saves me. She laughs, mouth wide-open, voice bubbly and light. “Who needs a stupid program to write? Last I checked you’ve got a computer like the rest of us—and a place to get away from it all. I’m pretty sure Greta Gerwig didn’t write Lady Bird in an NYU program. No joke, she only turned to acting when a bunch of stupid playwriting programs wouldn’t take her. And look how she turned out!”

  The girls laugh, a chorus of “yeah”s and “you’re totally right”s. Then the seats fill up, and our principal takes the stage, and I’m off the chopping block for the moment. Except I have to admit to myself that if I couldn’t even manage fifteen cohesive pages for the application, I probably won’t get very far on my own.

  Still, I’ve got to hand it to Katie. As usual, she’s saved the day, evaded the awkwardness, made it all okay . . . for a little bit at least. Katie, th
e natural star, the one who always knows the right thing to say and do. She’s the best best friend a girl could ever ask for.

  She may not totally support my horror addiction, but she supports me, and that’s all that matters. It’s no wonder I love her so much.

  One New Message

  My after-school routine is always the same.

  Katie and I walk to Third Avenue in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, then turn south, weaving though the thrum of people and activity. Past delis and bodegas receiving deliveries of beer. The Thai place that always smells like basil. The shawarma spot that features meat spinning and dripping in the window, strangely appetizing even under those harsh yellow lights. Bars opening up for happy hour, setting chairs out on the sidewalk and using chalkboard signs to turn their daily specials into witty puns.

  At Eightieth Street, Katie and I burst through the doors of our favorite Mediterranean deli. A rush of AC greets us, relief from the oppressive early June swampiness. A glass case displays shelf after shelf of deliciousness: dried apricots, hummus smooth as butter, pastries dappled with poppy-seed sprinkles. Aliyah is at the counter, and she smiles warmly as she grabs her tongs and puts a pair of spinach pies into two wax-paper bags. “Today has to be the last day, right?”

  Katie nods and then pouts. “No more spinach pies for us until September.”

  Aliyah only smiles and adds an extra pie in each of our bags.

  We pay separately and head back out. Katie digs into hers right away, taking a huge bite. I nibble at the edge of mine, savoring the salty dough.

  We walk briskly, like all New Yorkers do, and when we reach Eighty-Second Street, Katie pauses. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but are you okay?”

  Katie has learned by now that any discussion of summer is off-limits. She wants to go all touchy-feely on me, analyze why I procrastinated so long, how I’m feeling when my friends are doing so much more than me, but I don’t.

  I wrap her in a big hug. “You’re the best,” I say. “For saving me earlier. Greta Gerwig and all that. I’ll be fine.”

  Her smile comes right back. “Good, then come over later. We have to celebrate the end of our imprisonment.”

  I half want to laugh. Xaverian High is hardly imprisonment.

  “You have spinach under your lip,” I tell her. Katie laughs and flicks it away, rubbing her fingers on the tweed of her skirt. I wrinkle up my nose at her grooming methods, but she only shrugs. Even though it’s got to be high eighties, her skin is clear and sweat-free, apart from the faintest sheen on the top of her forehead. “I think my parents want to do dinner somewhere,” I say, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “But I’ll swing by afterward.”

  Katie nods, and then hugs me again, fiercely. “See ya,” she says, and she turns, but then immediately swivels back. “Oh, and don’t forget, it’s my turn to pick the movie.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “How could I ever?”

  From Katie’s turnoff, it’s ten more blocks to my house. I walk them quick as I possibly can, much more quickly than I did with her.

  In minutes, I’m here, my home on Ninety-Third Street. I grab the key from my pocket and let myself in through the side entrance, stepping into the hallway. When most people think of Brooklyn, they think of fancy apartments; but we have a house. It’s old and dusty, but a house all the same—most everyone lives in houses in our neighborhood in Bay Ridge. I dash through the kitchen and up the stairs as fast as I can—my parents won’t be home for a few hours.

  In my bedroom, I tap at the button on my window AC unit. It grumbles to life. I squirm out of my awful uniform—white short-sleeved shirt, sweater vest, tweed skirt, items that were not designed for a summer in Brooklyn—and pull on shorts and a tank top, propping myself up with pillows on my bed.

  Posters stare back at me: Psycho, Get Out, and Nosferatu on one wall. Let the Right One In and It Follows on another. I hear a rumple of glossy paper as I sink further into the bed: behind me is the best one, an oversized poster of Carrie, my all-time favorite movie.

  My phone dings with a text. It’s from my aunt Chrissy, who also lives in Brooklyn, a short bike ride away in Sunset Park.

  Happy last day, girlie! Summer is here, YOU DID THAT SHIT!

  I laugh. My aunt Chrissy, a freelance creative director and card-carrying cool girl, is just about the furthest thing from a fuddy-duddy old aunt you could possibly imagine.

  I text back, saying thanks and shooting over a GIF of a tongue-wagging dog.

  She writes back right away. Ready to be up in the woods?

  Yes but I wish you were coming, too! I write. I’m gonna miss you

  You, too, my love!

  I tap at the home button on my phone, putting her messages aside for now. Then with tingling fingers, I open the Reddit app.

  I’m already logged in under my handle, CarriesRevenge01. I could go straight to the Horror Movie Appreciation subreddit, but I don’t. Instead, my eyes focus on the envelope icon in the bottom right corner. It’s bright orange. Happy orange. I have a new message orange.

  I relish in that prickle of excitement deep in my belly. Then I pause before tapping into my inbox, glancing through all the posts and articles on my homepage—cute dogs, political news, funny memes.

  It’s silly, I know, how much an internet message excites me. So silly I haven’t had the guts to tell Katie about it.

  It started back in February. I was a longtime lurker on the threads, always using them to find horror movie recs. But as the deadline for my NYU application quickly approached, I made my first post. I’d been feeling hopeless and wanted the low-down—how bad would it be if I didn’t get into the NYU program?

  Did most horror movie directors go to film school?

  The comments on my post were exactly what I needed to hear:

  No! In fact, very few did! Most of them don’t have time for that shit. They’re too busy making movies.

  Stanley Kubrick was turned down from every college he applied to—he was an awful student.

  Many did but it’s definitely not a requirement. (But putting yourself out there and making the damn movie is.)

  And then, a comment from a user named ElmStreetNightmare84:

  My aunt is a budding horror director (no joke!) and she went to college but she studied, I kid you not, biology (vom). Now she directs indie horror herself, she’s living the dream! Basically, nothing is required but passion when it comes to this kind of stuff. Though I hear a lot of programs are good for one thing . . . getting you to finish your project. Personally, I’d love to go to film school if I could find a way to swing it.

  Elm and I didn’t start messaging right away. Plenty of people left comments—that’s what you do on a thread like this. But after that first question, I became more active in the group. I started posting regularly about my favorite movies, commenting on threads when people asked for recommendations.

  Then, one afternoon, shortly after I turned in my mess of an application, I made a post about found-footage movies, the kind where all the action is supposedly recorded by one of the characters, like on a home movie or with the camera on your laptop. Most movies like this are pretty cheesy, with overly shaky camera work and bad dialogue, but I was on the hunt for some good ones.

  The responses to my post were swift and overwhelmingly negative. People went on and on about how it’s the worst genre of all time and how The Blair Witch Project basically ruined horror.

  Then I saw that orange envelope. A direct message, not part of the thread. From ElmStreetNightmare84.

  Ouch, you’d think by the responses that you’d asked for recommendations of movies where cute little dogs die (which is actually a thing, and I HATE it). Anyway, since it’s Battle of the Braggarts out there, thought I’d write to you personally. Creep and Creep 2 are GREAT found footage if you haven’t checked them out already! Give ’em a watch. (Or don’t, if you don’t wanna.) That’s the joy of movies: You get to choose what you like!

  P.S. I saw you were talking
about film school in an earlier post? Are you applying to any? I’ve been thinking about it myself but am on the fence . . .

  Oh and P.P.S. Sweet handle, love Carrie!!!

  I wrote back, thanking him for the recs, admiring his use of the word “braggart,” telling him I was in the process of applying to an NYU summer program for high school students, and shooting him over some recs of my own. When I watched and loved the movies he recommended, I wrote him again, telling him so. He did the same for me. After a few messages, and a few complaints about AP US History, we discovered we were the same age, a happy realization, since the subreddit was mainly dominated by real adults. Our genders came out naturally in an exchange about feminist horror and the lack of women directors.

  Back in March, just after I submitted my half-assed NYU application, we only messaged every week or so. But around the end of April, our correspondence became more of a daily habit, something I looked forward to every day during school, while teachers droned on, and Katie updated me on all the drama in her drama club (spoiler alert: there was a lot). Even more, the messages became a distraction from the fact that my summer plans had blown up in my face, that all of my friends’ futures were so much more promising than mine.

  More than all of that, Elm is something just for me, not my parents, not Aunt Chrissy, not Katie, just me.

  I stare at the envelope.

  One new message.

  I tap.

  Hi, Carrie

  Sure enough, it’s from ElmStreetNightmare84, sent this morning at eleven a.m.

  Okay, okay, on your recommendation, I did re-watch Get Out last night. I mean, I loved it the first time, but you couldn’t be more right. Every line! Every. Single. Line. It’s no wonder he got the Oscar for writing. Side note: Did you know that only six horror movies have ever even been nominated for Best Picture? It’s a shame, I tell ya, a total shame.

  All right, my rec is this—don’t follow me to a cabin in the woods and murder me, but it’s NOT EXACTLY HORROR THIS TIME. I know, I know. But it’s a thriller (that counts, right?). It’s called Victoria, and the whole thing takes place in, I kid you not, ONE SHOT. It’s nuts.