by Leah Konen
“Nothing! This is all just a part of the plan. I was trying to give you guys some time together. I didn’t want it to turn into yet another movie discussion.”
“What is it?” I ask. “Just tell me.”
“Just go back to your little log of love, okay?” she says. “I’m good. Doing my part and all that. Embracing the only role I’ve got right now.”
Before I can say anything more, she smiles, and I can’t tell if she’s acting or not—which is, I suppose, the mark of a good actor. I turn around just as Jake approaches.
“Are you guys okay?” he asks.
Katie’s smile grows wider. “Of course! It’s just these damn mosquitoes.”
“Mosquitoes?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Katie says, scratching the back of her neck, though I haven’t felt a single bite. “Talk about a creature feature!”
Jake laughs, but Katie keeps scratching. “You know, they’re really getting to me,” she says. “Would you mind terribly if I bounced? Jake can drive you home,” she says. “Right, Jake?”
“Oh,” he says, and I can’t tell if it’s an oh of surprise or excitement or disappointment. “Oh yeah, of course.”
“Great,” Katie says, before turning on her heel and sauntering away.
Jake watches her go, then turns to me, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “I’m sorry she left, but at least we won’t hassle you with horror trivia anymore.”
“Thank god.”
He grins. “Would you judge me if I got one more pineapple slice?”
I shake my head. “Never.”
We top off on pineapple, and then, without either of us saying a word, we head back to our log and sit down, separate from everybody else. The air is warm but the breeze is cool, and the crackling of the fire in the distance makes a perfect soundtrack.
When Jake finishes his slice, he sets his hands on his knees. “I don’t want you to think I can only talk about movies,” he says.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t.”
He sighs, tugging at the frayed ends of his shorts. “It’s just that, when I’m nervous, sometimes it’s my default.”
My heart catches in my throat. “Nervous?” I swallow thickly, then force myself to speak. “How can you be nervous?” I half laugh. “You’ve been up in the Catskills only a tiny bit longer than me and here you are, getting invites to cool parties with grilled pineapple.”
He laughs, but then, abruptly, he stops.
“I have a confession to make,” he says.
I have so many confessions to make, Jake.
He doesn’t wait for my response. “I don’t even like parties. For someone who lives in a house full of people, I never know what to do in big groups.”
“What are you talking about? You’re great with the zip-line groups,” I argue.
“That’s different,” he says. “I stick to the script there. Places like this”—his eyes flit around—“I don’t know what to do with myself. Why do you think I’ve been bingeing on pineapple?”
I laugh, but I understand. It’s how I’ve felt so many times. It’s why Katie’s presence always calms me, because she does the work for me in these types of situations.
And yet, a part of me doesn’t want to be like that anymore. I came up here; I started a new job, even if my mom got it for me; I got to know people. I met Jake. I’m never going to be Katie, with her natural ease and charm—just like Jake will probably never feel perfectly comfortable at a party where he doesn’t know many people—but it’s okay. I can still be me.
I don’t have to hold back so much, just because my best friend doesn’t hold back at all.
I don’t have to be an observer in my own damn life.
“The truth is,” Jake continues, “I don’t even think Bryson really wanted any work people to come—that’s why Steinway and Co. aren’t here—but I kind of begged him for a hint of plans this weekend, you know, so we would have something to do.” He clears his throat. “So I would have something to do with you.”
Back near the house, I can hear that someone has put on music. A bass beat thumps toward us, echoing the drumming of my heart.
“I mean, we already did burgers and ice cream, and I was running out of food groups, after all.”
I laugh again. And then, I feel his hand, warm and rough against mine. I’m scared, just like I was the first and only time I did the zip line, and I want to pull away, only I don’t want to pull away even more.
“Truth is, you make me even more nervous than this party does,” he says.
“I do?” I close my eyes, breathe in and out, and open them again. I’d thought he liked Katie, was wowed by her beauty and charm, but I can feel it now, in my pumping blood, the connection that he and I have—just Jake and Olivia, just the two of us in person, in the flesh. It’s more than banter and movies and even screenplay discussions. It’s learning about his family, about social anxiety, about real things.
I’ve spent too much time—way too much time—being scared. I turn to look at him, and he’s looking at me.
I remember what he said when he helped me rescue that kid at Ropeland.
Don’t look down, only up.
And I do.
His lips press against mine, and his arms wrap me tight, and it’s warm, our bodies together, warmer and sweeter, even, than charred pineapple in a Catskills summer.
I kiss him back, and I feel a thrill, so blood-pumping, so intense.
It’s better than the thrill of any horror movie, that’s for damn sure.
What Would Meryl Do: Part Three
Jake pulls up to my house at 10:58 exactly.
“I had a lot of fun tonight,” he says, and he leans in, pecking me on the lips, as if this is something normal now, something we just do.
“Me too,” I say, feeling my pulse quicken.
“Don’t tell Katie how glad I am that the evil mosquitoes attacked her.”
“I won’t,” I say, trying to hold back a blush.
Before either of us can say anything else, I open the car door and bound off to my house.
My mom is smiling, sitting in the living room and watching some kind of documentary, when I walk in. She hits Pause. “Just in time. Have fun?”
I nod. “Thanks for being cool about it.”
She grins, sinking deeper into the couch. “Oh, you know, that’s me. Cool Mom, always.”
I can’t help it; I laugh.
“Is Katie okay? She said she got attacked by mosquitoes?”
“Yeah, they were pretty bad,” I lie. It seems easier than explaining that the ultimate wingwoman had to fake a mosquito invasion to fulfill her role. “I’m gonna go check on her.” I walk toward the hallway that leads to my room. “Good night, Mom.”
She presses Play on her documentary. “Good night.”
Once I’m out of sight, I rush to the door, ready to tell Katie everything. She was a success, a huge one. This whole plan of hers actually, miraculously . . . worked.
But as I approach the door, I see from the crack just above the floor that the light is off. I open it slowly. Katie is in bed, turned on her side.
“Katie,” I whisper. I don’t think the girl’s gone to bed before eleven in her entire life. Maybe she really didn’t feel well. “Katie?”
No answer. It will have to wait until morning.
I grab my phone and text Jake instead.
Thanks for the ride
He texts back right away.
You’re welcome
Good night, Olivia
Sweet dreams
“Feeling better?” I ask Katie when she wakes up the next morning, just after ten.
I barely slept at all; my head was too full of thoughts of Jake, of our kiss.
Of my first kiss, which was better than I could possibly have ever imagined. Despite my lack of sleep, I feel more alive, more energized, than I have in such a long time.
Katie stretches and sits up in bed. “Fine,” she says.
�
�You must have slept a long time,” I say.
She rubs at her eyes. “Yeah, so?”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
Katie doesn’t say anything more.
“Guess what?” I ask, sitting on the bed next to her.
She looks at me apprehensively. “What?”
I hold back a smile, hardly able to contain my excitement. “Jake kissed me last night . . . twice.”
Katie smiles—she does give me that—but still, something about it is off.
“What’s going on with you?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she insists, looking down at her hands.
Before I can stop myself, my mind starts to turn. What if? No, it can’t be. I rack my brain. She said he was cute that first day she met him, and she’s been so eager to impress him, going off script to make her pronouncements about horror movies. She practically stormed off at ice cream, and last night, though the plan had always been for her to go home a little early, I didn’t expect her to leave as soon as she did.
Is it possible? It can’t be. It’s Katie. She doesn’t even get crushes. Is it possible she’s actually jealous?
Before I can ask her anything else, my phone buzzes, the notification from Reddit flashing at me.
ElmStreetNightmare84: I have something to confess . . .
I drop the phone on the bed.
“What is it?” Katie asks.
“Look at that,” I say, pointing to the phone, a blight on everything that transpired last night.
Katie picks it up, then drops it again. “So?”
I shake my head. “Why would he text you that?”
My mind rushes, filling in his words.
Even though I kissed your friend, I knew as soon as I did that I’m really crazy about you.
I had to tell you before I got in any deeper.
I had to be honest.
Katie rolls her eyes. “First off, he’s texting you that, not me.”
“No, he’s not,” I say. “He thinks it’s you now.”
Katie laughs bitterly. “Oh yeah? And whose fault is that? Besides, didn’t you just tell me that you guys kissed last night? Isn’t it time for you to stop projecting your low self-esteem on me for absolutely no reason? Jealousy isn’t a good look, Olivia.”
“I’m not jealous.” I practically spit the words out.
Of all the things I’ve said this summer, that’s maybe the biggest lie of all, and Katie knows it. She scoots out of bed, standing up. “Whatever,” she says as she changes out of her PJs and into shorts and a tank. “I think I’m going to leave today anyway.”
“Really?” I ask. “But you just got here.”
Katie sighs, crossing her arms in front of her. “Actually, I’ve been here almost a week. Entertaining myself while you worked all day.”
“Hey,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “At least you got a good tan.”
Katie ignores me, tossing her clothes into her bag. She’s serious.
“Come on,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
My phone buzzes again.
ElmStreetNightmare84: Okay, so here’s my confession. I know you said it wasn’t a big deal if I read it or not, but I stayed up super late last night reading your screenplay, and then this morning, I took the liberty of telling my aunt all about it. She thinks it’s an awesome idea and would love to meet you. She’s actually shooting tomorrow in Woodstock. I was hoping that we could go by, catch a little of the shoot, and go to dinner with her? I told her Olivia would come, too—if you guys want to.
ElmStreetNightmare84: Hopefully you’re not mad. It was just so good I had to tell her about it!
My pulse quickens, but it’s not because of Jake or Elm this time. My screenplay. The one that he, my favorite fellow horror snob, actually liked. That his aunt, an actual horror moviemaker, seemed to like, too.
“Oh my god,” I say.
“What now?” Katie asks.
I look up at her, the smile already breaking across my face. “He read the screenplay. And he liked it.”
“Okay. Great,” Katie says. “I told you it was a big accomplishment, didn’t I?”
I shake my head. “No, you don’t get it. He told his aunt about it. She’s a real-deal indie horror director. She wants to meet me. Well, meet you.”
I look at Katie’s bag, half exploding with clothes. “So?”
So? Katie doesn’t get it. She’s an actress. She has loads of opportunities to share what she loves with others, to perform, to get recognition. Writing a screenplay, it’s just me and my Google Doc. Maybe it would have been different if I had a whole group of peers from the NYU program, but I don’t. I want to hear what Jake’s aunt has to say. I want to feel that delight of being understood, appreciated, just a little bit—even if I have to pretend that Katie wrote it the whole time.
I know it’s probably risky, I know I probably shouldn’t, but I don’t care—it’s something. After this, Katie can go back to Brooklyn like she obviously wants to, and I can go on pretending to Jake that I’ve never so much as written a single line of dialogue. But I want this, badly. I don’t want to pass it up.
“She wants to meet you tomorrow.”
Katie crosses her arms, staring at me.
I sigh. “I’m sorry for being a jealous asshole, okay? I’m sorry for pushing my issues on you. But I need you. This is my chance to talk to a real-life horror director about my screenplay. It’s a chance to hear feedback, since I never did a program or anything. I don’t want to miss it.”
Katie narrows her eyes at me. “Really?”
I look down briefly, then back up at her. “One last performance. I know you’ve got it in you.”
She humphs.
“Come on,” I say. “What Would Meryl Do?”
For the first time all morning, my best friend smiles, just a little bit.
All talk of leaving off the books, we spend the afternoon preparing. Katie is back to classic Katie, ready to do anything for a role. We take our flash cards back down to the swimming hole.
“All right,” Katie says as we unfold our beach chairs and slather on sunscreen, reaching our toes into the water. “Tell me everything I could possibly need to know about this screenplay of yours. I know it’s about a lot of genres mixed together, but I need more. Every character. Every plot point. All the twists and turns.”
She pulls her oversized sunglasses down just the tiniest bit so she can really look me in the eye. “And I’m serious. All your inspirations. All the directors and movies that have acted as your muses. It’s not just Jakey-Poo anymore. This woman is really going to know what she’s talking about. This is the Method Acting challenge I’ve always dreamed of.”
I cock my head to the side. “If it were Method Acting, wouldn’t you have to write a screenplay?”
Katie laughs. “I think embodying a character your best friend has created through online conversations for months and doing my best with limited training time is Method enough, okay? Plus, you leave the acting definitions to me. I’ll leave the gory suspenseful horror shit to you. ’Kay?”
I laugh. “’Kay. Where should we start?” I ask.
Katie jumps up. “With this.” She runs into the creek, wading until she’s fully submerged. She pops up screaming at the cold, but it doesn’t stop her. “Get in here!” she calls.
And I love her. I really, really do.
We splash around, soaking up the sun and pruning our fingers; but we do our homework, too. First I start with the plot of The Bad Decision Handbook, including all its twists, turns, and complications.
“So you’re saying the bad guy in the movie is actually a director?” Katie asks, rippling her fingers through the water. “And he’s using this little episode of terror as his movie?”
“Exactly,” I say.
“How meta,” Katie says.
“Right, so the main characters, Onyx and Jimmy—”
“Nice name choices.” Katie smirks.
“Shut up,” I say. “Anyw
ay, they have to anticipate what would come next in the movie, like who he’s going to go after, in order to defeat him. They have to get into the director’s head.”
“And that’s where the bad decisions come into play?”
“Yeah, they make it sound like they’re splitting up, that kind of thing, but really, they’re always one step ahead of him. The idea is, what if you actually found yourself in a horror movie? Not in one of the situations depicted in a horror movie, but in a horror movie itself.” I shrug. “I know, it’s complicated.”
Katie laughs. “Oh, it very much is.”
“It’s what I wanted to write, though.”
“Truly Olivia, and I don’t throw this around lightly, it sounds amazing. NYU or no NYU, you did this. You made it happen.” Katie splashes me.
I splash her back, a smile on my face now, too.
I did make it happen. I really did.
Day of the Dead
A real-life horror shoot and a real-life horror director. I can hardly stomach the thrill of it all.
Not to mention all that’s going on with Jake. Completely electric, but completely natural, too. Even though the energy feels charged between us, it feels like it was supposed to be that way all along.
He asks Marianne if we can leave work early, just this once, and we pick up Katie and are at the shoot location just outside of Woodstock by four fifteen.
“You excited?” Jake asks as he pulls the car into a gravel lot where about five other cars and a van are parked. I know he means Katie, and I don’t say anything, but still, I can feel the tingling in the tips of my fingers. This is really happening.
“I couldn’t be more thrilled,” Katie says convincingly. In a way, she’s not even lying. This is the pinnacle of the role she’s been playing all week. Her swan song, if you will.
As soon as I’m out of the car, I hear it: a piercing, chill-your-bones sort of scream. My eyes widen in appreciation of the cool factor, if nothing else, but Jake, mistaking my expression for fear, tosses his arm around me and pulls me closer to him. “You going to be able to handle all the gore?”
Oh boy, I want to say. You don’t know the half of what I can handle. But it feels so good, his skin on mine, that I don’t disabuse him of that notion. Instead, I force a laugh. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we!”