Tell Me How You Really Feel

by Aminah Mae Safi

  “Thanks, Jeanie,” said Rachel.

  “Yeah, yeah, you don’t believe me. But you will. And when you do, you’ll know what I mean.”

  And then Jeanie was off, yelling at her nephew for putting his elbows on the table like he’d been raised by wolves or something.

  Jeanie took over the telling of Passover. She had gotten to the point of the plagues of the lice, which was the part that always turned Rachel’s stomach and make her wish that they didn’t tell this tale at the dining table. But the table was sacred to the ritual and so she sat listening to the story.

  A story handed down, generation to generation. An unbroken and ever-evolving narrative—the lice used to be gnats, after all—carried down generations and across time and around the world. Sometimes Rachel wondered what kind of storyteller she would be if she hadn’t been raised in a culture that was so deeply entrenched in narrative and history.

  There was a rhythm to it, a finesse. Everybody had their role. Everybody had their place. But of course, it could shift. The fact that Jeanie took over such a central role, rather than any man in the house, was a reminder that the story could change, and the players within them could change, while the central role stayed the same.

  Oh. Holy. God.

  Rachel shot up. Everyone gave her a look. She was interrupting the Seder. She was breaking a great tradition.

  “I’m so, so sorry. So unbelievably sorry.” And then, because she couldn’t remember which of Jeanie’s relatives were actually religious, she tacked on, “I will also later beg forgiveness from God, I promise.”

  Then she ran from the room.

  She had to open up her laptop and look at her film. She had to fix it now. The answer had been in there the whole time—right at the beginning. Fix the opening lines. Have Helen act as the anonymous narrator. Take Douga’s notes and cut all her speaking lines while she was on screen until the very last ones. But keep Helen as the voice of the story. Helen as nothing but a face, in the most visual sense. Until those last lines, when the viewer hears that the narrator’s voice has been Helen, telling the story the whole time. It had always belonged to her. It had always been her story to tell.

  Rachel would have to get this done overnight. She’d have to get in a new file onto the film database before the showcase that Douga had organized. Maybe Douga wouldn’t like it. Probably would refuse to show the new file. Rachel would have to go around Douga on this one. See if she could grovel her way into getting Lacey to help her for her screening.

  It was a good thing, though, trying to get people to help her in ways they would be reluctant to. After all, Rachel needed to practice her groveling before she talked to Sana. She still wasn’t sure how she would get Sana to actually go to the screening.

  Except Lacey didn’t pick up when Rachel called. She’d already tried messaging so the odds of her being screened on this call were high. She wasn’t sure what to do. She couldn’t fix her edits overnight, set up her room for her screening, and also swap out the versions on Douga’s hard drive.

  Rachel had one last bid, one last desperate attempt. She started typing on her phone. Hey I need help

  with what responded Diesel.

  Rachel decided to frame this in a way that made it for the most exciting of stories. Secret mission

  sweeeeeet where to?

  Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to set up all the chairs in the black box theater before my screening tomorrow.

  aw man I thought it was gonna be something cool Diesel’s disappointment radiated through the message. As though he could frown down at his phone and it would translate all the way across the internet.

  You would rather break into Douga’s office and swap out versions of the film I’m editing??? Rachel had to stop herself from typing even more question marks.

  IS THAT AN OPTION???

  Rachel snorted. Alright, agent of mystery, you wanna pick up a loaded thumb drive tomorrow at 7 am sharp?

  International agent of mystery. Say it again. But with INTERNATIONAL agent of mystery.

  DIESEL I NEED YOUR HELP.

  I’ll wait

  DEAR INTERNATIONAL AGENT OF MYSTERY WILL YOU MEET ME BEHIND THE TRASH CANS ON THE FAR SIDE OF CAMPUS

  hell yes I will.

  Also I still need help setting up chairs.

  fine.

  May 1

  Deadline

  30

  You Look Good Wearing My Future

  Rachel

  Rachel had finished her edits. Somehow she had managed to work through the film and get to a good cut last night. A cut that she could air in public. A final film she was proud of, that took the film where it needed to go. A film that didn’t sacrifice art for broad appeal. A film that didn’t sacrifice general understanding for the sake of a “capital A for a-hole” kind of Art. She’d passed off the new file to Diesel this morning at seven a.m. sharp. He said he’d get it into the project files in Douga’s office. Rachel didn’t even want to know how.

  He was springy and excited. Probably because she’d promised and delivered on getting him out of his morning English class in order to set up the AV room for tonight. But whatever. She’d done her part, and now he was doing his. The film would be shown in an hour regardless. Maybe it would be an unmitigated disaster. But maybe some disasters were worth trying for.

  This one definitely was.

  The projector was set up in the middle of the room. The chairs were all lined up in nice, neat rows. Black chairs in a black room. The black box theater was best for screening films. Total darkness except for the light from the projector and the crisp, white screen. The room smelled like paint and freshly cut wood from the last theatrical production that had been done here in early April.

  Diesel walked in with two chairs in each arm.

  “Don’t you think that’s too many chairs?” Rachel heard the edge in her voice. It didn’t matter how many movies she’d already made, she still got excited when one of her works was going to be aired. Not to mention that she still didn’t know if Sana would show.

  “Nah,” said Diesel. “People can get out of class for a full ninety minutes right at the end of the semester for this. I think you’ll be overrun. Even if they only want a nap.”

  Then Diesel laughed like that was a hilarious joke to tell a filmmaker.

  “Thanks, dude.” Rachel grabbed a chair out of Diesel’s hands and set it down harder than strictly necessary.

  “Anytime, Recht.” Diesel saluted. It was so embarrassing. “International agent of mystery, at your service.”

  Rachel half sighed, half snorted. “Thank you so much, for real. I couldn’t have done the file swap and all this setup without you.”

  “Does this mean that I can finally tell people that we’re friends?” Diesel looked so hopeful, so earnest, that Rachel had to suppress a laugh.

  “Yeah, Diesel. You can tell them.”

  Diesel grinned. “You ready? It’s almost time.”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Rachel nodded with as much confidence as she could muster.

  God, she hoped Sana showed up.

  Sana

  “Why are you making me go to this again?” Sana was being dragged toward the black box theater by Diesel. At least she’d been able to take off her boot today. Her ankle felt weak, but not injured.

  “Because you have to see the finished project,” said Diesel.

  “That doesn’t make sense. I know what the finished product is. It makes me look like a spoiled brat.”

  Diesel gave one last tug and they were at the door. “Give it a chance.”

  “Fine,” said Sana.

  Diesel grabbed a seat off to the side, but right up front.

  Great.

  The rest of the theater was filling up. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to get out of class early today.

  After a couple of minutes Rachel came to the front of the room, dressed in dark jeans, a clean white tee. She held a mic in one hand and had half a smile pulling
across her face. It hurt to look at her—she was confident and radiant and in charge of the whole room—but pride wouldn’t let Sana look away.

  “Hi, everyone,” said Rachel. “Thank you so much for being here. I know half of you are trying to get out of class and the other half just really need a nap before finals week starts.”

  That got a laugh out of the crowd.

  “But I’ve been working on this project for a year. Should have only been six months, but I needed an extension and luckily Douga was more than willing to give me one.” This was said with a tip of the head toward the teacher.

  Douga nodded back, giving a small hand motion to allow Rachel to proceed.

  “As many of you know, I was lost during this project. I couldn’t find direction. I got help from one of the most unlikely of places.” Rachel’s eyes flickered over to Sana. But they went back to the center of the crowd. “But before I get carried away with that, I think you should just watch the film. Roll it, please.”

  And then the lights in the theater went out and Rachel made it to her seat off to the side and the movie began to play.

  Sana tensed as the credits rolled.

  And that’s when her own voice came in.

  Rachel had made her the narrator.

  Made her Helen the narrator. It was embarrassing. It was mesmerizing.

  It was perfect. No, not perfect. Complicated and messy. Dynamic.

  Her silent, picture-perfect Helen made sense now. She wasn’t a prop for prop’s sake. She was Helen as the male gaze had always seen her—every man’s Helen. But Sana knew that it was her own voice telling the story, even if the audience didn’t know yet. Even if they thought the story was Cassandra’s or another one of the Trojan princesses’. Even if they thought Sana’s voice was just a nod to the Greek chorus.

  It was hers.

  Rachel had fixed it.

  Rachel had listened.

  Sana didn’t have words for that. A sense of calm washed over her. Sana hadn’t made art before. Hadn’t felt the need. And maybe she wouldn’t make art again. But watching what form her idea had taken—in this final version of the film—that was just like being thrown up into the air. Except, instead of forgetting herself, she felt rooted in what she had done, what she was doing.

  And then the moment hit in the film where Sana finally said her first line—despite being seen on screen over and over again throughout the film—and Sana got to hear a couple members of the audience gasp. It wasn’t everyone, but still, to get anyone to gasp in a film was something. Satisfaction straightened Sana’s spine.

  Sana looked over to Douga for a moment. She looked equal parts displeased and proud. Her eyes were narrowed but her mouth ticked up on one side like she’d just told herself a good joke that she couldn’t share with anyone else.

  The film ended and the lights went back up and Rachel stood at the front of the room like she was ready to give a speech.

  But Sana had a question. Her hand shot up. “Excuse me.”

  Rachel looked flustered for a moment. She fumbled with the mic a bit, but then caught hold of it. “Yes—I mean, I’m taking questions in just a minute.”

  “I have one now.” Sana kept up her hand. “Why did you make Helen of Troy your narrator?”

  A smile pulled at Rachel’s mouth. “Because someone else had shown me a good vision and I’d been a fool to pass it up the first time.”

  “I see. So you didn’t just change the perspective to Helen because that was better?”

  Rachel sighed. “Why do you have to fight me on everything?”

  “Why do you have to insist on being wrong all the time?”

  “Because if I weren’t wrong all the time, I’d never have written a story about you. And then I’d never have run into you on the field and I’d never have broken my camera equipment, never been forced to work with you against my will.”

  “You’re really selling this, by the way.” Sana got up and gestured to the crowd in the auditorium.

  Everyone was watching the exchange like it was better than theater. Better than movies. Better than streaming.

  And maybe it was.

  Rachel reached out, grabbed Sana’s hands. But Sana didn’t snatch them away.

  “I always thought I hated you. But it wasn’t that. It was just that I love you and I couldn’t see it.”

  Now the audience really did gasp. Sana’s jaw hung open.

  “Please say something,” said Rachel.

  “Did you just say you love me?”

  Rachel cringed but she didn’t back down. “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I honestly don’t know right now. But it’s still true.”

  Sana blinked. “I just went down to Orange County to talk to my grandfather about the future and I told him I wanted to see the world and travel and be a part of what was happening. I want to help people. I’m taking the fellowship.”

  “Oh,” said Rachel, clearly not knowing what to do in front of a room full of so many people.

  “Would you…” Sana cleared her throat. “Would you be willing to wait? It’ll most likely be a year.”

  “Wait a whole year?” Then Rachel smiled. It started at the right edge of her lips and then curled all the way around to the other side. “Sana Khan, you are awfully full of yourself.”

  “I know.” Sana took a step closer. “I promise not to start a war, if that helps.”

  “I can’t say I’d blame you if you did.” Rachel reached out, threaded her fingers through Sana’s ponytail.

  “Then what do you want?” Sana’s breaths were coming in rapidly, but with a lightness that she’d never experienced before. There was no lingering, awful tension. Just hope, threading through her. Just the sensation that the best had yet to come.

  “I want you to tell me how you really feel.”

  “Oh,” said Sana. “That’s easy. I love you.”

  Rachel’s smile transformed into a grin. It was a real honest-to-God grin. The kind you only saw in old movies, where the driver never looked at the road and only looked at the girl while they were driving. It made Sana breathless, that grin. Made her think anything was possible.

  Sana reached out, took Rachel by her free hand. Rachel interlaced her fingers with Sana’s, until the hold felt steady and intertwined. It was a little terrifying, not knowing what came next. It was strange to look into the future and only see possibilities and not certainties.

  Sana was starting to like it better that way. She’d have to find her own answers. She’d have to make her own endings. Sana tugged on Rachel’s hand and leaned into her.

  And Sana couldn’t have told you what happened after that, because her lips were on Rachel Recht’s and she just melted into the moment because the story finally belonged to her and Rachel and nobody else.

  Acknowledgments

  Years ago, I was listening to Eve’s “Let Me Blow Ya Mind” for the first time and I asked why Eve rapped about “sophomore, I ain’t scared, one of a kind.” I didn’t understand the lyrics. I didn’t get the sentiment. What I learned was that second albums cause creators and musicians a good deal of stress and frustration. It’s called sophomore panic. Or in the book world, book two blues. Annette Sutton was kind enough to explain what sophomore panic was because she’s been there to answer many of my questions throughout my life and offer her generous support. Thank you, Annette. You’ve always been there for an overly curious kid.

  But back to the sophomore panic. It didn’t make much sense in my childhood. “Just make the next thing,” my childhood self would say. I had no idea. When my own sophomore panic hit—it hit hard and it hit furious and luckily I knew it was a real artistic phenomenon. I was humbled, but I was not surprised.

  Second books—second albums, second movies, second anything—are like that. You worry if anything can come next, after the sheer amount of work that went into the first book. And I could not have gotten through my second book without the following people guiding me along the way and h
elping me channel Eve’s batshit levels of confidence and swagger.

  To my editor, Kat, who has this ability to pull the best books out of me. I’ve learned so much from working through your edits, and it fills my heart with so much gratitude that I’ve gotten to work on you with not one but two books. Thank you for everything you’ve given this book, and thank you for everything you’ve given and taught me. You are a queen among queens.

  To my agent, Lauren, who has believed in every idea I have thrown at her—including when I said I wanted to write an enemies-to-lovers rom-com with a cheerleader and a film nerd, inspired by my love of the Paris Geller and Rory Gilmore ship. You catch every movie reference that I make—even the truly niche ones—and your support means the world. Thank you for helping Sana and Rachel find their home.

  To my publicist, Morgan Rath, who has hustled and supported both of my book babies. Thank you for your tireless efforts on behalf of my work. I see what you do and I wish there were a better phrase other than thank you. An enormous thank you goes to the entire team at Feiwel and Friends/Macmillan: Kim Waymer, Jean Feiwel, Alexei Esikoff, Jessica White, and Emily Heddleson.

  To everyone who worked on this bananas beautiful cover—Liz Dresner, Michael Frost, and Tanya Frost—y’all gave me a beautiful debut cover and then you topped that gorgeousness with this stunner. I wish I could insert the gif of Lorelai Gilmore singing “Did you ever know you were my hero?” into actual print. Also thank you to the amazing cover models: Yassi Shafaie and Danae Muratore. You are Rachel and Sana come to life.

  To my agency siblings, Jodi and Valerie, who read drafts and pieces of drafts at key moments during this process. Thank you for being the agency family I have always dreamed of. Also thanks for having really adorable pets.

  To the BV Crew, who were there to put in writing sprints and to talk about frustrations and drafting woes—Maux, Sarah, Zan, Diya, Morgan, and Elissa. Also, thanks as well to most of y’all for punching shit with me and being willing to let me throw a few punches your way. There’s nobody I’d rather be hit in the face by, except maybe Laurel.