by Jen Brady
“Whatever,” she said, waving my objection away with the two fingers. “I’m not going to mooch a credit off of you. I’m going to contribute.”
I folded my arms across my chest as my pulse picked up. “To my boring film.”
“Yes, to your boring film. If it doesn’t place, there’s no point in us going through this, so you better believe I’m going to contribute to keep it out of the slush pile.”
I drew in a slow, steady breath and tried to smile. I’m sure it came off as fake as it felt, but I didn’t care. I had a new mission—to get the footage I needed as fast as I could so I could get her and her brazen insults out of my life as quickly as possible.
“Hello!” called a gruff voice, and I looked up to see Mr. Matthews striding toward us, just in time to keep our argument from escalating.
I thanked him for meeting with me and got started with the interview. I had my questions memorized so I could segue from one to the next as the interview took its natural course. We covered landscaping, cleaning up graffiti, and how often he had to mow the grass and rake leaves.
I had the added distraction of keeping watch on Joanna out of the corner of my eye to make sure she left the camera safe and steady on the tripod where it belonged. Mostly, she picked at her nails and didn’t even look at me. I couldn’t decide if I was glad she was staying out of my way or insulted that she wouldn’t even pretend to be interested.
The interview was clicking along great when out of the blue, she said, “I think you should re-ask that question from inside the plow.”
I relaxed my fists as soon as I felt my nails biting into my palms. Normally, I’d be annoyed with myself for pulling an angry-looking gesture on-screen, but since she’d talked over Mr. Matthews’s answer, we’d have to redo the question and splice it together anyway.
Mr. Matthews pulled his head back when she made her suggestion, his bushy eyebrows coming together. Exactly what I was afraid of. He felt we were being pushy.
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” I said, quickly. “Forget she asked.”
I’d finally gotten him to show up. There was no way I was going to impose on him by asking for a ride-along in the plow.
But Mr. Matthews’s features softened, and a broad grin slowly spread throughout his white beard and mustache. “I like the way you think, little lady.”
I cringed. There was no way Joanna would take being called a “little lady” without some snappy remark as to how insulting it was. I racked my brain for soothing verbiage to smooth over whatever was about to come out of her mouth.
Instead, she shocked me by laughing, looping her arm through Mr. Matthews’s, and declaring, “I’ve always wanted to ride in a snowplow. Thanks!”
The two took off arm in arm, leaving me gaping behind them. She said something I couldn’t make out, and Mr. Matthews’s gravelly laugh rang out. They disappeared around the corner of the building, and I snapped out of my surprise to grab the camera and tripod and take off after them.
FORTY MINUTES LATER, I had more footage than I’d hoped to get, and Joanna had been right; filming from inside the snowplow had been a great idea. Mr. Matthews seemed right at home there and opened up, answering more candidly than he had during our formal setup. He even switched spots with me and let me take the plow for a spin around the parking lot as Joanna filmed. I learned a lot about taking care of the grounds during winter, and more importantly, got some fun, unique shots for the film. Now I wished I would have filmed the interviews with Mr. Barnes and Mrs. Paulson in more creative ways.
I begrudgingly saw the point she’d made the other day about everything looking the same. She also asked him some great questions that I hadn’t thought of.
When we were finished with our outside shots, I watched Joanna disassemble the camera and tripod to take inside. She hummed as she worked, her movements looser and posture more relaxed.
“What?” she asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. She’d caught me staring at her.
“I’m trying to figure out why you do what you do when you’re so much better than that.”
Her forehead wrinkled and her eyebrows knit together in a confused scowl. “Excuse me?”
I’d probably regret it, but I had to get my confusion off my chest. “Your channel. You’re a way better filmmaker than you make yourself out to be by the silly stuff you post. You could create things that actually matter.”
I fought the urge to duck. I’d fired a shot. She’d fire back, probably harder and more on-target. I was surprised when she stayed focused on detaching the camera from the tripod. She calmly unscrewed the connector, placed the camera snug in its bag, and folded up the tripod before straightening and meeting my eyes.
I was expecting fire or ice, but the gray was something else. Resigned. Yes, resigned and maybe a little sad.
“Do you think I don’t know how stupid our channel is?”
Her soft, level tone was so surprising, it knocked my next retort off the tip of my tongue, and I had to scramble for a different comeback.
“You seem pretty proud of it when you’re telling people to hit the Like button and subscribe,” I finally managed.
She sighed. “Rick, our last video was us blending shakes for each other made of three random ingredients and then tasting the disgusting combos and trying to guess what the ingredients were. I know it’s not stellar.”
“Then why—”
“Because it monetizes. Really well. People go nuts over that stuff.”
Of course.
“Right. I forgot. It’s all about the money.” All that talent, and she was churning out click-bait rubbish for quick cash. What a sellout.
“I mean sort of.” Her cheeks had turned pink, but I didn’t know if I’d hit a nerve or if they’d already been flushed because of the cold. “I’m going to create beautiful things someday. Beautiful, brilliant movies that you won’t appreciate or even have a prayer of understanding.”
The spark was returning to her eyes as she spoke, and her passion ignited something in me that made goosebumps rise all over my skin that had nothing to do with the weather. She was even prettier when she got all fired up.
“But to do that, I need equipment. And to pay actors who aren’t Ted or my sisters. And film school tuition. YouTube’s a job. How do you pay for college? A job, probably, right? Do people criticize you for your paper route or part-time fast food job or whatever?”
She had me there. I was embarrassed to mumble the truth. “Actually . . . I can go to Lowell free because my dad’s an employee.”
She pulled her head back and scoffed. “So you can create whatever you want, whenever you want because you don’t have to worry about tuition? Must be nice.”
“Hey, it’s not like we’re rich. You’ve seen my car; it’s no Porsche.”
“The Porsche is Ted’s, not mine. My sister and I share the beat-up Camry I drove to your house the other day.”
“And I live at home and commute because we can’t afford room and board. I’m lucky my dad’s a professor there. Otherwise, I’d have to . . . .”
I trailed off as a lightbulb switched on.
“Right,” she said, smiling without humor. “Put aside your ambitions and do whatever it took to get you to your dream. I had a college fund once. My dad spent it . . . on people half-way across the world who I’ll never meet in some crazy, hairbrained scheme to save the world. My mom works double shifts just to pay our mortgage and utilities and food for a family of five. So I’m on my own if I want to go to film school someday, which I one hundred percent will, because I’m not staying here and living a boring, small-town life when I could be creating things that matter somewhere amazing.”
Wow, when Joanna got going, she really got going. I opened my mouth to get a soothing word in, but she rushed on.
“The mannequin challenge video? That paid for part of my sister’s prom dress last year. And the video where we rode around with the top down in Ted’s grandpa’s Mustang in the middle of winter pa
id for most of this camera.” She held the camera bag up for emphasis, then threw the strap over her shoulder. “That and the bath bomb challenge. And the merch pays for things like my sister’s art camp and tuning our piano. My mom doesn’t have money for that stuff, and Bethany deserves it, and I’m not listening to Mya mope around all summer because she can’t go to her precious art camp.”
No way.
There was far more to that dumb channel than anybody realized. I’d never felt like such a jerk in my life.
“Joanna, I—”
“So, yes, I know the channel’s dumb. It’s a joke. We took Ted’s love of practical jokes and my skill with a camera and turned it into something completely silly. But people liked it, so we monetized it, and it’s what’s going to get me through film school. That’s why the contest was so important. For the views and subscribers the recognition would have brought. So I’m sorry if you think you’re better than me because my channel isn’t this great work of art, but it’s the only way I have to save for film school and help my family at the same time.”
She stopped to come up for air and glare at me. A strand of hair had escaped her ponytail and whipped around her forehead in the wind. I reached out and tucked it behind her ear.
“I didn’t know,” I said softly.
We stood locked in the ultimate face-off, but it wasn’t a challenge-based face-off anymore. It was more of an awkward, trying-to-understand-each-other face-off. The wind picked up and I felt the chill cut through my coat. I folded my arms across my chest and tucked my hands under my armpits to warm them. My face stung. You’d be surprised at the protection even a light coating of facial hair provided during key months in New England. I could have suggested taking the conversation inside the mall or to one of our cars, but I wasn’t going to admit defeat by winter first. I could stick out the cold wind as long as she could.
“And we don’t always post stupid videos,” she said. “Some of them make a difference. Some of them ‘matter.’” She threw her hands up and made air quotes when she spat out the end of her sentence. “You should check out the one where we were bald.”
I reached out to tuck the hair back behind her ear again, but she turned and stalked off toward the parking garage, taking the camera with her.
I ran after her. “Hey, wait!” Our conversation wasn’t over just because she decided it was.
She kept up her stride, and I had to run to catch up with her as she headed for the parking garage, my tripod banging into my leg since I hadn’t had time to fully fold it up. I reached her and put my hand on her arm. She stopped, closing her eyes and letting out a frustrated huff.
“What do you want, Rick?”
“Let’s go to the food court. I’ll buy you lunch before we take the interior shots.”
“I can afford my own food court lunch. You don’t have to feel sorry for me. We’re not destitute. We just can’t afford film school.”
“I know. But I was kind of a jerk back there. I want to make it up to you.”
“I’m not hungry. I’m not really feeling up to more filming, and I have to go to work. Can we take a rain check on the interior shots?”
I wanted to get the rest of the shots done, but it didn’t seem like the right time with her getting all worked up. Plus, she’d already contributed more than I’d hoped for with her great ideas. I didn’t want to press my luck.
“No, we’re good for the day. If you’d send me the footage as soon as you can, that’d be great.”
“I don’t know why you refuse to use Wrap Up Pro. It would make it a lot easier.”
Uh, because I didn’t trust her and Laurence to have access to my files? But I couldn’t say that. So I came up with a compromise.
“Why don’t you upload the files from today to your account, and I’ll go in and check it out.”
She perked up. “Really?”
Her smile almost made me spill the truth that I was going to download the files and exit the program as fast as I could.
“Sure.”
“Awesome. If we can get you on board with Wrap Up Pro, we won’t have to edit in your pigsty of a room.”
“I’ll check it out,” I promised.
We said an awkward good-bye, and she headed for the parking garage. I finished folding up the tripod as I watched her go.
She and Laurence always acted like they didn’t have a care in the world. After all, they had time to do stupid things like go through drive-thrus ordering every item one at a time just for kicks. They had the money to buy thousands of bath bombs. They laughed almost all the time and put on this our-life-is-a-constant-party air.
But there was more to her than the goofy persona she showed the world in her YouTube videos.
The substance to her didn’t make fighting my attraction to her any easier.
13
JOANNA
AFTER THE MORNING I’D had, I wanted nothing more than to go home and complain about Rick to Bethany. She’s a great sounding board. She listens to my rants and gives advice that doesn’t even feel like advice, which is way better than Megan’s motherly nagging. I have no idea if Mya gives good advice or not because I’ve never (and will never) asked her advice about anything.
Unfortunately, I had to work about half an hour after we wrapped up, so as soon as I saw Rick’s car pull out of the lot, I went inside the mall, grabbed Panda Express from the food court, and used the mall’s free-but-slow-as-Megan-getting-ready-for-a-date Wi-Fi to upload the footage to our Wrap Up Pro account.
As it uploaded, I dug into my orange chicken and rice. Eating alone wasn’t the best idea since it left me with my thoughts, and they weren’t great at the moment. I couldn’t believe I’d spilled my guts to Rick about my dad. I hadn’t told anybody about him ditching us for the mission work he found oh-so-fulfilling, and while I’m sure several people in our lives had figured it out, nobody knew the details except for Aunt Deb, Ted, Ted’s grandpa, and possibly Megan’s best friend Sallie.
I’d stood there talking faster than I could think, laying all the ugliness out for Rick. He probably thought my family was a mess. He had married parents and an older sister (I’d noticed the pictures on the wall). I had a mom who worked overtime so we wouldn’t lose the house we couldn’t afford anymore, a mess of dramatic sisters, and a father who had gone on a two-month mission trip and decided not to come back because it was “so rewarding.” Like raising a family wasn’t. It was going on three years into that two-month mission trip, and while my parents were still technically married, since they’d never filed divorce papers, he might as well have been dead or off to war for as much as he was in our lives.
His absence didn’t usually bother me anymore, but my argument with Rick had brought it all back. I’d promised my mom to work on my tendency to hang on to grudges, but it was hard not to when my college fund had gone with him. Supposedly, it had helped build an orphanage, so a better person than me wouldn’t begrudge the kids in Uganda who had previously lived in poverty, but I didn’t want to live in poverty either.
I dwelled a little too long and found myself rushing to the parking garage to head to work. I crossed my fingers that there would be no police around as I turned and raced down Plumfield Lane to my aunt’s house.
“Joanna?” a crabby screech demanded as I let myself into Aunt Deb’s front entryway. “Is that you?”
“No, it’s a burglar who has a key,” I muttered to myself before shouting, “Yep, just me, Aunt Deb!”
“You’re late again!” she barked, which was technically true, as it was five after two. Okay, seven after two.
“I know,” I said as I took off my coat, hung it in the closet, and hustled into the living room where Aunt Deb sat on her couch, her poodle tucked into her side, as usual. “I was at the mall, and the traffic was terrible.”
She harrumphed. “You girls spend entirely too much time at the mall.”
That was a totally unfair criticism because while Megan and Mya might love hanging out at the mall,
Bethany and I don’t. In fact, I hadn’t gone to the mall in months. Well, except for our first run-in with Rick . . . and to the incredibly unhelpful Fix-It Force counter . . . and then again today, but that was just the parking lot and the food court, so it barely counted.
I opened my mouth to defend myself, but I was interrupted by a squawk coming from the corner of the room. “Late again! Late again!” Aunt Deb’s parrot. It was just as well; no good could have come from firing back at my aunt. She’d just tell me I was taking an unacceptable tone with her and be even more unpleasant than she usually was. I was already on thin ice for tossing WeeWee’s poop in the flowerbed last week instead of bagging it like I was supposed to.
I couldn’t afford to tick her off today. She might be difficult to deal with, but she paid me decent to do her pet chores, clean the bathrooms, help her answer email, and watch old movies.
She’s my dad’s aunt, so she’s super old, and she doesn’t hear the greatest. She loves old movies but refuses to use the closed caption feature because “all those words get in the way of the picture,” so we have to listen at an ear-splitting decibel, and even so, she still asks me, “What did he say?” every fourth line. It’s the most annoying way to watch movies ever, but it’s still watching movies instead of flipping burgers or scraping gum off the bottom of tables, so I try not to complain, even when she’s in one of her moods, which is basically twenty-three out of twenty-four hours of the day.
Every once in a while, she’ll doze off mid-movie, and if I’m stealthy enough, I can get away with changing the channel to a good movie.
So instead of defending myself, I said, “I was helping a guy with his movie.”
“A boy?” she asked, perking up. I instantly regretted my words. It’s no secret that Aunt Deb is all about my sisters and me dating. I don’t know why she cares so much, but she does. Maybe because she never had her own kids, so she has to vicariously live through us.