by Erin Dionne
By the time I go to language arts, some of the pride has come back. At the beginning of the period, while Ms. Walker has us doing some silent reading and before I lose my nerve, I slip up to her desk. Her head is down; she’s reading, too—The Seventh Wish.
Shyness overcomes me, and I stand quietly, not wanting to bother her and not wanting to go back to my seat. I wish I had spoken with Mr. Sinclair before class, but Sarah’s comments had me half convinced not to give her the letter at all. I turn the envelope over and over in my hands. More wrinkles. I try to smooth it on my leg. Maybe I should just sit down and forget this idea.
She looks up.
Too late.
“Hess!” she whispers. “I was so into my book that I didn’t see you there.” She laughs a little, and I feel better. I hold the envelope out to her. She seems puzzled.
“It’s about my grades,” I explain.
Her face gets serious. “Renewing your commitment to the class, I hope?”
I dig at my cuticles and remember my dad telling me how much grown-ups appreciate eye contact. I force myself to meet her level, cool eyes. “It’s a proposal letter. A pitch.”
“A pitch?” Her eyes narrow. Behind me, a few low whispers begin.
“Yeah,” I mumble, watching the floor again. “Just … read it and let me know what you think, okay? Please,” I add, an afterthought.
“Back to your book!” she directs someone behind me. “All right, Hess. But no promises.”
“Thank you,” I say automatically.
“You may retake your seat and finish your reading.” I slink back to my chair. My chances are probably not good. I sigh, and wish again that I’d gone to see Mr. S. as I’d kind of planned.
Unless it’s a movie, I only “kind of” plan stuff.
I try to focus on the novel I’m supposed to be reading, but the lines blur together and I end up staring at the same page, not even bothering to turn it. All that runs through my mind is please let me do it, please let me do it … on endless, pleading repeat. This has to work. It has to save The Spy Who Bugged Me.
It has to save our chances for the Hoot.
Ms. Walker calls the class to attention and tells us about our next test on The Giver. She writes chapter numbers on the board and I write them down in my planner. But I’ve missed which day it’s going to be on. Hopefully I’ll remember to ask Max.
I write Ask Max about test in the planner.
Walker keeps going—how she’s going to grade it, how many points it’s worth, blah blah blah. If I pass the test, and she approves my project, I’ll be set. Extra credit could boost my grade for the Hoot, and I could show the whole school our movie on a big screen!
The bell rings, and we pack up.
“Hester,” Ms. Walker says, right as I’m passing her. I stop and reverse, like a fish jerked on a line. She’s parked behind her desk, still as a fisherman, hands folded on top of my letter. I stand in front of her. And wait.
“How does this qualify as an English assignment?”
I meet her eyes. “I wrote a letter.”
“To me.”
I nod, staring at my worn black Converse. The tight, panicky feeling grips my chest. Cannot freak out right now. Cannot.
I take a deep breath. “Ms. W., it’s a really cool project. I can make a video, which needs a script and a shot list and a plan—that’s all writing. I can give you copies of that stuff. It’s probably way more work than just writing a regular assignment or anything.” Inside, I’m crossing everything—fingers, toes, eyes—and trying to calm my racing heart and brain. What if she says no? What do I do then? My friends will be so mad at me. I suck-suck-suck. Outside, I try to stand still. Freeze frame.
If this were a movie, the camera would circle us and the desk. It’s a standoff like in a Western. She’d crack a big smile and tell me to go for it.
Instead, the clock hums. Lockers slam in the halls. My stomach growls. I should be at lunch.
Finally, she drops the corners of her mouth into a deep frown.
“I don’t like it. I don’t offer extra credit, and frankly, I feel as though you’re taking advantage.” She raises a hand to stop me from responding. “But your letter shows an investment that I haven’t seen from you before.” She pauses and adjusts the cuff of her sweater.
The tightness around my chest makes it hard to breathe. The panic ants will come out soon. Stay calm stay calm staycalm.
“Has Mr. Sinclair approved of this project?”
I don’t trust myself to speak, and can’t even move my head to shake it no. She waits for a second, and I manage the tiniest head turn ever.
“I see.” She frowns again. “Against my better judgment, I’m going to let you do this. You have one week. But—and this is a big condition, Hester—if I feel that this project is taking away from your in-class work, it comes to an end. And I want Mr. Sinclair looped in on this. Understood?”
I exhale in a tiny puff and squeak out a “Thank you!”
“Go to lunch,” she says.
I manage not to run until after I get out of the classroom, then I race down the hall toward the caf, outrunning the panic and tightness.
Finally—a chance to do something I’m good at.
Finally—a chance to save my grade.
Finally—a chance to tell my own story.
Dad’s downstairs for the first time since he came home from the hospital late Monday night, and he still doesn’t look like himself. He hasn’t showered and his hair sticks up like a bad crown. Gray stubble shadows his cheeks and chin, and his eyes are sunken and hollow-looking, even though all he’s been doing is sleeping.
He stands in front of the fridge, and leans a little, like he wants to grab the handle with his right hand. A swift hiss of breath, and he awkwardly grabs it lefty.
“Can I get you something?” I want to be helpful, but I’m not sure how. Dad is bent over, peering into the fridge, moving stuff around with his left hand. An open container of yogurt splats onto the floor.
“Of all the—!” he barks. The smell fills the kitchen: peach flavor. “Who leaves open yogurt in the fridge, anyway?”
Mom crushes his pills into it, because they are hard on his stomach. It’s probably not a good idea to point that out.
“I’ll clean it up,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”
He sets a jar of jelly on the counter and tries to reach up to open the cabinet with the peanut butter. But even using his good arm makes him cringe.
“I got it,” I say. I scoot between him and the counter and pass him the peanut butter, then take two slices of bread out of the bag. I bend and wipe up the yogurt, still holding the bread. Oops. One of the slices is a little squished, so I try to smooth it out on the cutting board.
Meanwhile, Dad’s having a hard time getting the peanut butter on the knife, holding the jar against the counter with his stomach and bad hand, scooping with his “good” one.
“Need help?”
He hands the knife and Skippy over. “Thanks. My arm is killing me. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to do anything.”
I spread extra jelly on, the way he likes it, and finish making the sandwich. “It won’t hurt like this forever,” I explain. “When I broke my arm it hurt really bad for about four days, and then it was okay.” I fell out of a tree in our neighbor’s yard three years ago, trying to get their dog on video. Luckily my camera was okay.
“I remember.” He kisses the top of my head. “I have more appreciation for what you went through.” He pauses, takes a bite of his sandwich. “I have no idea how I’m going to be able to work.”
“You’ll figure it out,” I say, and I offer the only piece of advice I can think of. “When Bruce the shark broke down shooting Jaws, Steven Spielberg still got the movie made.”
Dad raises an eyebrow at me. “How did he do that?”
“He worked around it,” I say.
I scour my brother’s bookshelves like Indiana Jones searching for the Holy
Grail, trying to find a book I’ve read or an author I recognize so I can get this desperately needed extra credit. My proposal to Ms. Walker was to make a short movie “letter” to my favorite author.
I have read books—seriously—I just don’t like to. Everything I read goes through me like … water. My brain doesn’t hold on to words, only pictures:
Obi-Wan being struck down by Darth Vader.
Iron Man standing in the middle of the track, facing Ivan Vanko and the electric whips.
The long line of penguins waddling across a frozen plain toward home.
Hiro’s devastated face as he lets go of Baymax.
It’s no surprise that my bookshelf holds DVDs, Blu-rays, and a bunch of ancient VHS tapes from my parents’ collection, right? Unless it was made into a movie, it evaporates.
I think about making a movie about a girl whose touch makes stuff evaporate. It would start off small … a pencil. Her bed. Then … her little brother. Her parents. Their house. The world. Hmmmm … I like it. File it into a mental folder of “potential horror/fantasy/dsytopian stories.” I really want to put it in my actual ideas folder on the computer so Max, Nev, and I can make it some day, but I need to be productive. Focused on schoolwork. Focused on this extra credit.
I force my attention back to Jack’s books.
One of the novels is sticking out from the rest of the ones on the shelf, and the sliver of cover looks familiar even though the jewel green spine doesn’t. I tug.
A Sea of Serpents reads the gold script. The image beneath it is taken straight from the movie: a black and green sea serpent wrapped around a wooden boat, the knight, Sir Oakheart, with sword held high, aiming straight for the creature’s neck. The boat splinters, the sea is stormy, the sky boils with bruised-looking purple clouds.
I loved that movie! I forgot it was based on a book. This small fishing village was tormented by a sea serpent that destroyed their boats, ate their catches, and started consuming the villagers. Only Sir Oakheart, with his sword of heart’s blood steel, was able to kill the monster—but he nearly died in the process. Of course, a cute village girl has just the herbs needed to cure the serpent venom and saves his life, blah blah blah. The CGI effects with the monster were sick. In IMAX 3-D, every scale dripped perfectly. There were a few things I would’ve done differently—the romance was predictable, and some of the shots used too much lens flare—but overall the movie was great. One of the best fantasy epics I’ve seen recently.
Epic is the key word.
The book is short and fat, and the spine has those white lines on it from being opened a ton of times. One of Jack’s favorites, I guess. I flip through the pages—small type, and no pictures, obviously. So much small type.
Would I have to read it?
Maybe I could watch the movie again to make the video?
From downstairs, the door slams. Jack’s home from track practice.
I tuck the book under my arm and scoot down the hall to my room.
While I was pilfering Jack’s library, Mom left my assignment book open and a to-do list all made out on top of the pile of papers on my bed. She’s listed five items under Wednesday To-Dos:
Choose an author for extra credit assignment
Social studies questions
Math problems, pages 455–457 (Even? Odd? Text Nev)
Finish coloring acids & bases science worksheet
Spanish quiz review
And she’s signed my homework planner for today, tomorrow, and Friday already. What?!
According to my school 504 plan, Mom and Dad are supposed to sign my homework planner every night, but I guess Mom is stressed out dealing with Dad. By this late in the year most of my teachers have stopped checking, anyway.
I can totally color the worksheet tomorrow at lunch. And the Spanish quiz isn’t until Friday … Monday? Whatever. I have time. Social studies and math … ugh. I’m taking summer school for those anyway. I choose a blue marker from the tipped-over jar on my desk and draw a thick line through Choose an author for extra credit assignment. Then I flop onto my bed—on top of that science worksheet, which wrinkles a little—open the novel, and flip to the beginning.
It doesn’t start where the movie begins. Instead, there’s this girl in a forest, being stalked by a Thing. But the girl doesn’t know Thing is there. It’s interesting, but I keep picturing how it went in the movie and I have to reread the paragraphs in order to follow along.
I get through the first chapter and the girl is still alive.
So is Thing.
But I’m toast.
<< FAST-FORWARD >>
School is boring
I forget my lunch; Mom brings it, annoyed
Max still wants to know how we’ll shoot the chase scene
<< RESUME PLAY >>
INT. School lunchroom. Kids laughing, talking loudly, jostling for space at tables and carrying lunch bags and trays.
Zoom in on a table in the corner. Three kids—two girls and a boy—sit, lunches spread. The boy with close-cropped dark hair looks at the camera, mid-bite of a sandwich. Scowls.
MAX
Shut it off, Hess!
End scene.
“What’d you do that for?” I ask.
“You shoot the same things all the time,” Max complains as I set my Avengers box and camera on the table. “We’re not that interesting.”
Nev rolls her eyes. “Max is cranky today,” she explains, as if it wasn’t totally obvious.
“Why?”
Max glares at us both. “Geometry test,” he says, after another bite of sandwich.
“Wait!” I can’t believe what I’m seeing. “Is that salami?”
Max ducks his head, acting shy.
“I have to get this on camera!” I pop the lens cap off, connect my external mic, and hit RECORD. Across from me, Nev cracks up.
NARRATOR
(documentary film voice)
Can you tell us why this is such a monumental occasion?
MAX
(scowls)
NEV pops into the frame.
NEV
For the past two years—
MAX
(correcting her)
No. Approximately two hundred sixty-eight school days.
I slip out of my chair to fit them both in the frame.
NEV
(continuing)
For the past two years, Max has brought the same sandwich—ham and cheese on wheat with mustard on one slice, mayo on the other—for lunch. Every day.
(leaning back, triumphant)
It’s weird. And now, something different.
CLOSE-UP: Max.
NEV
Why now? Why today?
CLOSE-UP: MAX’s eyes dart from side to side and a small muscle in his throat twitches.
I don’t pull the camera away. This is a moment.
MAX swallows, then speaks directly into the camera.
MAX
My dad made a salami sandwich for lunch on Saturday. It smelled really good, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. That was how I knew I had to switch.
He stops speaking, but I leave the camera on, held tight on his face. David Stonestreet, one of my favorite directors, said that people reveal more once they think they’re done, when they stop paying attention to being filmed.
MAX’s eyes get a little far away, like he can see the memory.
MAX
I was ready.
YES! There it is!
End scene.
The warning bell rings. I haven’t even opened my mom-delivered lunch.
“Hey, when are we going to work on The Spy Who Bugged Me?” Nev asks. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
Max opens my lunchbox, fishes through it, and grabs an apple. “An apple a day blows the blues away!” He grins at an imaginary camera and takes a huge bite. Nev and I don’t even bother to respond to that one.
“This weekend?” I offer. “We can do some shots outside of school, and maybe make the chase scene
outside.” We get up from the table and head for the doors.
“We have Spanish this weekend,” Max says. “Don’t you remember?”
“Totally,” I lie.
Nev sees right through me.
“The skit,” she says, giving me a nudge. “We’re recording the skit.”
“Totally,” I repeat. Max waves as he goes toward social studies.
“Thanks for the apple!” he calls.
Shooting a Spanish skit. Shooting a spy movie. Shooting an extra credit video.
Three video projects at once? I got this.
All good directors learn as much as possible about their source material when they start a movie.
I’m determined to do that, too. I sit down with Jack’s A Sea of Serpents, the laptop we share, and my language arts and Spanish folders. Research time!
Language arts extra credit first. Inside the back cover of the book, I find MK Nightshade’s website address and type it in.
There’s a link to audio from A Sea of Serpents—the soundtrack?—I click PLAY.
Haunting music comes out of the computer’s speakers. It’s a theme I recognize from the movie. I let it go while I poke around the site.
“The forest floor was thick with evergreen needles, and the mist deadened all sound.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the raspy whisper that suddenly fills my room. The voice goes on, and before I scream for my parents, I realize that it’s reading A Sea of Serpents. The link must’ve been to an audio clip of the book.
I laugh at myself. I let the voice continue. It’s kind of cool, hearing it.
I check out the site: There’s a fan section with original art based on the books, a family tree to sort out the characters’ relationships, which I don’t really read—Thing is following the girl and his hot breath is just inches from her sleeping form, according to the book reader guy—but what stands out is that there’s an interview with David Stonestreet—the guy who directed Archangel’s Revenge, Mountains of the Golden Sun, and Curse of the Janus Rocket—only three of the best action movies I’ve seen in the past few years. Plus he’s directing the next movie in this series, A Mausoleum of Monsters.