by Erin Dionne
They stare at me: Nev, wearing her DIY costume and the silly hat, her eyes slowly narrowing, and Max, mouth open, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Shame threatens to take over, but I push it down and ignore it. This needs to look good.
Nev moves first. Slowly puts the hat on the floor. Then she peels off the jacket and drops it from the tips of her fingers, like it’s infested with something nasty. Her hairline is damp.
“We’re done here,” she says. Without another word, she pushes past me, grabs her backpack off the floor, and leaves. Deep down, I know she’s right. It was a jerky move. Max is still frozen.
“Um, yeah. Well, that was not cool, Hess,” he says finally. “Not cool.”
Like Nev, he walks off the set and grabs his backpack.
“You know,” he tosses over his shoulder, “this could’ve been fun … but it’s not a game.”
He butchered the quote, but I got the point.
<< FAST-FORWARD >>
Moping for the rest of Saturday
Cleaning the garage while Dad supervises
Shooting exteriors in the park down the street
<< RESUME PLAY >>
After my mess of a weekend, on Sunday night I’m sitting at the laptop, listening to A Sea of Serpents, trying to forget that my friends hate me. Jack’s out seeing War Troopers of Blendon finally, which means I get to keep the computer.
I’ve downloaded the takes from the Spanish skit and edited them into a great short. I even went through other footage I shot this weekend, and saved what I want to keep for our spy movie to my external hard drive. Unlike the folders Mom set up for my assignments, the way I organize my camera footage makes sense: Crowd Shots, School-Interior, School-Exterior, Home-Interior, Home-Exterior, and so on.
I’ve poked around on some movie review sites (just like I thought, all of my favorite reviewers trashed War Troopers) but nothing holds my attention for too long. I try to read the interview with the Mausoleum of Monsters director, but I keep getting distracted. It reminds me of language arts, and that reminds me of how bad everything is lately—my grades, my friends … fighting with Jack. It’s exhausting. I need to put something right. I rub my eyes and stretch, just as Sir Oakheart slays Thing and saves the girl. I wait for the scene to end, listening to every word.
My language arts folder is on top of the pile of papers on my floor. Ms. “I believe in tests, not extra credit” Walker is letting me make a movie. I’d be stupid not to get started.
I open a blank document in my scriptwriting software and stare at the screen. I need a concept—an idea—to get my project going. What can I say to MK Nightshade in a two-minute movie? What can I show that will get me as many points as possible? I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, letting the words in the audiobook carry me away.
No book has ever carried me anywhere, before now. Huh.
Thing’s blood dripped from the sword onto the leaves. In the weak moonlight, it pattered down, a black rain. Sir Oakheart motioned to the girl. “Come.” She shook her head: No.
That’s not in the film!
I up the volume, heart pounding. The girl doesn’t go to Sir Oakheart, and instead acts upset with him for killing Thing. She won’t speak to him. Whoa. And then …
“You are an uncommon hero, who murders without permission,” she snapped.
There’s my angle.
I toggle back to the blank script and pause the book so I don’t miss anything good.
I type: Sir Oakheart: An Uncommon Hero.
Sir Oakheart: An Uncommon Hero
EXT. Day. Close-up of pirate ship, on high seas.
NARRATOR
An epic journey for an epic hero …
EXT. Ship tossed in a storm, sea serpent attacks the boat.
(Note: Serpent is a bathtub toy.)
NARRATOR
… but one who is not who he seems.
FAST MONTAGE: Famous faces, funny faces, cartoon faces.
NARRATOR
Sir Oakheart swore to uphold the law of the land, protect the innocent, and above all, to never break the Knight’s Code.
So why would he?
MUSIC: “Who Do You See in the Mirror,” by Theo Christmas.
INT. A castle great room. SIR OAKHEART practicing his swordplay.
CUT TO: A close-up of hands on the hilt.
NARRATOR
Creatures live and die by your hands, Sir Oakheart.
CUT TO: SEA SERPENT close-up.
NARRTOR
And you never answer to anyone.
FAST MONTAGE: Faces, repeated, only more quickly.
NARRATOR
At all.
Beat.
This time, you have to.
IMAGE: GIRL, cradling THING’s dead body.
CUT TO:
EXT. The deck of a ship. SIR OAKHEART raises his sword to the sky.
Monday morning, I spot Nev and Max in the main hall and before they can be huffy with me I give them my biggest puppy dog eyes.
“I was a jerk. On Saturday. A prima donna. I’m really sorry.” My expression might be silly, but my words are sincere. “I edited what we shot and it looks really good.” I bat my eyelashes and wave a memory stick. “Wanna see it?”
“Your eyes look like some freaky doll’s. Stop doing that,” Nev says. She’s juggling her duffel bag of clothes and her backpack. She lugs everything back and forth between her dad’s and mom’s because she says it reminds them that the divorce may have made their lives better, but it made hers harder.
Nev doesn’t mess around.
I keep dodging in front of her, so she can’t look away. She’s scowling, but there’s a hint of a smile under her grumpy face. I just have to make her laugh.
I make my eyes even bigger. They ache from being stretched.
“Forgive meeee?” I whine. Max cracks first.
“Dork,” he says, and grins. Nev follows.
“¿Está bien?” she says. “Let’s watch it during lunch.”
The first bell rings. I jet to my locker and rummage through it for my books. Knowing that Nev, Max, and I are okay—and that I have a script for my extra credit project—makes me feel like nothing can take me down. Not even the slightly greenish-tinged orange that I spot under a copy of an old science lab report. I cover it back up, close the door, and head to homeroom.
I even beat the late bell.
I spend most of language arts working on my extra credit project while Ms. Walker goes on and on about fitting into society—a theme in the book I’m supposed to be reading for class but haven’t yet.
“The life where nothing was ever unexpected. Or inconvenient. Or unusual. The life without color, pain, or past,” Ms. Walker reads. She closes the book. “This is what their society wants. Nothing messy or difficult. Only Sameness,” she says.
I so wouldn’t fit into that society.
I draw eight boxes on a sheet of notebook paper, and I sketch a scene in each one. Underneath the bottom of each box, I jot a one-sentence summary of the shot.
I don’t look out the window once.
After a while, I stop hearing Ms. Walker’s voice. All I see are the mini-scenes in front of me, connecting and growing into a movie.
“Hess? … Hess … Hester !”
Snapping back to reality, I am sitting in an empty classroom. Or nearly empty. Ms. Walker stands in front of my desk, hands on her hips. Her glasses have slid down her nose, giving her a totally typical grouchy-teacher look.
“Uhh,” I say. I sink lower in my seat.
“You missed the bell. And the late bell,” Ms. Walker says.
“I have lunch now,” I say stupidly.
“The only reason why I let you sit here is because I’ve never seen you so focused. What on earth are you doing?”
I hug my notebook to my chest. Both the notebook and I are equally flat.
“Uhhh, working on my extra credit project.” My ears burn.
Ms. Walker’s face scrunches, like she’s trying not t
o laugh—or yell. She takes a deep breath and blows it out of her mouth. She puts both hands on my desk; leans over. Her sandy hair slips out from behind her ears.
“While I’m very, very glad that you are preparing to do the extra credit assignment, Hester, your priority needs to be what is going on in this classroom.” She speaks super slowly, like she’s not sure I’d understand otherwise. “You need to get your grades up. Your test grades. Extra credit isn’t enough. You will fail unless you pass these tests. Got it?”
I gulp, then nod. But I’m pretty sure that I’m never going to get my test grades up to where she wants them.
“Have you even read the book we’re discussing?”
I squirm in my seat. “I saw the movie,” I admit, wishing my life were a movie and I could cut the scene right now.
She winces. “I just … ” She stops, breathes. Straightens. “Go to lunch, Hess.”
I scramble out of my chair and stuff my notebook in my bag. Bolt.
Cut.
“¿Dónde está el caballo?” Max says in a high-pitched voice, cracking himself—and us—up. We’re huddled around one of the library computers, watching the edited version of our Spanish skit that’s due this afternoon.
“So you like it?” I ask for the third—okay, maybe fifth—time.
“It’s great,” Max says. He pulls a granola bar from his pocket and holds it up for us to see. “Crunchy, munchy, yummy! Try FigFabulous granola bars!”
Nev and I roll our eyes.
“The movie came out great,” Nev says. She warmed up when the outtakes came on after the skit ended, and was actually laughing out loud by the time it was done.
I’d spliced together the best of the six takes to make the actual skit, and recorded the voice-over. Once that was done, I decided that since I had so much extra footage, I may as well use it. I put together a blooper reel with Nev tripping, Max sneezing, and me knocking over the set (which I shot after they left)—only speeded up and repeated.
“I wish we thought to make a commercial,” Max said. “That would have been great.”
Nev laughs. “Not if you wrote it!”
“Hey!” Max says, but he knows Nev is kidding.
“Next time,” I say. We watch it one more time.
“We are creating Spanish fusion!” Max says.
“Huh?” Nev and I look at each other.
“From School of Rock?” he shrugs. “Musical fusion? Spanish fusion?” He is so bad with movie quotes.
I groan. “You are hopeless.”
“But our skit is killer,” Max says.
We high-five. “Those thirty points are ours,” he finishes.
While he and Nev watch it again, I lean back in my seat, relieved. Thirty points should keep my grade at a low C. Passing.
“What about The Spy Who Bugged Me?” Nev asks as I eject the drive and we say good-bye to the librarian. The bell buzzes.
“We’re behind,” I say. “We need to shoot more this week in order for it to be ready for the Hoot.”
“Then let’s do it,” says Max. We plan to meet up after school later in the week and head to class.
I stop at my locker.
“Why don’t you come over this weekend and we can plan out the rest of the shoot?” Nev asks as I grab our science workbook, causing a landslide.
A banana—a really old one—rides the wave of junk. In a second, I’m marooned in a pile of paper topped with gnarly fruit, which I’m pretty sure has splooshed against my shin. Laughter bounces around the hall.
“The Hoot is only two weeks away, and they want forms in by Monday,” Nev says. She leans against the bank of lockers as I bend to scoop up the mess.
“Sure,” I say, “No problem.”
There’s a boogery-looking banana smear on my jeans, and the rest of the banana has oozed all over my math homework … from January. That’s where that was!
I slide the top layer of goo-covered stuff into the oversized hall garbage can and origami the rest into the locker, finally slamming the door.
“Your mom would poop purple Twinkies if she saw that,” Nev says as we speed walk to beat the bell.
“That’s pretty much what Mr. Sinclair does on his inspections,” I respond. He checks my locker twice a month. “Last time he looked the banana was probably fresh. It’s probably good that he didn’t see how bad it got.”
Nev glances at the smear on my leg. “Yeah. Be glad.”
I nudge her with my elbow. “You got a problem with it, Chatterjee?”
She throws a wicked grin. “With what? Your aroma?” Only she draws it out like ah-roh-maah. “Oh, yeah, I got problems with it. You smell like an old dessert.”
“Like a rose, you mean.”
“Like moldy banana bread,” she says.
We slide into our chairs just as the bell rings. Usually I feel as off-kilter as the inside of my locker. But today they liked the Spanish skit.
Today is a success.
There’s a pirate ship in my basement, I’m sure of it. Jack and I played with it when we were little. Surrounded by boxes, with dust floating everywhere, I sneeze six times in a row. My eyes water.
The upstairs door creaks open and heavy feet thunk on the stairs.
“Gesundheit?” my dad says. “Were those sneezes or cannon fire?”
“Very funny.” I sniff, then sneeze again.
He thunks the rest of the way down and picks his way across the trail of wreckage I’ve left across the concrete floor. Stooping, he comes up with a glittery wreath that Mom hangs around the holidays dangling from his good arm.
“Probably shouldn’t leave that there?” I offer. He nods and awkwardly places it on a shelf.
“What’s the damage for?”
“A project,” I say, eyes back on the boxes lining the shelves across our longest basement wall. I’ve checked in every black Sharpied one marked Toys or Jack + Hess in Mom’s neat printing.
“Need help?” Dad sneezes as I slide another box (Blocks) off the shelf. “We really should clean this stuff out,” he adds.
“Sure,” I say, responding to his question. He steps closer and we pull the flaps back. The box is filled with—duh—wooden blocks. “I need a pirate ship.”
I move the boxes, Dad helps me open them. We find a mini-bake oven that never quite cooked stuff all the way through, Jack’s Hot Wheels collection, and some old games and puzzles. No ship. Maybe Mom got rid of it?
“Success!” Dad says, pulling the ship out of Water/bath toys with one arm. Both of us sneeze as a cloud of dust follows it out of the box. Dad hands it over, and I do a quick inspection: Sails seem a little tattered, but otherwise it’s okay. I tuck it under my arm, head for the stairs.
“Ummm, Hess?” Dad calls. I stop. “Forgetting something?” He gestures at the boxes, bags, and loose toys all over the floor.
I groan.
“Dad! I promise I’ll clean it up later. I just really want to get started on this project … ” He slowly shakes his head, a tiny smile on his face.
I run the ship aground on the steps and face him. “Help me out?” I ask hopefully.
He gestures with his sling. “Oh, sure.”
He supervises while I get the basement put back together to Mom’s satisfaction.
“Grog and hardtack?” he asks, once the last box is put back where it belongs.
“Aye aye, Captain!” I answer, and we head upstairs.
<< PAUSE >>
Mom’s got a lot to say about Dad and me. For instance: We’re “cut from the same cloth.”
I get what she means. Mom’s the “getter-doner” in the house: organizing stuff, planning things, keeping us all in order. Dad is … flaky isn’t the right word … he’s kind of preoccupied, I guess. He’s a freelance writer, doing articles for magazines, newspapers, and other clients. So he kind of works from home. He’s either holed up in his office on a deadline, or out interviewing someone, or doing a million things at the same time and not quite getting through all of them. Als
o, he gets so into his work that he forgets to do stuff.
Like picking me up from school.
By the time I was in third grade I was used to it, but as a kindergartener it freaked me out. Jack, who was in fourth grade, tried to calm me down as I cried the first time in the principal’s office.
“You’ll get used to it, Hessie,” he said, handing me tissue after tissue. “Dad doesn’t mean it.”
And when Dad showed up, apologizing like crazy, face gray-white and eyes as big as teacups, I saw that Jack was right.
Now that I walk to school and know how to make a few basic meals, it’s much easier. When Mom got Dad a smartphone, things really changed. He sets alarms for stuff, Mom manages their shared calendar, and he hasn’t forgotten us in a while.
<< RESUME PLAY >>
“What’re you working on?” I ask him once we get upstairs. I grab the roll of paper towels and some cleaner to dust off the ship.
Dad gets the bag of Vienna Fingers cookies, hands two to each of us, leans against the cabinets, and runs his good hand through his hair, making it stick up.
“A Weekender article on the new bakery that’s in town. The family just immigrated to America and they are really making a go of their dream.” He chews and talks and I eat and spritz.
“I need to go and interview them this weekend, and I’m wondering if it’d be okay if I borrowed your camera.”
“Sure,” I say.
Then I tune in, for real. I stop cleaning the ship and turn to him.
“You want to borrow my camera?”
“Yeah,” he says. “My digital voice recorder is good for an interview, but I can’t take notes about the setting and the ambience the way I usually do. I thought if I shot footage with your camera, I could just play it back when I was writing and get all the details I need.” He looks pleased with himself for coming up with that solution.
I frown. Dad doesn’t have a steady hand with the camera in general, and if he’s trying to talk to someone and shoot, he’s going to get a lot of ceiling and floor shots. And ones that make him queasy. I sigh.
“Why don’t I just come with you and shoot? That way you can concentrate on the interview part. I can even set up a tripod or something and record the interview, so that way you won’t have to worry about taking notes at all. You just have to get their permission first.”