Lights, Camera, Disaster

by Erin Dionne

  A wide smile splits his face. “Thanks, honey. That would be great. I’ll give them a call.” He disappears to his office, and I go back to my pirate ship.

  It’s only later that I realize that he had no intention of borrowing my camera at all—he knew I’d never go for it. I shake my head at how easily I was played.

  The pirate ship bobs in the tub, a newly purchased LEGO Sir Oakheart stuck to the deck. I attached him with some double-sided tape, but every time it gets wet, he tips.

  My back aches from leaning over, but I can’t get the shot right unless the camera is on the same wall as the faucet. And I need to get the shot right, because I’m running out of time. It’s due Thursday. I stretch and try again.

  With my left hand, I swish the water into waves. Getting the color right required mixing the rest of the Blueberry Blast Hyper Hues hair dye Jack uses for track meets and one of my mom’s fizzy bath balls. The boat rides the waves; Sir Oakheart holds steady.

  I give the water one more swish, then grab the camera.

  [RECORD]

  CLOSE-UP: Deck.

  CLOSE-UP: SIR OAKHEART.

  CLOSE-UP: Waves.

  CLOSE-UP: Waves against the side of the boat.

  I stir the sea again, then slip my old dragon puppet—doubling as a sea serpent—over my right hand. I sink my elbow into the ocean. The hem of the puppet gets wet.

  CLOSE-UP: Waves crashing over the boat’s deck.

  CLOSE-UP: SERPENT’s head.

  WIDE SHOT: Boat on the sea.

  I’m breathing through my mouth, even though I’ve muted the audio. Body noises are a pain to edit out, so I’ll just add ocean sounds in later.

  The overhead light is too bright, but the software will darken everything. I put the camera on the floor, swirl the sea, pick up the camera, make the puppet menace the ship.

  PAN: Whole ship.

  There’s a rapid knocking on the bathroom door.

  “Hess! Hester! Are you okay?”

  I nearly drop my camera.

  [PAUSE]

  “Mom! What are you doing?! I’m fine!” I call. I thought I’d be done before she got home from work.

  “I’ve been calling your name for ten minutes. Are you sick in there? Did something … happen?”

  “No! Oh, no! Just doing some shooting!”

  “Can you open the door so we don’t have to talk like this?”

  “Umm … ” I don’t really want to, because when she sees the tub, she’s going to flip the heck out.

  “Open the door, Hess.” It’s her no-nonsense voice.

  I straighten from my crouched position next to the tub, and a silver line of pain zings across my back. I wince, and catch my reflection in the mirror: The extra-bright lights make the dark circles under my eyes stand out. My braces glitter.

  She’s frowning when the door opens. “Dinnertime,” she says. There’s a deep crease across her forehead.

  Had I really been working that long? I catch a whiff of garlicky spaghetti sauce coming from downstairs. Guess so.

  But standing there, taking that whiff, was one whiff too long. Mom’s eyes widen like a character in a horror movie’s, right before they get a cleaver to the noggin.

  “Your hands!”

  I glance down. My left hand, the one that’s been swirling the tub-ocean, is a dead-body shade of blue. And rivers of the same color run down my right arm from the elbow.

  “It’s just hair dye and stuff,” I say quickly. “No big deal.”

  Her glance bounces over my head. “The tub!”

  “I’ll clean it.”

  She squeezes past me. “Yeah, you will,” she says. “It’s so … ” She can’t even finish, just stands there, shaking her head.

  With every swish and swirl, each time I created a wave, the water left marks higher and higher along the white sides of the tub: dark blue marks.

  Oops.

  “Dinner. Now. Then … ” She reaches under the sink and puts the yellow cleaning supplies basket on the counter. “This.”

  I pull the plug on Sir Oakheart and leave him—and my extra credit—marooned.

  My right elbow is blue. So are the cuticles on my left hand.

  After almost an hour of scrubbing, the tub is now the color of the light blue hydrangeas in our front yard. Although it’s an improvement from when I started, Mom is not psyched.

  The Hyper Hues package reads, “Will stain most surfaces.” They aren’t lying. I should’ve paid attention before I poured it into the tub.

  I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. It’s 11:35 p.m. Jack finally surrendered the laptop, and I’ve been editing for two hours.

  I need to add the credits and title sequence, and tighten up the soundtrack transitions with the cuts. Ms. Walker will totally give me a bunch of extra credit points for it. Hopefully enough to help me pass.

  A yawn nearly splits my face in half. I have to get some sleep. I should also probably read some stuff for social studies and do some math. But before I do, I want to check out the screen stills from Sea of Serpents that I’d copied for reference.

  I close the video software and open a browser. A few googles later, and not only do I have the still images, but alternate shots and the shooting script and a headache.

  And the next time I look at the clock, it’s close to one a.m.

  Eyes gritty and back still aching from cleaning the Bathtub Sea, I don’t even bother doing any other homework, brushing my teeth, or putting on pajamas. I just crawl under my covers.

  I hit snooze three times, then I drag myself to my desk and watch the video. I tweak some transitions, mess with the tone on the narration (I used my best deep voice when I recorded it) until I have to pee so bad I might explode. I race into the hall and nearly collide with crazy bed-head Jack, who is heading in the same direction.

  He throws an elbow, pitching me off-balance, but there’s no way I’m going to let him beat me to the bathroom—he’ll be in there forever, and I won’t make it downstairs. I stomp on his foot, hard, and when he yowls, I race in.

  “You are so dead,” he yells through the door.

  I flush and turn the water on in the sink extra hard, taking my time as I wash my hands. Jack yanks the door as I turn the knob, and he pushes past me to the toilet.

  I leave the door wide open as I go back to my room.

  “Close it!” he yells. So I do (slowly), and I giggle as he jumps from foot to foot, waiting for me to be out of sight.

  My concentration is worse when I’m tired, and I bump and shuffle through school like an extra in Night of the Living Dead. I don’t even bring out my camera once.

  Thankfully, Ms. Walker is out sick. The sub has a tattoo and ponytail and no hope of controlling us. She puts the TV on and shows a lame teen drama adaptation of Romeo and Juliet that I’ve seen too many times. At least I manage to catch a twenty-minute nap while they kiss.

  If this were a movie, I’d wake up refreshed and ready to tackle anything. Or maybe I’d open my eyes and find everyone gone, victims of some crazy alien abduction. I’d be the last girl on the planet.

  But this is not a movie. I come back to consciousness with drool on my sleeve and, as Sarah helpfully points out, a big crease across my cheek.

  “You are a disaster,” she mutters. The sub is camped out behind Ms. Walker’s desk, pretending to look at some papers but obviously playing with her phone. Sarah and I could probably have a dance-off and she wouldn’t care.

  “Thanks for the info,” I respond with as much sarcasm as I can. She turns back to the movie. “Romeo” is showing “Juliet” a sleeping pill. I rub my cheek, hoping the crease—and Sarah—will go away.

  It wasn’t always like this between us. In elementary school, Sarah and I were friends. Well, like in first and second grade we were. Then she became super perfect—answering all the questions, always neat and quiet—while I became more and more out of control and lost. It got harder for me to keep stuff straight, and that made her mad for some reason. By
fourth grade, we’d gone in opposite directions. I found movies and Nev, and she did whatever she did. But we never went back to being friendly.

  Just before the bell rings, the sub passes out a study guide for our next test. I groan and stuff it in my bag, not even bothering to put it in a folder. Or look at it.

  The bell rings, and as everyone grabs their books and bags and stuff, the sub calls out, “Hester Greene! Wait!”

  I stop at the desk while she shuffles through Ms. Walker’s papers.

  “Hester … that’s a cool name,” she says while she looks. “Family name?”

  I adjust the strap of my messenger bag. “It’s after a character in some book my mom really liked. The Scarlet Letter?”

  “Cool. I’m supposed to remind you of something … where is it?”

  I shift from foot to foot while she searches. I’m hungry and tired and I want to caffeinate myself at lunch so I can stay awake for the rest of the day.

  “Here it is!” She pulls a printed-out email from the pile and reads it. “Remind Hester Greene that her extra credit project is due tomorrow.” She glances up at me. “Extra credit! You must do really well in this class!”

  Oh, crud. Out of nowhere, I remember that we’re going out to dinner tonight with my aunt and uncle. Dad and Uncle Joe will go on and on about the Red Sox and their jobs and we’ll be at the restaurant until the next ice age. I won’t have time to finish my edits. My movie is going to suck, and there goes my grade.

  I mumble something and leave.

  I wish everyone had been abducted by aliens.

  << UPLOAD >>

  The little arrow on my screen hovers over the button, switching it from gray to red, red to gray.

  Should I click?

  I grabbed the laptop before Jack got home and blew through the last of the edits. Some of the transitions are sloppy, but I’m out of time. For at least ten minutes, Mom and Dad have been calling me to come downstairs so we can leave.

  I could spend all night tweaking it, but I want to be done with language arts and MK Nightshade.

  It’s fine, I tell myself. Let it go. There’s other stuff to work on.

  Like the test. Like social studies. Like Spanish. And our Hoot movie.

  I add a few tags so later I can categorize it on my private YouChannel account: #MKNightshade #extracredit.

  It’s good. It will give me the points I need.

  It better.

  I breathe in and out. Strategies At Work.

  Fine.

  Click.

  The wheel spins, the progress bar lights up, and seconds later “Sir Oakheart: Uncommon Hero” is live on my YouChannel.

  The privacy settings box appears, and I send the link to Ms. Walker. I should dump it on a memory stick, too.

  “Hess! Come on!” my mom calls from downstairs. “We’re going to be late!”

  No time.

  I push back from my desk and head out. Smell ya later, Ms. Walker.

  << FAST-FORWARD >>

  Eat a ton of mussels so I don’t have to talk much

  Dad goes on and on about the bakery interview

  Crawl into bed

  Head to school

  << RESUME PLAY >>

  “May I speak with you, Hester?” Ms. Walker asks. I haven’t even dropped my bag at my desk yet.

  I lug it with me. My legs are jelly and there’s a sinking sensation in my gut. What did I do now?

  “Hi,” I say. Everyone else rummages through backpacks and notebooks, whispers and giggles.

  “Did you complete the video project in conjunction with the letter you wrote me?”

  I hate when she uses vocabulary words in everyday conversation.

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “I sent you the link last night. We had to go out to dinner with my aunt and uncle, and it was so lame, and I had to study for social studies … ”

  She waves her hand, cutting me off.

  “I never received it. Do you have it on a thumb drive?”

  My knees go weak. Did she just say—

  “A what?” I ask, feeling stupid. The late bell buzzes. Usually by now Ms. Walker has taken attendance and started on the day’s announcements. Silence from the class. Everyone’s staring. Their eyes are like twenty pairs of lasers boring into my back, and my hair and shirt will start smoking soon.

  “A thumb drive. You know—” She holds up a memory stick.

  “Oh. One of those. Uh, no.” There’s a sinking feeling in my guts and my chest tightens. “I emailed you the link. Maybe it’s in your spam folder?”

  Snickers and voices from behind me.

  Ms. Walker shakes her head. It’s like she’s forgotten that there’s a bunch of other kids sitting in the room. Meanwhile, I’m standing here, wearing awkwardness like a bad T-shirt.

  “Take your seat, Hester. We’ll discuss this after class.”

  I slink to my seat, dragging my bag. Sarah turns all the way around in her chair and studies me like I’m a science experiment. Not what I need right now. Not at all.

  “Shut up,” I growl at her, even though she wasn’t saying anything.

  Ms. Walker stands in front of the room and starts talking, but I can’t focus on anything she says. Why didn’t I put the movie on a memory stick? Why didn’t she get the link? I did all that work on Sir Oakheart—and have been wearing long-sleeve tees all week because my elbow is still blue!—and she didn’t even see it.

  The panic rises through my body. I’m going to fail. I’m not going to be able to be in the Hoot. I rub the heels of my hands hard against the tops of my thighs.

  But if I think like that, I’ll end up right back in Mr. Sinclair’s office. I have to get it together so I can convince Ms. Walker to accept my project.

  Breathe.

  Focus.

  Count the number of camera angles in the cantina band scene in Star Wars.

  Slowly, like waves pulling back from the shore, the panic slides away.

  Ms. Walker has a list of questions about The Giver on the board. I copy them down before she can erase them. I also add “Study for test,” but the board doesn’t say when the test is and I keep forgetting to ask Max about it.

  Ms. Walker calls me over to her desk after class. Kids file past me, and I know they know that I screwed up again. I take a breath and hope I can stay calm.

  “Did you check your spam folder?” I ask. My words come out too fast, and sound sharp, like I’m accusing her of something. I snap my mouth closed. Get it together, Hess.

  She holds up the iPad that all our teachers use. Her school mailbox is open, and although I squint, read really carefully and slowly, and check the list two times, I don’t see my name.

  “I’m not lying! I sent it!” Heat spreads through me, and the panic ants are not far behind.

  “I did not say you were lying.” Ms. Walker’s words are slow, patient, and very clear, as though she’s talking to a child who is throwing a temper tantrum. Is that how she thinks I’m acting? “I am simply pointing out that it’s not here. And if it’s not here, I can’t give you credit for it.”

  “What if we log into my YouChannel account? I don’t have my phone, but maybe I could do it on your iPad?” Please please please.

  Ms. Walker sighs impatiently. “Students can’t sign in on teachers’ technology.”

  Well, that’s a stupid rule. My hands twist together, knotting and unknotting, my frustration out there for her to see. I stuff them in my pockets, but they won’t stay put.

  I can’t remember my strategies.

  “I will resend it!” I say, the solution simple. “I just have to borrow a friend’s phone to do it.” Because of course I left mine at home today.

  Ms. Walker shakes her head. “I’m afraid that won’t work, Hess. The condition was that it was due in class, today. It’s extra credit. I didn’t want to offer it, you didn’t get it in in time, and I don’t have to accept it late. Your other classwork is more important.”

  “But I spent so much time on it!” I ca
n’t help it, I’m crying. And I kind of don’t care.

  Ms. Walker tightens her lips into a line. She hands me a tissue, and I push it away. I sniff snot, hard, into my head. Anger, frustration, and the overwhelming feeling of failure mix in me like a soup of sadness.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. But I can tell she doesn’t mean it.

  “Yeah,” I mumble. I grab a tissue and head for the door.

  Nev finds me sitting on the sticky hall floor in front of my locker. I plopped down to finish my cry. When I’d stopped, standing up and turning the dial to open it seemed like too much effort.

  She offers me a hand, and I take it and clumsily get up.

  “What’s wrong?” Her usual no-nonsense expression is replaced with concern. My eyes well up again.

  “Walker won’t accept my extra credit project, even though I totally did it!” I drop my forehead on Nev’s shoulder and she hugs me. If this were a movie, we’d team up and figure out a way around Ms. Walker and her rules.

  But this is not a movie. Instead, we both know I’m sunk. After a minute, she nudges me toward the girls’ bathroom. We aren’t supposed to be in the halls during lunch.

  I lean against the sinks.

  “It’s not fair! I sent the link, then she asked if I had it on a memory stick.”

  “Did you?” Nev crosses her arms and props herself against one of the stalls.

  “No,” I answer, feeling stupid all over again. “But I sent her the link! Last NIGHT. So she should have had it. I never even thought to put it on a memory stick.”

  “But the code … ” Nev furrows her brow, like she’s confused that I didn’t know about the code.

  “I know the stupid code,” I snap. Our school has a digital homework code/policy thing, where if you’re turning something in electronically, it should be in two forms—email and memory stick, cloud file and memory stick, blah blah.

  “We were running late and it didn’t seem like I needed it.” It sounds lame, and her face tells me she thinks the same thing but is choosing not to say anything. And then I remember—“Hey, do you have your phone? Can I check and see why it didn’t go through?”