Lights, Camera, Disaster

by Erin Dionne

  “So you got in?” She crosses her arms and frowns. “You didn’t tell us?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “So you’re spying? We want it to be a surprise.”

  “No! I didn’t even think of that. Miss Vogel wanted me here for some reason … ” I trail off.

  “For what reason?”

  “Um … because she wanted me to see it.” I don’t know where to go with this that doesn’t lead to me getting left back. And I definitely don’t want to have that conversation here, while kids stream past us into the auditorium.

  She cocks her head at me, her long ponytail hanging to one side. She waits. I wait. I don’t know what else to say. Finally, she pushes past me, a cloud of annoyance left behind.

  I turn to take off when Miss Vogel and a teacher-aged guy that I’ve never seen before show up. Miss V.’s carrying that same stack of packets, her frizzed-out hair is everywhere, and she’s smiling really big.

  “Hess! Oh! I didn’t see you there,” she cries. The packets fall.

  The guy helps her pick them up.

  “Hess, this is who I wanted you to meet. Professor Crabbe, from Chestnut College. He teaches in the department of theater and film. He’s a filmmaker.”

  A filmmaker?

  Professor Crabbe is short, with a wide smile and warm brown eyes. He doesn’t look like a professor—no white hair, no tiny glasses. Instead, he’s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, like what my dad wears to interview people for his stories. And he’s young, like Miss Vogel.

  “Hello.” He offers me a hand to shake, which a teacher has never done before.

  I take his hand and shake it the way my grandfather taught me: a strong squeeze and up-down, then I let go.

  “We’re late,” Miss Vogel says. “Come on, I’ll explain things later.”

  I follow them into the auditorium, where kids are fooling around on the stage. At first, I don’t spot Nev and Max, but then I do, in a far corner, huddled together, looking at a piece of paper.

  Miss Vogel tells everyone to take a seat in the auditorium—I choose one on an aisle, several rows back from the group, hoping no one will notice me—then she introduces Professor Crabbe.

  “Professor Crabbe is here to help us block our acts more effectively, and to teach us about stage presence,” she says. “We are going to run through the first half of the show, and he will help us as we go.”

  I tune her out. The first act takes the stage, and I watch some of the rehearsal from my seat. Professor Crabbe stops them once or twice, has people move their spots on the stage, direct their bodies toward the audience a little more. It makes a big difference.

  Soon I get bored from sitting in the same spot. If I had my camera, I could at least shoot stuff. I creep out of my seat and move around the auditorium, observing different angles of the students waiting their turn to go on, more acts on stage, and Miss Vogel and Professor Crabbe. I pause to watch the kids who are acting out a scene from their favorite movie, sit through the Co’Mo’Shun Club doing their dance routine, and—after Miss Vogel yells at the group once or twice to keep the noise down—observe kids doing their homework in the seats while they wait. I should probably be doing the same thing.

  I am in the shadows of the stage, toward the front, and I catch sight of Nev and Max, who sit together in the second row. They whisper and pass sheets of paper back and forth. Are they doing Spanish? A science lab? (What do we have for science homework? I should check my planner. Did I write it down?) Whatever they’re doing, I’m not with them. And I won’t be next year, either. A sharp pang goes through my heart. Why am I even here?

  I stay to the edge of the room and cut through a row of seats until I get to my bag. I’m outta here. This is so stupid.

  I don’t know why Miss Vogel wanted me here, but now it kind of seems mean. Like, “This is what you would have been part of if your grades were good enough.”

  I turn my back to the stage and head toward the door.

  “Let’s take a break. Ten minutes,” Miss Vogel calls. Immediately, the room gets louder.

  “Hess! Wait!” Is it Nev again? Do I want to talk to her? I keep going, pretending I don’t hear.

  But as my hand touches the bar on the door, the person calls my name again and I realize it’s Miss Vogel. I stop and turn. She and Professor Crabbe are hustling up the ramp, straight for me. Nev and Max follow, a few rows back.

  “Sorry, Hess,” she says, panting a little. “You don’t have to stay here all day, but I wanted Professor Crabbe to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  Behind them, Nev and Max stop. They whisper to each other. I have to work really hard to tear my eyes away from them to Miss Vogel.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Professor Crabbe pushes the door open. “Out here might be better,” he says. “It’s so loud in there.”

  I step into the hall. It’s deserted. The late bus isn’t for another half hour or so, and any kids who are still at school are supposed to be in an activity, club, sport, or rehearsal.

  He turns and says something to Miss Vogel, still holding the door open, and then follows me. I lean against a bulletin board and he stays by the door.

  “Hess, Cathy—er, Miss Vogel, showed me the video you made for your MK Nightshade project. I was really impressed.”

  Miss Vogel? How? And then I know: I’d told her what happened, and my YouChannel privacy settings are probably still set to public. But why does he care?

  “Oh. Thanks. It was fun to work on,” I respond.

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t phrase that well,” he says. “It’s good. It’s really good. How did you make it?”

  So I tell him—about the bathtub (my fingernails are still bluish), the puppet, the toy pirate ship, and the shoot.

  “You did that all by yourself?”

  I nod, shrug. “Yeah. That’s how I do a lot of stuff. I also make movies with my friends.” I tell him a little bit about The Spy Who Bugged Me. He listens, asks me questions about the software I use, and seems really into what I say. No one has really talked to me about my films like this before—like they matter.

  I like that he’s into it, but I kind of don’t trust it.

  “So,” he says, when I’ve finished telling him about Spy. “Here’s the thing. I teach at a college—Chestnut College—”

  “My dad went there,” I say.

  “Oh, really? Okay, good. But I’m also a filmmaker. I do documentaries and indie films, kind of like what you do.”

  I’m skeptical.

  “Real movies are made in Hollywood, not outside of Boston,” I point out.

  He laughs. “Real movies are made everywhere, thanks to technology. What kind of camera do you use?”

  I reach for my bag, stop myself, and tell him. He nods.

  “That’s not a bad piece of equipment. Plenty of indie filmmakers use that and an external mic and make great movies. You can do some good work with what you have. You can tell some amazing stories.”

  “I can’t do special effects,” I say, thinking about the chase scene and the explosions that I had to take out. I cross my arms.

  “Not all movies need those,” he says. “They’re fun to see, sure, but you don’t need them to tell a good story. A good story stands on its own. Try going small-scale for your next project. Go for a good story. Forget fancy.”

  “Sure,” I say, more to get out of this conversation than to agree with him. I don’t get why Miss Vogel wanted me to talk with him at all. It’s like he’s on a different movie-planet from me.

  “Check out my stuff,” he says. He hands me a business card with a web address on it. “You’ll see what I mean. I’ll be at the next rehearsal if you want to talk more.”

  “Thanks.” I take the card, stuff it in the back pocket of my jeans. I have no intention of coming back to rehearsal.

  The auditorium door closes behind him.

  Go for a good story. Forget fancy. His words echo in my brain, but they have no place to go
. I couldn’t go for a good story, even if I wanted to.

  I don’t have my camera.

  I don’t have my friends.

  I don’t have a chance of passing eighth grade.

  My heart breaks into a million tiny pieces.

  “So what do you think?” I lift my head. I hadn’t moved from my spot against the wall, and now Miss Vogel has appeared.

  “He was nice, I guess.” I shrug and stare at the floor. “Thanks for introducing me.”

  “You don’t get it,” she says. “He thinks you’re talented. That you tell good stories.” No teacher has said that to me about my work before.

  Surprised, I bring my gaze up to hers.

  “But that doesn’t matter. I don’t have my camera anymore.” I fight tears and explain why.

  Miss Vogel nods.

  “You know that you can change that, right? Do the work and get your camera back?”

  “I try!” I blurt. “Nothing turns out the way Ms. Walker wants, but still … ”

  “Have you been reading the book?”

  I stare at the floor again, pick at a thread hanging from my bag.

  “No.”

  << PAUSE >>

  So this is all my fault. I know that, okay? But I’m so mad. I’m mad at Ms. Walker, my parents, and most of all I’m mad at myself. Why can’t I be like Nev, or Max, or any other kid on the planet who does their homework and keeps stuff together? I’m so tired of being like this.

  << RESUME PLAY >>

  Miss Vogel frowns. “So you feel that you’ve worked hard, but—”

  “Not for the right things.” I cut her off, bitter. “Yeah. I know.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say.” She straightens, tucks a frizzy lock of hair behind her ear. Takes a breath.

  “What I was going to say was, it just shows me that you’re capable of doing great things when you are engaged and put your mind to it. Professor Crabbe agrees.”

  It’s the same thing my mother said. Ugh. Like I should be able to flick a switch and all of a sudden be an awesome student. Like it’s easy. Like it’s just something I am refusing to do.

  My emotions churn—anger, hopelessness, sadness, and back again. Miss Vogel watches me, waiting for me to say something, I guess.

  In a movie, this is where I agree and we hug.

  In a movie, this is where the main character leaves feeling better about herself, or at least like there’s a solution.

  I am a sucky main character.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” I whisper, my fingers picking and twisting the backs of my hands. “I want it to, but it doesn’t.”

  “But it could,” Miss Vogel says. “Hess, you are the director of your own story. How do you want it to end?”

  Huh. Her words fall into something inside of me, making sense in a way that nothing else has. Too surprised, I don’t say anything.

  She waits for a beat, then leaves me in the hall, alone.

  End scene.

  Nev’s mom gives me a ride to school. Nev is switching houses tonight, and she has her duffel bag and backpack—too much to carry when she walks.

  “I wish you’d just stop this,” her mom says in the same frustrated tone that my mother uses around homework issues. “It’s been almost a year. Aren’t you tired of lugging that thing around?”

  “Nope,” Nev says. “I choose not to divide my life.”

  Youch! I shift in the backseat, wishing I hadn’t accepted their offer. Her mom’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. But before she can say anything else, Nev twists around to me.

  “Max and I have to work on our Hoot segment at lunch today. We’ll be in the drama room, if you want to meet us there.”

  “Okay,” I say, but I know I’m not going. Maybe I’ll go to the library and work on that stupid fifth grade packet. It’s like it’s already happening—the pulling apart that will take place when they move on and I stay behind.

  The car is in the drop-off zone. Nev throws her door open the second it stops, probably to avoid more conversation with her mom.

  “Thanks Mrs.—Ms. Sodhi!” I call. I still haven’t gotten used to her new-old name.

  The second I step out of the car, my hands twist together and I force them into my pockets. Sarah will be in homeroom. Will I get in trouble? Will she know? What do I say?

  “Gotta stash this,” Nev says and heads to the office.

  Alone, I drag my worry down the hall to my locker and homeroom. Sarah’s not in her seat yet. I wait, stomach killing me, watching everyone who comes in. She doesn’t show.

  Something, at least, is going right for a change.

  I’m at the kitchen table, papers stacked neatly across its surface. Mr. Sinclair asked all of my teachers to give him a list of what’s due, and he sat with me while I copied everything into my planner and prioritized each assignment:

  Wednesday Homework

  Math sheet

  Study English vocab words

  Social studies questions

  Write up science lab

  Conjugate Spanish verbs

  Mom and I have gone through my folders and organized them. Again. Now each one has two labels on the outside—one on each side of the folder, so I can grab it out of my bag and immediately know which one it is. We also put all the papers in the correct folders. This took a lot longer than it probably should have. It’s almost six, and Mom hasn’t started dinner.

  “Can you get going on math while I make sure we don’t starve?”

  I nod and get the blue folder and take the worksheet out.

  I make it through most of the problems on the front before my brain wants to take a break. I want my camera.

  I get some water, sit back down, solve a few more problems.

  “How’s it going?” Mom asks, sliding chicken in the oven.

  I mumble and finish the front of the worksheet.

  There are word problems on the back.

  Pat and Stacy want to open a business selling pens. Their goal is to have a 40% increase in profit next year. If their cost … The words blur. How am I supposed to do this? I’m taking summer school for math because I can’t do it.

  I squirm in my seat, try to focus.

  If their cost per pen is .36 cents, and they sold 4,332 pens last year, how many pens do they have to sell this year?

  “A lot,” is what I want to write. But I don’t. I copy the numbers onto some scrap paper, and make a table like the math teacher showed us, but I don’t know where stuff goes in the table.

  I divide the number of pens by the cost, but the number doesn’t seem right. I put my head down. What is the use of all of this? I’m never going to sell pens or anything else.

  “Having trouble?” Mom is at my elbow. I nod without lifting my head from my arms. I want to shout, Yes! I’m having trouble. And there’s still more to do when I’m done with this! I’m so tired, I just want to lie down.

  “Let’s see.” Mom loves word problems. I raise my head and watch her multiply to figure out how much money they made, then do some fancy division, and then I lose track because the garlicky smell of the roasting chicken and potatoes for dinner makes my stomach rumble.

  “See?” She slides her scrap paper toward me. “I modeled it for you, so you can do the other one.” Like I’m supposed to be able to figure out what all of her numbers mean.

  “Thanks?” I stare at the paper.

  “You don’t follow,” she says. I shake my head.

  “Not even a little.”

  She sighs, points to each step, explains it. I still don’t really get it, but she helps me with the other one so that’s done.

  And it’s after six thirty and I still have so much stuff on my list and I want my camera and I really want the laptop so I can check out Professor Crabbe’s website and movies.

  And I can’t have either right now.

  I rub my eyes.

  “Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes,” Mom says. “Why don’t you take a break until then, and
pick it up after we eat?”

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I draw a thick black line through Math sheet in my planner and push back from the table. With no camera, I have no plan.

  “Clear your stuff?”

  I scoop all of my books and papers together and put them back in my bag. Behind me, Mom sighs.

  Sarah’s right.

  Mess: 1

  Hess: 0

  After dropping my book bag on a pile of laundry next to my bed, I wander around the house, looking for something to do.

  Dad’s in his office, good hand buried in his spiky hair, staring at the computer. The only light in the room comes from his monitor. I flick the switch next to the door, and a yellow glow comes from the lamp on his desk. He jumps and spins the chair toward me.

  “Hey!”

  “Not good for your eyes,” I say.

  He gestures to the big chair in the corner with his bad elbow, and I curl up in it, feet tucked under my butt.

  “How’s it going?” he asks.

  I shrug.

  “You?”

  He shrugs with one shoulder.

  “I can’t type one-handed, and I need to make the deadline on this article.” He tells me more: It’s the one about Nazari’s Bakery. This time, I pay attention. He’s got the ideas, but it’s not coming across on the page. “I’m just too slow,” he finishes. “I feel like I can’t get it done.”

  I get that.

  “Can I help?” I ask. “I can type pretty fast.” It feels like a weird thing to do—offer a parent help like that. I mean, I’m used to setting the table or putting away groceries and doing chores, but this is helping in a different way. They’re capable of doing those other chores, but so am I. Dad isn’t capable of working right now.

  Dad studies me, not saying anything. The computer hums, and the clinks and thunks of Mom setting the table reaches us.

  “Why not?” he says finally.

  We trade seats. I adjust his desk chair and he scoots the big chair closer to me.

  “Okay,” he says. “Read me what I’ve got so far.”

  “There’s a new place in town, Nazari’s Bakery. Owned by the Nazari family, this traditional Middle Eastern eatery offers a range of dishes as well as baked goods.” It ends there. “Not bad.”

  “Thanks,” Dad says.

  “Is it a review of their food?”