Lights, Camera, Disaster

by Erin Dionne

  “Kind of,” Dad responds. “I want it to be a review and a way for people in the community to get to know the family. Okay, so … ” He fishes through notes on his desk. “Here. Ready?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay … They offer pastries, light lunches, and catering for both home and office—wait, that’s not how I want to say it.”

  I stop. Delete.

  “Okay … catering for businesses and events.” He pauses. So do I.

  “No … that’s not right. Go back to ‘They offer pastries, light lunches, and catering.” I undo back to that sentence. If he can’t make up his mind we will miss dinner for the next twenty years. I immediately feel bad for thinking that. This is hard for him.

  “Have you tried any of the talk-to-type apps?” I ask, suddenly remembering the one that Max has on his phone. He uses it to record his awful commercial jingles sometimes.

  “No.” Dad’s eyes brighten. “What’re those?”

  I grab his phone and do an app search. A whole bunch pop up. I turn the screen toward him. “Read the reviews and download one that you can also use on the computer. They’re not perfect, but it may help you go a little faster.”

  Dad takes the phone, studies the list. “This could be just what I need. Thanks, honey.”

  I smile, glad to be able to offer a solution, not another problem, for a change.

  Dad downloaded an app, but my never-ending list of homework kept me from my camera or the website. I’m tired and grouchy, so I keep my head down and my hoodie over my ears as I weave through the main hall to my locker. I miss my camera and want to be anywhere but here.

  I twist the locker dial and prepare for the daily avalanche. As I wedge my shoulder in to stop the slide of papers, I catch hallway activity out of the corner of my eye. The rush of kids parts like a queen is headed my way.

  It kind of is: Nev, on crutches.

  I’m so shocked, I straighten and a wave of papers tumble to the floor.

  I scramble to gather them so Nev’s crutches won’t slide out from under her, and when she reaches me I’m clutching them to my chest like they’re plans for a top secret formula.

  “What happened? Are you okay? Can I help you?” I can’t seem to stop talking.

  “Glass. Yes. Not with your hands full,” she points out. I push everything into my locker, stuffing in leftover escapee math sheets and a social studies test (grade: C−). I slam the door shut, dimly aware that I’ve forgotten to take my books out for class, but whatever.

  Nev’s injured foot is wrapped in a bandage with her toes sticking out and covered in a plastic boot.

  “Didn’t you see my text? I dropped a glass on the bathroom floor at my dad’s. Tried to step over it to get a broom, stepped onto it instead,” she explains. “I need to stay off it for a week or so.”

  “I was doing homework and my phone died,” I say. “Does it hurt? Why are you here?” I carefully slide her backpack off each arm as she shifts weight from crutch to crutch, standing on her good leg.

  “I didn’t want to be home,” she says. “My dad was all stressed out and hovering over me, and Mom is in New York on business, so I can’t go there. It doesn’t hurt much. Just some stitches and glue.”

  I open Nev’s locker—all of her books are neatly lined up by the order of classes and matching notebooks. She even has wallpaper and a glittery chandelier in there. My mom would be so impressed. As I reload her backpack, she leans against the lockers next to her.

  “Crutches kill.” She rubs an armpit.

  “I’m so sorry, Nev,” I say. There’s an elephant in my throat. I struggle to find the right words to tell her why I really wasn’t anywhere near my phone last night—why I haven’t been anywhere near normal lately. They don’t come.

  “It’s cool,” she says, eyes down.

  What does that mean? Is she mad? It’s so hard to tell with her. Light sweat breaks out across my back.

  She holds her arm out for her backpack.

  “I got it,” I say, probably too fast. The first bell rings. “I’ll take it to homeroom for you. Max will carry it to your first class.”

  “Thanks,” she says, “but you’ll be late.”

  I shrug.

  That’s the least of my problems these days.

  Nev’s crutches make her a celebrity. Kids stop her in the hall and ask about her foot, and Max and I stand by, taking turns holding her backpack as she answers the same question a zillion times.

  By lunch, she’s over it.

  “An anaconda nearly ripped it off,” she tells a sixth grader. “It crawled up out of the sewer and through the bathtub drain.” The kid scampers away with his cafeteria pizza like something is going to eat him.

  Dark circles ring Nev’s eyes. “I’m thinking that staying home and watching every Harry Potter movie ever made sounds good right now.”

  “At least it’s Thursday,” Max offers. “One more day and you can do that all weekend.”

  “Not the same,” Nev says. “It’s cheating when you do it on a weekend. You feel like you’re getting away with something on a school day.”

  Max holds the bag of chips from my lunch. “Sour cream and chive! Sour cream and chive! Dixie’s potato chips make you glad to feel alive!”

  “That is just sad,” I say. Nev nods solemnly.

  “Really sad,” she echoes.

  “Speaking of the weekend, what are you guys up to?” I tread carefully but hopefully. “Want to do something?”

  They exchange a glance. Max stuffs some of my chips into his mouth and busies himself studying the package.

  “We’re working on our Hoot skit,” Nev answers casually. She takes a bite of sandwich. “But when that’s done we can totally go back to The Spy Who Bugged Me.”

  “You’ve decided to do a skit? You didn’t tell me.”

  “You didn’t come to lunch yesterday,” Nev points out.

  Fair. I also haven’t told them that my parents took my camera away. Because then I’d have to tell them why—and I just can’t do that yet.

  “Oh. Yeah. Can I help with the skit?” I cringe as I say the words out loud—they would have asked if they wanted me there, and seeing as how I blew them off last week, I’m sure they aren’t going to go for it—but it’s too late to take them back.

  Nev looks at Max, who swallows. “Um, we kind of want to keep it a surprise?” he says, voice going up at the end like it’s a question, not a statement. “We think it’ll be more fun that way.”

  There’s a hollow spot in my chest where my heart used to be.

  “Oh. Totally,” I croak out.

  “Don’t be mad,” Nev says. “It’s just a surprise.”

  No, it’s “just” what next year will be like:

  Me, alone.

  Tomorrow we have our last test on The Giver. I’m finally reading it, and it’s not bad. The book is way better than the movie.

  “Focus, Hess.” Mom sits across the table from me, reviewing spreadsheets while I review the character list and story events from my notes. Well, that’s what I’m supposed to be doing, but my brain keeps sliding to a zillion other things: how I’ll tell Nev and Max that I’m failing, whether or not I’ll ever get my camera back, why I should bother with this at all …

  I’ve read Rosemary’s description about fifteen times.

  “Focus, schmokus,” I mutter under my breath. I can’t do it and I’m going to fail. Big-time. And there goes high school. And my friends. My skin gets tight and too-small-feeling. I tent the book on the table, lean my head back, and close my eyes.

  Jack comes in and rummages through the fridge for a snack.

  “What’s that for?” he says. He grabs an apple and takes a loud bite. Mom sighs. I open one eye.

  “Reading quiz,” I say, more as a way to avoid the book than because I want to talk to him. “I can’t remember anything in this book. It’s going right through my brain.”

  “Story-design it,” he says, spraying bits of apple.

&n
bsp; “What?”

  “Story-whatever you call it,” he says. “You know, where you box out stuff for a film? Do it for that book, to help you keep it in your head.”

  “Storyboard.” I correct him without thinking.

  “Can’t hurt,” Mom says.

  “Can I do that?”

  “I dunno. Can you?”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “Seriously. My calc teacher says that it doesn’t matter how you get there, only that you get the material learned.” He leaves the room, grabbing a banana on the way.

  Mom looks thoughtful. “He’s right, Hess. You should try it. You’ll learn something by doing it, anyway. And … ” She pauses, and her eyes seem a little watery behind her glasses. “And maybe we should try some strategies that make sense to you, not me.”

  Whoa. Not what I expected. I don’t know what to say, so instead I pull out a blank sheet of paper and get to work.

  I sketch out eight small boxes, then take a second sheet and make a character list. Next, I block out the big moments from the book: Jonas getting his assignment, his first meeting with The Giver, the apple—How would I have shown them differently in my film?

  “Hess. Hess.” Dad shakes my shoulder gently. There’s a plate of baby carrots and hummus on the table near my elbow. Mom’s seat is empty.

  “Huh?” I grunt. He points to the clock.

  I’ve been working on The Giver for almost an hour. The storyboard is nearly finished, and it occurs to me that I actually understand the plot and message now.

  Why didn’t I think to do this sooner? Why didn’t anyone think to tell me I could do this sooner?

  “Gotta get ready for dinner,” Dad says. “Clear off the table.”

  I stuff my work into a blue folder—social studies?—and crunch on a few carrots as I go. Jack comes through and grabs a handful, stuffing them into his mouth all at once.

  “So gross!” I call at his back.

  He turns and shows me a mouthful of chewed vegetable.

  “Thank me later!”

  Ms. Walker passes out the tests, facedown. She pauses and her eyebrow twitches when she puts mine on my desk—or maybe it’s my imagination.

  Breathe: One-two-three-out.

  “Do not turn your papers over until I finish distributing them.”

  My armpits are swampy with sweat. I squirm in my seat. In front of me, Sarah, with her sassy new pixie cut that everyone just loves, makes faces with Nirmal like nothing is happening.

  One-two-three-in.

  Ms. Walker stands at the front of the room. There’s a softball in my throat and I just want to whip the test over and go already.

  But she’s drawing it out. Her eyes flick over each of us. She breathes in and out, like she’s the one who needs to settle and prepare. Ugh.

  “You may begin.”

  Twenty-three test sheets shwick over. Twenty-two pencils scratch.

  I’m staring at my paper. The letters dance in front of me, floating above the page. I can’t read it!

  The ants crawl out of my socks. I’m going to lose it.

  Close your eyes. Mr. Sinclair’s voice comes into my head. Don’t let a piece of paper beat you.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. One-two-three-in. One-two-three-out.

  “Are you all right, Hess?”

  I don’t open my eyes. I don’t care.

  “Fine,” I respond. Her shoes click away one desk. Two. Three.

  I take another breath, open my eyes.

  The words pop into focus:

  Match the name of the character to his/her role in the story.

  One-two-three-out.

  I can do this.

  With each question, I feel better. A little more confident. The answers are there.

  I blow through the test, the images from the storyboard popping into my head as I complete the ten questions. It’s almost too easy. It’s never been this easy.

  Why has it never been this easy?

  “Time.” Ms. Walker comes down the aisles, collecting the papers. Immediately I get all panicky again.

  “How was it?” she asks as I hand mine over.

  I shrug. It’s enough, but I don’t want to let on. I am trying to keep the ants away.

  She takes the pile, returns to her desk. We are supposed to read quietly, but I take out a notebook to work on The Spy Who Bugged Me. I can’t concentrate; I’m so worried about the stupid test. Instead of making a shot checklist, I’m doodling boxes and question marks.

  In a movie, this is where I would get up from my desk, go up to Ms. Walker, and have her correct my test in front of me. We’d high-five over the good grade, and I’d leave the class with a smirk on my face or a skip in my step.

  But this is not a movie. I glance at her. Her head is down, she’s twirling a green pen in her hair and frowning. Every vibe I’m getting is “stay away.”

  I squirm in my seat again. She looks up, through me.

  I stay where I am.

  I try not to spend the rest of the day thinking about the quiz, which is impossible. At lunch, I’m back in the library doing that lame packet Ms. Walker gave me, and I pass Nev and her crutches in the hall and she gives me a hard time for not eating with them in the drama room. My stomach hasn’t stopped twisting since I turned the quiz in.

  That’s why, between fifth and sixth period, when I spot Ms. Walker coming down the hall, I prepare myself to be ignored again.

  But instead of rushing right past me, she waves me down.

  The test must have been so terrible that she came to pull me out of the rest of my classes for the day.

  It must be so bad that I’m going back to seventh grade, never mind repeating eighth.

  Before I can throw up on my shoes or run in the other direction, she has one hand out to stop me.

  “Hester,” she says. And I’m surprised that she can’t see that I’m having a heart attack or coronary event or some other dramatic death-thing right in front of her. “Your test,” she says.

  The hall, filled with kids, goes silent. Pretty sure that my heart stops beating. Everything is in a state of suspended animation, and the colors are brighter: the storm cloud gray of the lockers, the dull yellowy off-white of the walls, and the electric orange, green, and pink flyers that hang all over the main corridor.

  “I had to come find you. Oh! I should—” She cuts herself off. She’s carrying a giant canvas bag, kind of like the ones that my mom puts eggplant and squash in at the grocery store, over one arm. She rummages through it.

  If I were shooting this, it’d happen in slow motion to ramp up the tension. But I don’t even need a camera trick. She must have six hundred papers in there, and she’s looking at every single one of them before pulling mine out. It’s like my locker is in her bag. I never understood what the expression “twisting in the wind” meant until right now, but I’ll never roll my eyes again when my dad says it.

  “Here!” She tugs a piece of paper, and my test appears like a rabbit out of a magician’s (very cluttered) hat. “I’m really impressed,” she says, and I stop listening.

  There’s a 90 at the top of the sheet. A NINETY.

  I don’t know whether to die of a heart attack or scream with joy.

  I settle for tracing the numbers with a shaking finger.

  “I will still be talking with your parents to come up with next steps, but it’s amazing what a little hard work can do, eh?” She smiles, like this is some big joke. Like it hadn’t occurred to me to do this before.

  A shadow dims my ninety. “It was a lot of hard work. A whole lot.”

  “Well, good, then,” she says, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. “This is what you need to learn, Hester: Doing the work is the most important thing. Tests show me who you are and what you’re capable of. It’s that simple.”

  When she says that, it’s like a vacuum sucks the sunshine and joy from the world. And what fills the void?

  Rage.

  “You have no clue who I am and what I’m
capable of,” I say, unable to stop my mouth.

  I take the paper, stuff it in my backpack, and walk away.

  I walk home, heart as warm as the sun. In a movie, I’d go in and my parents would be in the kitchen, ready to celebrate my ninety. We’d sit at the table with mugs of coffee (them) and hot chocolate (me) and they’d gently tell me that even though I had to work extra hard, they love me and were proud of me. And there would be a family hug.

  Instead, I go in and the kitchen is empty. So is the den, and Dad’s office. A note is taped to the back of the front door.

  Hess—Had to run out to meet w/ a client. Spoke to your teacher. We’ll discuss when I get home. Jack at practice. xo, Dad

  Ms. Walker’s called? The joy of my ninety dims a notch or two.

  I ditch my bag in my room. And then I’m standing outside of Dad’s office. My camera is in the drawer under his printer. I saw it when he reloaded the paper tray.

  No one’s home. It’s Friday; I am not doing any homework this afternoon. There’s nothing for me to “focus” on. And them holding on to it is supposedly not a punishment, so … Before I can think too much more, I grab my camera from the drawer and head to the backyard.

  Its weight is a comfort, and my eyes actually get a little teary when I turn it on. I know it’s crazy, but I’ve really, really missed it. I pop open the screen and watch the images unfold as I shoot.

  I wander around, getting up close with the shrubs, newly sprouting their leaves, the tulips and daffodils in Dad’s flower bed, and capturing the way the sun beams over the fence. I try for different angles, better lighting. Zoom in. Pull back. Pan slowly. I have no plans to use it, no project to work on for school, nothing to prove. It’s just me and the camera. I can take my time. Concentrate.

  Why don’t Ms. Walker and my parents get it? Why can’t they see the difference between what I do with a camera and what I do at school? I don’t have to finish an assignment by a certain time. Any checklists I make or marks that I have to hit are ones that I decide I need to do. All that matters is telling the story well or getting the image the way I want it to look—the way that’s the most dramatic, or joyful, or just … cool. I can direct it the way I want.

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