Lights, Camera, Disaster

by Erin Dionne

  I sit back on my heels at the edge of the garden, replace the lens cap. When I turn around, Dad’s leaning against the deck railing. I jump and try to hide the camera.

  “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have … I just … ”

  “It’s okay,” Dad says. He smiles, but it looks a little sad at the edges. “You look so happy with it.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that. “How long have you been there?”

  “A few minutes,” he says. He holds the back door open for me. A sense of dread creeps through me. What did Ms. Walker say to him?

  One at a time, Dad gets two glasses down from the cabinet and fills them with ice and water while I return the camera to the drawer. He’s getting better using his left hand, and doesn’t spill a drop.

  “Lemon?” he says when I come back in.

  I shake my head no. He hands mine over. We sip and stare at each other. Dad’s face is solemn, but he doesn’t seem angry with me. His hazel eyes hold mine steadily, and although his hair is way more gray than the brown it used to be, he still has a young face.

  “So,” I say. And stop.

  He puts his glass on the counter. “Your mom asked me to wait until she got home so we could all talk together. But I’m thrilled about your quiz score. Congratulations, Hess.”

  “Thanks,” I say, heart full of light again. “The storyboarding worked so well. It was amazing. I can’t believe I hadn’t done that before. It was like everything was right in front of me.”

  Dad gives me a one-armed hug, then sips again, looks over the top of his glass at me.

  “Hess,” he says when he’s done, “I want you to know something. Seriously.”

  Suddenly shy, I drop my eyes to the floor, which is fascinating.

  “Hey,” he says. He tilts my chin up to meet his gaze. “I’m proud of you. But not just for the test.”

  I misheard him.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m. Proud. Of. You,” he repeats, slower this time. “Look, you did great on this one test, and not so well in your classes, but you’ve learned a lot this term.” He cocks his head. “Haven’t you?”

  “Uhh.” I do not think he means what Ms. Walker means when he talks about what I’ve learned.

  “So look,” he goes on, “no matter what happens with school, I want you to know that you’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine as a grown-up. You’re going to be fine as a teenager. School is important”—and he waves his hand like he’s brushing dirt off the front of my jacket—“but it’s not a measure of you as a person. How you handle yourself, how you treat people—that’s what matters.”

  How have I treated people? Not well:

  Nev—blown her off.

  Max—lied to him and blown him off.

  Sarah—gum. I wince.

  Tears—just a few—threaten to slide down my cheeks. I don’t deserve these words or his pride. He pulls me into a tight one-armed hug that smells like coffee and wet earth.

  “Go download your footage and enjoy the camera for the weekend,” he says into my hair. “I’m going to figure the software out and finish this project.”

  I have my camera back for the weekend, and nothing to shoot. Normally, I’d do some shot lists and exterior footage for The Spy Who Bugged Me, but even that’s not holding my attention.

  Maybe that’s because of the stuff I watched last night. I spent some time with the laptop, checking out Professor Crabbe’s short documentaries. He did one about the residents of a local nursing home, one about the people who train to be rescue divers for the fire department, and one that focused on some jazz singer who I’ve never heard of. Aside from the boring educational films we watch in school, I’d never seen any movies like this. And I was kind of surprised by how much I liked them.

  I walk around the house, carrying the camera, not finding anything except my dad, who is optimistically bringing out the stuff that we put away for the winter—even though it’s still chilly most days. And even though he can only move things with one arm.

  “Don’t say anything,” he says when he sees me coming. “I promise I’ll stop when I get too tired.” He sticks his good hand through the coiled hose at his feet. “And don’t tell Mom.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine.” We both know Mom will find out and be annoyed. Or he’ll overdo it … and Mom will find out and be annoyed.

  “I was thinking,” he says, after I help him move a bench that sits near our fire pit, “of going down to Nazari’s to get some more details about what the place is like on a Saturday afternoon.” He watches me out of the corner of his eye. “Any interest in joining me?”

  “Sure,” I say, although I’m more excited than I let on. “Let me get my stuff.”

  The bell over the door tinkles and immediately the warm, sweet smell of breads and treats hits my nose.

  Zada’s face brightens when she sees me, and I wave to let her know that I can see she’s busy. Dad gets in line and I cross the room, past the café tables and chairs, and stand in the corner. I turn on my camera, sweeping it around the space.

  INT. Nazari’s Bakery. A crowded Saturday morning, people wait in line. Across the front of the bakery are the display cases. ZADA is behind the counter, refilling display trays, and MRS. NAZARI is at the register. MR. NAZARI boxes orders as fast as people can give them to him. There’s a line of customers waiting for their turn.

  MR. NAZARI closes a box and puts a sticker on it, then slides the box to his wife.

  MR. NAZARI

  Three tarts and a pre-sliced loaf!

  MRS. NAZARI

  That will be seven-fifty.

  A man hands her cash; she makes change in the register.

  Thank you.

  MR. NAZARI

  Next!

  The bustle continues.

  ZOOM IN: A display case of baklava, tarts, and cakes.

  PAN TO: ZADA, filling the coffee machine. The clang of trays hitting the counter nearly drowns out the orders.

  I don’t want to get in the way, so I try to be mindful of where I’m standing. Two women a few people back from my dad in line are having a heated conversation about the baklava.

  WOMAN #1

  It’s delicious. I don’t know what your deal is, Peg.

  WOMAN #2

  I’m just saying they use too much honey. It’s too sticky.

  WOMAN #1

  (rolls her eyes)

  It’s supposed to be sticky.

  I shoot while they place their order, and then Zada comes into my frame. I click the camera off, close the lens cap. The rush has cleared out.

  “I am on a break,” she says. “Want to sit down?” She points to an empty table. Dad is speaking with Mr. Nazari off to one side of the counter.

  I sit and Zada returns to the display case, opens a panel, and comes back with a big square of the sticky baklava on a plate with two forks.

  I smile and raise my fork. Zada looks confused.

  “Like a toast,” I say, gesturing with the utensil. Her expression is confused, but she holds her fork up and I clink it with my own. She grins and we dig in. The honey-flavored syrup and minced nuts are just right. I don’t know what Peg’s deal is, either. This is ridiculously good.

  “Did you like the books?” Zada asks quietly, like she’s afraid I’m going to say no. I nod, mouth full. This stuff is a bear to get out of my braces, but I don’t care.

  “Loved them,” I say after I swallow. “I brought them with me.” I have them in my bag at my feet. I can’t even believe I read two books this week.

  “Can I see the movie you’re making?” Zada says.

  I cock my head at her. “Movie?” How does she know about The Spy Who Bugged Me?

  “With your camera?” She points to it, sitting on the table.

  And then I get it.

  “Oh, I’m not actually making a movie. Well, I am, but not this. I’m recording the shop to help my dad, since he can’t take notes that well right now. He watches the footage and it helps
him remember and write his story.”

  Disappointment flits across Zada’s face. “I thought we were going to be in a movie.”

  “Well,” I say, thinking fast, “I do have two days’ worth of footage. There’s no reason why I can’t put something together for you.” Running through a quick catalog in my mind, I realize that I have a lot of material for a “small story,” like Professor Crabbe said to try—the interviews with her parents, the footage of the store, their apartment … It’s enough material to make a short documentary, maybe.

  “Let’s keep it as a surprise,” I say. “Do you want to help me work on it?”

  “I’d love to,” she says with a wide grin. “That would be awesome!”

  And just like that, I have a new movie project. And helper.

  My weekend is not exactly a heartwarming comedy, but it’s not a horror movie, either. Mom and Dad are happy with my ninety, but we “still have things to discuss.” I don’t think we do.

  “School is important,” Mom says, just like Dad. We’re sitting in Dad’s office. He’s moved stacks of paper off the armchairs for Mom and me. “And we understand that we’ve had extenuating circumstances, Hess, but the extenuating circumstances of the last few weeks happened after this downward spiral had already begun.”

  I kick at the leg of the chair. Any reassurance I got from Dad on Friday is long gone. “I know.”

  “So you have to do better,” Mom continues.

  “I’m trying!” I wail. “You know I am. Dad knows I am. My brain is just broken.” This is the way I’ll be forever. Haven’t they been listening? I pick at a thread on the seam on the chair.

  “Stop that, Hess.”

  I stop.

  “We know you’re trying.” Dad’s turn. “And you’re not broken. We just need to help you figure stuff out in a way that works for you. Which is why we want to run something by you. What if you had another chance?”

  Ugh. Are they kidding?

  “Staying back, you mean.”

  Mom and Dad shake their heads. “Not what we mean,” Mom says.

  “What’s another chance, then?” I cross my arms.

  “Summer school,” Mom offers.

  “It’s not ideal,” Dad says. “But we think it’s the best option.”

  “Ms. Walker never said that was an option. I’m supposed to only take two summer courses, and I don’t think I can get my math or social studies grades up.”

  “Well,” Mom says, “when I spoke with her the other day, we discussed it. I explained how you tried storyboarding, and she appreciated that that helped you. Your test results backed that up. So Mr. Sinclair and I worked on a plan together. There are some … conditions that you have to meet to make it work.”

  “Conditions?”

  Dad holds up one finger: “Do your reading for the term. Audiobooks or graphic novels are okay media for you to use. But you have to make time and do it.”

  Two fingers: “Achieve C minuses or higher on quizzes, papers, and projects. And set up private testing time in advance with Mr. Sinclair.”

  Three fingers: “Turn everything in on time.”

  Four fingers: “Continue to limit the camera to weekends and special projects only.” That one stings.

  “Do you think you can do that?” Mom asks.

  Honestly, that list sounds like a very tall mountain to climb. How can I do all of that now when I’ve been trying to do that all term and it hasn’t worked? What if I can’t? And how can I do anything without my camera?

  “If I got C minuses for the rest of the term I’d be passing,” I say, hoping to poke a hole in their idea.

  “But your second trimester grade is not passing,” Mom says quietly. “You need to pass third trimester so you can replace second with the summer session.”

  Oh.

  “So in a way it’s like starting over, with third trimester?”

  “Kind of,” Dad says.

  “And I suppose there’s not a situation where I could have unlimited access to my camera?”

  Mom just raises her eyebrow at that one.

  We sit. No one says anything. Dad’s computer hums. Mom’s phone beeps, but she doesn’t look at it. I study the whirls in the rug.

  “I don’t know that I can do it,” I whisper to the floor. My hands twist in my lap.

  “You have help,” Mom says.

  “I had help all year. And we’re still having this conversation.”

  “True,” Dad says. “You have some new things to try,” he adds.

  “You have some choices to make,” Mom adds.

  Bits of white paper and lint dot the rug. No one has vacuumed in a while.

  “What if I can’t?” I say finally, the words painful.

  “What if you can?” Dad retorts. “You did just get a ninety on a test.”

  I did. Doing it my way. And now, maybe, I can do more of that.

  “I’ll try,” I whisper to the rug lint. Right now that’s the best I can do.

  Mom and Dad finish with me, and I flee upstairs. I take out a notepad, flip past storyboards and scene notes, and find a fresh page.

  (This shot of me working would be so cliché on screen.)

  I split the sheet in half with a heavy line.

  I write What I have to do at the top of one column and Can I do it? at the top of the other.

  What I have to do

  Read for the rest of the term (my way)

  C− or higher on quizzes, papers & proj (set up extra testing time)

  Turn stuff in on time

  I chew on the end of the pen, bounce the slick plastic off my teeth.

  Can I do it?

  In theory, I can. I mean, it’s not going out and slaying a dragon, or moving to a new country not knowing the language—and having to go to school. But it’s still hard.

  The more I look at the list, the faster tiny doubt-voices creep in: How am I seriously going to do this? There’s a lot to tackle. I can’t even remember to get rid of the old fruit in my locker, let alone get this organized.

  Crashing onto my bed, I flop my pillow over my face. How am I going to get out of this? My friends will probably think I deserve to stay back, my teachers probably don’t think I can pull it off, and I will probably never get to take my camera to school again.

  And—oh, yeah—I’m still failing eighth grade. And have to take summer school. No matter what I do.

  Maybe I should just stay in bed forever?

  I press the pillow tight and shout into it. It’s not one of Mr. Sinclair’s strategies, but it is satisfying. I do it again.

  After two more lung-busters into the pillow, my insides feel empty and my head buzzes. That might be because I am lacking air.

  I move the pillow and take a few cool, deep breaths. Stare at the ceiling.

  Miss Vogel told me to be the director of my own story.

  What kind of director am I?

  That sparks something in me. I slide off the bed and reread my list. Everything that got me here has been about me: my choices, my decisions, and my actions. I haven’t been thinking about any of those things like a director with an idea or a plot—only floating from mistake to mistake, bad choice to bad choice. This story would go nowhere.

  How would I direct this story differently? Would I let this stuff happen again?

  Do I want this stuff to happen again? Do I want to fail, over and over, without really trying to change my story?

  It’s scary to think about. Then I remember all the times I just didn’t do what I was supposed to in class, or never checked the date of a test or an assignment. That stuff is pretty easy to change. Way easier than the stuff that Zada had to change.

  I take a breath, and I write yes in the Can I do it? column.

  I chew on the pen some more. Then I add something else to the list:

  Read for the rest of the term (my way)

  C− or higher on quizzes, papers & proj (set up extra testing time)

  Turn stuff in on time

  *
Explain everything to Nev & Max

  Can I do it?

  I have to

  I pause, and the weight of this sinks and seeps into me, heavy and important. There’s no choice. They have to know what’s going on, otherwise our friendship will be over before graduation. Hopefully it’s not too late.

  Then, in a flash of energy and ideas, I add one more thing to the list:

  **Secret project

  Can I do it?

  You bet!!

  Even though the list is long, now I don’t feel discouraged. If I can do this stuff, I reason, everything changes. I can change it. It might not be easy, and I know it won’t be perfect, but it can be different.

  Across the top of the whole page, in big, block letters, I print:

  I AM THE DIRECTOR OF MY OWN STORY.

  I grab a thumbtack from my desk and stick the list on the back of my bedroom door. Folding my arms, I read it through again.

  For once, I feel like taking charge, not like giving up.

  For once, I don’t feel like a failure.

  For once, I think I might be able to pull it off.

  I go to school early and find Ms. Walker in the teachers’ prep room. She collects her photocopies and stacks them neatly. As soon as she sees me, she says, “Wait one second,” and comes back with Mr. Sinclair.

  We go into his office. Ms. Walker clutches her copies to her chest like they’re her armor.

  “Your mom and dad didn’t come with you?” Mr. Sinclair asks. He points to the squashy red pillow chair that I fell asleep on a few days ago. I shake my head. It feels better to stand.

  “I didn’t want them to.”

  Ms. Walker tucks hair behind her ears. “Did they tell you what we talked about?”

  I nod. “That’s why I’m here. I want to let you know that I’m going to work really hard to do everything I have to so I can pass third marking period and go to summer school to make up for second. But I also want to ask you to do something for me.”

  Ms. Walker’s eyebrows go up. “You want me to do something for you?” she repeats.

  “Yeah.” And I tell her and Mr. Sinclair what I need.

  Mr. Sinclair’s smile stretches as wide as a four-lane highway. Ms. Walker isn’t smiling so much.

  Okay, not at all.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she says crisply.

  Mr. Sinclair looks as shocked as I feel.