Lights, Camera, Disaster

by Erin Dionne

  I breathe deep, pushing down the rising edge of panic threatening to knock me over. Don’t freak out, I say to myself. Don’t freak out. In the movies, here’s where I’d make a passionate speech, and Mr. Sinclair would back me up.

  “Why not?” The words squeak out of me, more chipmunk-style than passionate, but I’m grateful that they come.

  “You’re not academically eligible to participate in any extracurricular activities,” she says, hands on her hips. “It’s not fair or possible.”

  Feathers would crash in this silence.

  “I’m sorry,” she adds. “It’s the rule.”

  In a movie, I’d yell, “ALL YOU EVER CARE ABOUT ARE THE STUPID RULES. DON’T YOU SEE THAT PEOPLE CAN’T FIT INTO ONE-SIZE-FITS-ALL BOXES?” There might even be a dance number, where I’d whirl around the room à la The Breakfast Club, jump on the desk, and trash the joint to make a point.

  Instead, my body shakes, tears well up in my eyes, and I struggle not to let them fall.

  “Anything is possible,” I say through gritted teeth. “If you try hard enough.” It is one of Mr. Sinclair’s favorite sayings. Do I see a flicker of a triumphant grin on his face? Maybe.

  He hands me a late pass for first period. I take it a little too roughly.

  And then I do whirl around.

  And leave.

  If this were a movie, there’d be a montage. You’d see me studying, studying, studying. Maybe a shot of my camera, time-lapsing and getting dusty. Maybe some scenes of me getting C pluses or even a B minus on a quiz. You might even see me jumping for joy, or grinning. The soundtrack would be a driving, uplifting pop song.

  That’s not how this goes. Instead, I leave Mr. Sinclair’s office discouraged and sad, wondering if making an effort is even worth it. Ms. Walker is waiting for me to make one wrong move, and then I’ll be stuck in eighth grade next year.

  Unlike what it says on my list, I probably can’t talk to my friends about it. Nev and Max are really into finalizing their skit and living their normal, good-grade lives. I’m like a ship unmoored, floating around until something bumps me in a new direction.

  Kids literally bump and nudge through the halls between classes. There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn, and there’s Zada.

  “Hi,” she says, eyes down and a little pink in her cheeks.

  “Hey,” I say. We step out of the flow of traffic.

  “You look sad,” she says.

  I debate lying. I am tired of lying. “I kind of am. Things aren’t going well with my teachers.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “Is there someone you can talk to? Someone who can … ” She thinks for a second, maybe trying to come up with the right word. “Who can translate your problem for you?”

  I’m about to brush off her idea, and then a bolt of electricity shoots through me.

  “Zada! You’re right. I need a translator. Thank you!” I give her a quick hug and race off to find the person who may be able to help me.

  Her back is to me, coming out of the second floor copy room with another pile of packets when I spot her.

  “Miss Vogel!” I call. She stops, turns around. I rush up the hall, dodging kids. There isn’t much time before the bell.

  I skid up to her, panting, and before she can say anything, my mouth blurts out: “I have a small story movie that I want to show in the Hoot but Ms. Walker won’t let me.”

  “Small story?”

  “Professor Crabbe calls them that,” I say, rushing through.

  “And Ms. Walker won’t let you participate because of your grades, correct?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Can you talk to her? Please?”

  Ms. Vogel’s eyebrows nearly come together over her nose. She crosses her arms, which click with about a dozen bracelets.

  The bell ending homeroom buzzes. The late pass in my pocket isn’t worth anything now. And it looks like I’m totally sunk.

  “I, uh, have to get to class.”

  “Listen, Hess. Is the movie finished?”

  “Almost,” I lie. “I need to do some editing.” Of the whole thing that I haven’t really put together yet, I add in my head.

  “Well, maybe we can interpret ‘academic eligibility’ to mean that kids who are coming to rehearsal aren’t using time when they should be studying to work on the show. Got it?” She waits for me to nod. “But if you are showing a film, there’s nothing to rehearse … Do you understand?”

  Slowly, I figure it out. “You’re saying you’ll let me enter the film even though I can’t participate in the show.”

  She nods. “I don’t believe in keeping a student away from something like this with the talent you have. It won’t be eligible for a prize, but I want you to be able to share it with the community. Will you bring it to me when it’s ready? I need to check the content,” she says apologetically.

  I can’t even say anything, I’m so excited and grateful. For the first time, I can show Ms. Walker, my classmates, the teachers—everyone—what I’m good at. That even though grades and tests matter, that’s not the whole picture.

  Miss Vogel shoos me to class.

  There might be a happy ending to this story, after all.

  << PAUSE >>

  Here’s what it’s like to actually put a movie together:

  First you have to sit down with your raw footage. Most filmmakers have an idea as to how much material they have when they’re working on a project, but I’ve been shooting … well, forever. And when I actually look at my catalog, there’s about eighty to one hundred hours of stuff shot at school: interviews, scenery, skits and projects, shots of teachers, plus the stuff from Nazari’s … lots of it is worthless, but there are some gems.

  Then you consult with your outline, or story arc. Every movie has one, and it comes from the script (or before the script is written). This way, you know the story you’re trying to tell.

  Thanks to Ms. Walker, I know exactly what story to tell.

  Next it’s a matter of organizing and editing the footage to fit the story. The storyboard shows you what the major moments should include and when, so you’ll get the most emotional bang for your buck. Lastly, I load the raw footage into my editing software and piece it together.

  << RESUME PLAY >>

  Even though Mom and Dad won’t give me my camera back during school hours, they agreed to let me edit and work on the project once my homework is done.

  And, in keeping with my end of the bargain, I sit in each of my morning classes and try to pay attention. It’s hard. So hard.

  Especially when my mind wanders, or when I get bored. But then I remind myself of Mr. Sinclair’s strategies:

  A clear desk equals a clear mind, Hess.

  A place for everything and everything in its place, Hess.

  You need nets to catch information, Hess. Are your nets ready?

  My nets are wide open. I write stuff down. I listen. I copy the homework assignments into my planner.

  I even draw some of my notes, making storyboard boxes and stick figures and filling in information about the Industrial Revolution in social studies. It’s not perfect, but it’s better.

  I’m not perfect. But I’m trying.

  This is what it’s like to try. This is what it’s like to be the director of my own story, I tell myself.

  When I see Nev and Max in the hall I want to tell them: I’m working hard. I’m trying to pass. I don’t want to be left behind. But shame creeps out of my belly and instead I don’t say anything. I don’t even show up for lunch.

  What if it’s not good enough? What if I still fail?

  I’m at a table in the library. I’ve finished my math homework and answered social studies questions. As a reward, I’m working on my new movie, coming up with some possibilities, when Max finds me at the end of the lunch period. He says, “Hey,” and I gasp and jump about eight hundred feet.

  “You scared the snot out of me!”

  He grins a crazy grin and hands me a tissue.
<
br />   “Ha-ha,” I say. When the little joke is over, neither of us knows what to say.

  Max shifts from foot to foot, frowning.

  “What are you working on?” he says finally. “You didn’t come to lunch yesterday or today.”

  I shrug. “Stuff.” I don’t want him to know about the movie, so I fold the notebook cover closed. “Language arts, mostly,” I add quickly, because I’m afraid he’ll leave if he thinks I’m being snarky. “What are you up to?”

  “I need a book.” He shrugs. “Social studies assignment.”

  “How’s the skit going?”

  “Uh, it’s okay,” he mumbles. He gets really interested in what’s on the shelf next to me: bug books.

  It feels like we’re in a fight. Are we? I take a one-two-three-in breath.

  “History books are that way,” I point. My stomach clenches. I swallow, take a breath. I need to say something. But can I get past my word block?

  “I messed up. I’m sorry.”

  It’s not what I need to say, but it’s a start.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know what we did, Hess. Are you even coming to the Hoot?”

  His words sting. And then I realize: They think I’m mad at them? That is not good.

  “Of course I’ll be at the Hoot!” I sound annoyed, not upset. The helpless hole opens in my heart. I don’t have the right words. Max sighs and pulls a book off the shelf.

  “Really?” He kicks at the table leg with the toe of a blue sneaker. Wish I could zoom in on that.

  “Why would I miss it?”

  “Those two sixth graders sat our table today. They mashed up whatever was left of their food, stuffed it in a PowerDrink bottle, and dared each other to drink it,” he says, changing the subject.

  “Nasty.”

  “It grossed Nev out. I ate the rest of her sandwich.” He tucks Beetle Busters under an arm. The bell rings. “If you’d been there, you could’ve gotten it on camera.”

  If I had a camera.

  Before I can respond, he says, “See you.”

  “Thought you needed something for social studies?”

  “I’m good.” He brings the beetle book to Mrs. Coe’s desk.

  Telling my friends the truth might just be the hardest thing on my list.

  “Eureka!” Dad bellows, scaring the daylights out of me. He races out of his office and through the kitchen and den. “Victory lap!”

  Jack, Mom, and I, standing in the kitchen, stare openmouthed as he blows by, sling swinging.

  “What is it?” Mom calls.

  He races around one more time.

  “I got it!” He’s panting a little, eyes wide. “I got the speech-to-text software to work!”

  “On your phone?” Jack asks. “Dude, I could’ve helped you with that.”

  “Not the phone, the computer,” Dad says. “I can talk to it now and it will write for me. I got this!”

  “You got this,” I repeat.

  He goes back to the office and his voice floats through the door. Mom shakes her head. “So glad he figured it out.”

  The Nazaris will be, too.

  I admit it: I hide at the corner of the science wing and the main hall and watch Nev through the crowd at her locker before lunch. She’s off her crutches but moving slow, and it takes her a minute or so to get her stuff switched out. She turns her head, as if looking for someone—Max? Me?—and then limps toward the caf.

  My heart’s hammering, and I breathe one-two-three in. I wish I could fast-forward through this part of my life.

  I trudge to my locker, grab my lunch, and by the time I get to the caf the halls are nearly empty. My feet are weighed down, and I have to force myself to cross the room to our table.

  I stand behind my seat awkwardly. No one looks at me.

  “Um, can I sit?”

  Max and Nev exchange a glance. Nev shrugs with one shoulder, and I know that I’m not going to be able to eat anything I brought.

  At least Max will be happy.

  I plop into the chair. Max has two apples, a bag of pretzels, and the remains of a sandwich spread out in front of him.

  “Um, so,” I say, and my throat tightens.

  Nev, next to me, may as well be Iceman. Cold comes off her in clouds.

  Be Black Widow. Miss Piggy … anyone! I remind myself. One-two-three in.

  If this were a movie, I’d magically find the words. I’d say I was sorry, explain what’s been going on, how weird I’ve felt. They’d listen quietly, be supportive, and tell me that they have my back, and we’d high-five or hug.

  The words are hard to come by.

  “Look,” I begin. “I know I haven’t been around. I’m sorry. It’s just … ” I stare at my unopened lunch and will myself to continue. “Things are kind of sucking right now.” I pause and look up to see if they’re paying any attention.

  Nev has one eyebrow cocked. “Really?”

  I really wish we weren’t at a table, in the middle of the cafeteria, with sixth graders around.

  I take another breath and fight the tears that appear in my eyes.

  “Really. Like, Walker told my parents that I might not be going to high school next year if I can’t get it together and I have been trying, and you guys are in the Hoot and I’m not, and it feels like it will when I’m held back and you’re in high school, and my parents took my camera, but I made a new friend and she’s cool!” The words shot out of me as fast as if the Flash pushed them. I’m surprised that it’s over that fast.

  And then my chest squeezes tight in reaction to what I just said. What are they going to think? Embarrassment, anxiety, fear … all three feelings churn through me. I can’t look at them.

  “Whoa,” Nev says finally. “Hess, that’s rough. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Yeah,” Max agrees through a mouthful. Pretzel sprays across the table. “Seriously.”

  “I just … didn’t know how, I guess.” I stop there. I could say that I was embarrassed, but that’s embarrassing to even admit. I keep my eyes glued to the unopened lunch.

  “We weren’t trying to shut you out.” Nev ducks her head to make eye contact with me, and I reluctantly meet her gaze. She’s level, serious, concerned. The tightness in my chest loosens a little.

  “We’ve just been busy with the Hoot.” Max’s words are clear now that he’s not eating. “And honestly, it seemed like you hadn’t wanted to talk to us much.”

  I nod, miserable. “I didn’t. I felt like a loser. You guys are always helping me out with my work and stuff, and I don’t do what I need to. I suck.”

  Nev blows air through her nose in a snort—it’s her “give me a break” noise.

  “You’re only a loser if you don’t let your friends help you when you need them. And if you aren’t really trying when you don’t let anyone help you.”

  Oh. Point taken.

  “So don’t be a loser anymore,” Max says.

  “I’ll try not to.” I swipe at my eyes with my napkin. Max takes my cucumber slices, and Nev elbows me in the side.

  “And who’s this new friend?” Nev asks.

  “Zada,” I say. “You’ll really like her.”

  There’s no group hug or high five, but a smile creeps across my face and I feel a little lighter.

  << MONTAGE >>

  There’s a frenzy of editing, tracking, and getting things just right. I’m just as stressed about this video as I am about failing eighth grade. Go figure.

  I get my homework done at lunch. Nev and Max help keep me focused, and Zada meets me in the library during her English Language Learner period so we can work together.

  I hunch over the laptop in the dark, during the day, in the morning. My brother tries to get it away from me, but Mom stops him.

  “Let her finish,” she tells him. She gives him her laptop so he can finish his homework. “It’s important.”

  It’s the first time I can remember that she has ever said what I am doing is important. She must see the surprise on my f
ace, because she comes over and gives me a hug.

  “You’re not the only one who is trying to see things differently,” she says.

  << RESUME PLAY >>

  I’m messing with the title, tweaking the placement on the screen, trying different fonts … as many teeny changes as I can make to get it just right. It has to be perfect.

  “I think you’re done.” Dad’s voice comes from behind me, and I jump. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “It’s okay.” I stretch and swivel in my desk chair to face him. He leans against the doorframe, and I tell him he can come in. He’s not wearing his glasses, so his eyes look too tiny and squinty for his face.

  “I do that, too,” he says, and he sits on my bed and makes my stuffed platypus dance with a blue beanbag hippo.

  “Do what?”

  “Tinker,” he says. The platypus dips the hippo. “I move words around, change them back, try again. That’s how I know I’m done. I’m not making anything better, I’m just making it different. I can’t get to perfect.”

  I think that over. The animals tango. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “You’re done. Let yourself be finished.” Hippo gets dipped one more time, then Platypus drops her.

  He stands and leans over my shoulder. I get a whiff of Dad-smell. When he sees the title, he smiles. His squinty, too-small eyes are just right.

  “Just right,” he says.

  My guts twist. I’m not so sure about that.

  “What about you?” I ask, saving the movie and closing the program. I’ll drop it on a memory stick and bring it to Miss Vogel when I get to school.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you make your deadline?”

  He nods. “We got the movie made, Hess.”

  We sure did.

  I am way too nervous to eat. I left my memory stick with the movie on it on Miss Vogel’s desk at the beginning of lunch, and now the thought of sitting in the caf, smelling today’s special—tuna melts—does not appeal.

  Zada is in the library, but I know I’m not going to be able to focus on my homework.

  I need to do something that isn’t going to get me in trouble.

  To buy a little time while I figure that out, I head to my locker.

  I spin the dial, then heave my shoulder into the space. And then I know exactly what I’m going to do. I slam the door shut and head down the hall in search of a giant garbage barrel. When I come across one that doesn’t stink too bad, I grab its sticky handle and drag it up the hall.