by Don Calame
“No, no. I wasn’t. I would never. I tried looking you up too. But you’re not listed either.”
“Yeah, my dad’s pretty paranoid about stuff like that. He won’t even use a cell phone because he’s afraid someone might be able to track him.” Leyna laughs. “I mean, seriously. Like people don’t have anything better to do than track other people.”
“Yeah. That’s ridiculous.” My gaze slides off to the side. “So, anyway. What I was going to tell you Saturday when we met was that we’re casting you as the lead in our movie. Nashira Axe.”
Leyna’s eyes go wide. “Really? Are you kidding?”
I smile. “Nope. I’m dead serious. You and Hunter are going to be our stars.”
“That’s amazing!” Leyna pulls me in for a hug. Oh, man, I could never get tired of this. Such a stark contrast to Evelyn’s strangling. “I really appreciate it, Sean. I’ll work super hard. I promise.”
Just then Mr. Nestman claps his hands, quieting the room. “All right, thespians. Today we are going to start on an exciting new project. As you already know, one of your classmates, our very own Sean Hance, is making a film to be shown at New York’s world-famous TerrorFest. And so, in the interest of giving you all some real-world experience, I’ve decided to dedicate a portion of our class to helping Mr. Hance accomplish this goal.” Mr. Nestman holds up a copy of the script pages I e-mailed him last night. I can see very clearly that he’s marked the hell out of them with red pen. “The first thing we’ll do is have Sean announce his lead casting choices, which he’s informed me were finalized this weekend. I know we’re all very interested to find out who made the cut.” He looks at me as he says that part and it sounds very much like a threat. “Then we’ll do a complete read-through of these early scenes.” He turns to me, placing his hand solemnly on his chest. “Now, Sean, just so you know, I’ve taken the liberty of making a few . . . mmm, minor corrections. Improvements, if you will. To add some depth and texture, that’s all. As I am a twenty-year professional in this business of show, I didn’t think you’d mind.”
I smile tightly, worrying less about the “improvements” to my script and more about just how professional Mr. Nestman will be when he finds out he didn’t land one of the leading roles.
I FLOAT ALL THE WAY HOME from school on my bike, taking my time as I weave along the streets, intermittently glancing down at the back of my hand and the phone number that Leyna’s written there in red-raspberry ink. I love how she writes her fives. And don’t get me started on how sexy her eights look. All curvy and round.
To be honest, I didn’t think today would turn out as well as it has. Though, despite Leyna’s accepting my apology, drama class was torture. Mr. Nestman acted like it was his movie we were rehearsing instead of mine. Changing everything that Nessa and I worked so hard on. And that was before I read the cast list and he realized I’ve only got him playing an army sergeant.
And then, after school, we tried to film the first scene with Evelyn and Nick. That was pretty much a two-hour nightmare. Not only are Nick and Evelyn horrendous actors — I mean really, truly terrible — but they both move in slow motion. And take ten times longer to say their lines than they should. If we were actually going to use their scenes, our movie would be twenty hours long.
The good thing is, I’m more convinced now than ever that we are doing the right thing by shooting the decoy film. And so are Val and Helen, who were dubious at first. But once we met up with Leyna and Hunter — sans cell phones, of course — and shot the very same scene in one-quarter the amount of time, and with infinitely better acting, there was no one who wasn’t on board with the plan.
And that’s not even the best part. As soon as we wrapped, Leyna came up to me, all excited and full of ideas for her character. She took my hand and wrote her phone number down on the soft pad between my thumb and forefinger —“So we can always get in touch with each other”— and everything felt right again. Better than right.
I turn up my driveway, lifting my hand to my nose and breathing in the raspberry aroma of the ink. I hop off my bike, lift the garage door, and tuck my ride right in beside Mom’s old black Volvo. Even this, putting my bicycle away, feels effortless and fluid. It sounds totally weird, I know, but taking control of things and putting our movie plan into action has made me feel taller. And lighter. Like I’m half helium. Like if someone were to hand me a basketball right now, I could dribble it across the street to the Goldsteins’ and slam-dunk it in their crappy old basketball hoop.
I’m in my house and bounding up the stairs — thinking about how great it’s going to be to continue filming with Leyna this week — when I step into my room and see that it’s nearly empty except for all the baby stuff and a few scattered Pokémon cards on the floor.
I stand there in the doorway. Blinking at the void. My stomach taking a nosedive. Trying to work out how this pitch-black puzzle piece fits in to the sunny brightness of my day. But it’s like in those shows where an alien ship suddenly appears over Manhattan and everyone’s brain short-circuits because they simply can’t handle the enormity of the situation.
“Hey, there, mister.” It’s Dad, clapping me on the shoulder, a big isn’t-life-grand smile on his face. “How was your day?”
“What are you doing?”
“You’re home earlier than we thought,” Dad chirps. “Another half hour and your mother and I would have had the entire move completed.”
“We wanted to surprise you,” Mom says, waddling up behind me, a half-eaten Ding Dong in her hand. Jeez, I can’t believe how much her belly has inflated in just the last month. “Don’t worry, though. Your father isn’t letting me do any of the heavy lifting.” She takes a big bite of the chocolate hockey puck, which leaves icing smears on her lips.
“Wait.” I shake my head, unable to process anything they’re saying. “I thought . . .” I clench my eyes shut, trying to ward off the killer migraine that’s blossoming in my skull. “I thought I wasn’t going to have to move until right before the baby was born.”
“Sorry, kiddo,” Dad says, pushing past me and stepping into my bedroom. “We had to accelerate the schedule a bit. The doctor said the baby’s trending faster than she expected. We thought we’d better get started on painting the room.” He begins pulling my swords down from the wall. “It’s better this way, anyway, I think. Yank the Band-Aid off quick and clean, right? Interesting factoid about change: they actually did a scientific study where they found that people acclimate to new situations much faster when —”
“I don’t care,” I snap. “You guys said I had until May.”
“Um, no,” Mom says. “We said the baby was due in May, but now it looks like —”
“This isn’t fair.” I feel my eyes starting to well up. “I’m not ready yet. You should have told me.” I march into the room and start gathering up the Pokémon cards from the floor. “These are valuable. You could have damaged them. You should have let me organize my stuff first.”
“Sorry, guy. We thought it would be easier for you this way.” Dad leans the swords gently against the wall. “Not to have to move the stuff over yourself. That was the other thing they discovered in this study. People who were thrust into new situations were more likely to —”
“Whatever.” I look around at the near-empty space that used to be my room. “I don’t care about your stupid study.” I glare at Mom’s swelling stomach. “Or the dumb baby.”
Mom tilts her head, acting all sympathetic. “Look, hon. We know how hard this is —”
“No.” I shift my glare from Mom to Dad to Mom. I hate them both so much right now. It’s just like Cathy said: it’s all baby, baby, baby. “You have no clue how hard it is. If you did, you wouldn’t be making me do this. I know you think this baby’s some kind of miracle. But for me it’s a curse. You’ve cursed my life.”
“Sean!” Mom gasps, her eyes starting to leak. “That was uncalled for.” She sniffles as she takes another bite of her Ding Dong. “So much for gay
sons being more kind to their mothers.”
“What?” I screech. “You can’t be serious! How many times do I —?”
“Look, mister.” Dad levels his gaze at me. “We didn’t just spring this move on you, okay? We told you it was going to happen weeks ago. You’re not the only one having to make sacrifices here. The whole family is pitching in. Because that’s what families do. They work as a team. And if you expect us to be accepting of who you are, then we expect the same courtesy.”
“Oh, my God!” I throw my head back. “How did this get turned into a conversation about me being gay? I’m not gay. You don’t have to accept anything! We’re talking about you making me move out of my room.”
“You mean the ‘curse’s’ room.” Mom is now full-on sobbing. She takes a Kleenex from the pocket of her paisley maternity dress and blows her nose. “I’m sorry. I can’t deal with this.”
Mom turns and waddles off down the hall.
Dad glowers at me. “I hope you’re happy, mister. Now I’m going to have to spend the next hour talking her down from this.” He glances over his shoulder at the bedroom. “Finish moving your stuff and then you can come downstairs and apologize.”
And with that, Dad goes after Mom, leaving me standing there alone.
I take a closer look around the room. There’s an indentation in the carpet where my bed used to be. My books are gone from the bookcase. The closet door is open, a row of empty hangers on the rod.
My throat tightens and my eyes start to tear up again. A miserable ache settles in the center of my chest. I can’t believe this is actually happening. A thousand different memories of my room flicker in my head. Hanging out with my friends, listening to music, reading my books in bed, sneaking out the window onto the roof, practicing my lightsaber moves.
Everything I’ve ever done in my life is somehow connected to this place.
I wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes. Damn it. I knew it was going to suck having to move into Cathy’s room. I just didn’t realize how much I was going to miss my own.
A little while later, I slog into Cathy’s bedroom, carrying my replica swords wrapped carefully in the brown Jedi cloak I wore for Halloween a few years ago — and for a few imagined lightsaber battles after that.
My parents have split the place in two, stringing a heavy curtain down the middle and rearranging things so that my bed is positioned on one side, with my Lord of the Rings poster hung on the wall and all my Star Wars books arranged in a tall bookcase. It’s like they’ve shrunk down my old bedroom and tucked it into the corner of this one.
I flop on my bed, my anger at this sucky situation still boiling over. I can’t believe how a day that was turning out so well could just spin on a dime and end up being so miserable. It’s an about-face that would even make Evelyn proud.
INT. HOUSE ATTIC — NIGHT
Rogart and Nashira are huddled close under a blanket. SCREAMS can be heard outside.
NASHIRA
Shouldn’t we go try to help those people?
ROGART
We can’t help them. It’s too late. If we go out there, the vampanzees will eat us just like they’re eating them.
NASHIRA
Are we just supposed to hide forever?
ROGART
I don’t know what else to do.
Nashira pulls a cross necklace out from under her shirt.
NASHIRA
You know what this is, Rogart?
ROGART
It’s a cross. They don’t work against these monsters. Believe me, I’ve tried.
NASHIRA
I know. This cross was Grandma’s. She gave it to me before she died. She said it symbolized a crossroads. Life is filled with them, brother. We have to make a choice here. We either run and hide, maybe live for a few more days. Or we fight these things and maybe save the human race. What’s it gonna be, Rogart?
Cathy stomps into our bedroom without saying a word to me, slams the door behind her — like she’s been doing the entire last week — then goes to her side of the room behind the heavy curtain, turns on Joy Division at full volume, and opens the window to let in the cold air. These are her battle tactics, meant to torment me till I move out of the house and in with one of my friends.
I’d hurl some salvos back at her — blast a few of my own songs, maybe some Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare for her listening pleasure, or perhaps ask her if the cranking whiny death music means that she doesn’t have a date for Valentine’s Day — but I am far too swamped keeping all my movie and girlfriend balls in the air to be bothered.
At this very moment, I’m on my bed, e-mailing Nessa the changes to the latest few pages we’ve been working on. We haven’t been able to get together recently because of Cathy’s work schedule, which is making things really difficult. It wouldn’t be so bad if we were actually going to use Evelyn and Nick’s takes because it’s taking forever to film anything with them. But since Leyna and Hunter are amazingly efficient — not to mention really good — there’s a chance we’ll be caught up with everything I’ve gotten written in less than a week.
My e-mail bings. It’s Nessa again. Nice detail with Nashira’s cross, but Rogart is too passive in this scene. He needs to take charge of the situation from the start. Keep up the good work. Hey, just ate a candy heart that said I’M HORNY. What are the odds? :)
Ugh. I don’t know what I’m more annoyed with: having to rewrite this scene again or Nessa’s incessant pretend come-ons.
Actually, Cathy’s pounding music trumps both of those things in the irritation department.
I glance at the Death Star. Six thirty. Nick’s picking me up for my dinner with Evelyn in fifteen. I better get dressed. It shouldn’t take me too long. I’ve only got one suit that I wore to my cousin’s wedding two years ago.
I shut my computer down and grab my phone off the bed. I flip it off vibrate and glance at the screen to see I’ve got a message. It’s from Leyna. Or, as she’s entered in my phone, Leon, for security’s sake.
Hppy <3 dA. hOp ur hving fn. Wtnd u 2 c ths. hEr’s my lttl mffn. wht do u thnk?
There’s a picture attached. I click on it to get a better look.
It’s slightly out of focus. And it’s dark. And hairy. And . . .
Whoa, hey, now. Is that . . . Is that what I think it is? Nooo. It can’t be, can it? I squint hard at the photo. Trying to will it into focus.
Oh, my God. I think . . . I think Leyna just sexted me for Valentine’s Day.
LE CHAT NOIR is the fanciest restaurant I’ve ever been to. There are dimly lit chandeliers all around, white tablecloths, candles, wineglasses, soft almost-inaudible classical music playing in the background. And waiters wearing tuxedos and white gloves.
Evelyn and I are the only kids in the entire place. All the other couples are old. Like, my grandparents old. And it’s so hushed in here. Like a church or something. Like you’re afraid to even lift your silverware for fear of making any kind of clatter.
The whole atmosphere makes me feel as uncomfortable as a Trekkie at a cotillion.
Well, the atmosphere, along with my waist-strangling floodsies and my motion-constricting suit jacket, which makes it impossible for me to reach out for the bread basket. I should have tried on these clothes as soon as I knew I was going to have to wear them. Now all I can do is hold in my stomach and lean down anytime I want to take a sip of water.
“I can’t believe you set this all up,” Evelyn says, smiling at me from across the table. “It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“Yeah, well.” I try a humble shrug, but my shoulders are pinned in. “I just thought, you know, Valentine’s Day and all.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I’m thinking of Leyna’s picture again. Her Valentine’s present to me. I dart my eyes to the side to see if I can locate the bathroom. Maybe I can sneak off and have another peek. Just to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing.
Just then our waiter a
ppears at the table and hands us our leather-bound menus. “Bonjour, monsieur. Mademoiselle. Will we be having a virgin cocktail before we eat? Perhaps a glass of sparkling cider?”
Evelyn smiles at me. “Ooh, let’s, okay? So we can toast to our undying devotion.”
I look up at the waiter, who looms over me, his nose in the air, his mouth turned down, like I’m some sort of dirty cretin. “Two sparkling ciders. Yes. Thank you.”
“C’est bon.” The waiter gives a curt little bow and marches off.
“I’m so excited.” Evelyn’s vibrating in her chair as she lifts the towering menu. “I’ve never been to such a fine restaurant. I wonder what they have.”
“Yeah,” I say, hefting my own menu and cracking it open, wondering if I’ll be able to make sense of any of the French.
Holy shit! I may not know many of the words, but the numbers I recognize. Eighteen dollars for . . . onion soup? Thirteen dollars for what I think might be salad? And . . . And . . . Fuuuck me! Steak and French fries — I’m sorry, frites — for forty-three bucks! My stomach churns. This whole night is going to cost me a fortune.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down without resorting to sniffing my palm. But it only makes my jacket tighter, which makes it harder to breathe, in part because the stupid earrings box that’s jammed in my inside jacket pocket feels like it’s digging in to my heart. Okay. Don’t panic. Maybe Evelyn will see the prices and take mercy on me.
“I’m ravenous,” she says. “I haven’t eaten all day in anticipation of tonight. It all looks so good. I want everything.”
“Really?” I laugh nervously behind the cover of my menu. “I don’t know. I’m actually having a hard time deciding. And I had a big lunch — a really big lunch — so . . .”