“I had to wear it.” Old Peter is staring at the camera now with a stoic expression. “I couldn’t go shirtless. It was the fifties.” He repeats himself in a whisper. “I had to wear it.”
A question comes from off set. “What color was the shirt, Peter?”
Peter shakes his head. The memory is too difficult.
“Peter,” the off-camera voice urges. “What color was the shirt?”
Peter blows out a frustrated breath. “Orange. It was orange, okay?” He looks away from the camera, ashamed.
The screen fades to black.
The next scene opens on a new character, professional in dress. She has long blonde hair, and she’s wearing a crisp white shirt. She’s straightening out her shirt when she looks at the camera. “We ready?” she asks.
“Whenever you are,” the off-camera voice says.
She nods. “Okay, then. I’ll just start?” She’s looking at someone else for direction. Then she looks at the screen. “My name is Dr. Esther Bloombilingtington. I am a chromophobia expert.”
A voice off camera says, “Can you define that term?”
Dr. Bloombilingtington nods. “Chromophobia is a persistent and irrational fear of color.”
“What color, specifically?” the off-camera voice asks.
“Chromophobia presents itself differently in every patient,” she says. “Sometimes patients have a fear of blue, or green, or red, or pink, or yellow, or black, or brown, or purple. Even white. No color is off limits, really. Some patients may even find themselves fearing a number of colors, or, in more severe cases . . .” She looks deadpan into the camera. “All colors.”
The off-camera voice poses another question. “But you aren’t here to speak about any of those colors today, are you?”
Dr. Bloombilingtington shakes her head, looking back into the camera. “No. Today, I’m here for one reason. One color that has resulted in alarmingly consistent results.” She lifts her shoulders with an intake of breath. Her shoulders fall as she begins to speak again. “The results of this study are important, and I feel this needs to be shared with the world.”
“What needs to be shared?”
“Based on our findings, we have discovered that the color orange is not only the cause of most cases of chromophobia, but our research proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that orange is, by far, the absolute worst color of all colors.”
The off-camera voice asks, “And what proof do you have of this?”
Dr. Bloombilingtington looks very seriously into the camera. “Aside from several dozen likes on our Twitter research polls and quite a few views on our Instagram stories regarding this subject, we also have . . . the people. The people and their stories.” She leans forward, narrowing her eyes as slow, dramatic music begins to play. “Just listen to their stories.”
The camera cuts to black.
The next scene opens back up on the first character, Kaitlyn. She’s holding Kleenex now as she speaks. “As soon as my mother said those words to my father . . .” She lifts her eyes and looks at the camera. “He . . . he died.”
She brings the Kleenex to her eyes. “He just . . . he looked at her, shocked that she would even suggest orange as a color for the living room walls. As soon as she said it, he dropped all the little plastic color swatches on the floor, and he grasped at his heart and he just . . . he died.”
Kaitlyn has a look of bewilderment on her face. “The last word he ever heard spoken aloud . . . was orange.” A sob breaks from her chest. She shakes her head back and forth. “I’ll never be able to forgive my mother. Who suggests orange as a wall color? It’s the last thing he heard. The last thing!”
The camera goes black immediately after her outburst.
It opens on a flashback of young Peter, driving in an older blue truck. He’s wearing the orange shirt. His face is twisted and contorted with anger.
“I wanted to wear the blue shirt but had no choice,” older Peter narrates. “I knew Mary preferred blue. She’d even said it to me the day I asked her out. I told her I liked her yellow dress, and she twirled around for me and said, ‘Isn’t it pretty?’ I nodded, and then she said, ‘I like your shirt, Peter. Blue looks good on you.’”
The camera is focused on old Peter now, sitting in his green chair. His eyes are even more bloodshot than they were in the beginning. “When I showed up at the theater . . . she was standing out front. Alone. I parked the truck, turned it off, and I just watched her. She looked so pretty, standing there in her yellow dress.”
The flashback shows young Peter, sitting in his truck, wearing his orange shirt while he watches a pretty girl waiting, alone, wearing a yellow dress. He winces.
“I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let her see me like that.”
Young Peter cranks his truck and begins pulling out of the parking lot.
The camera switches to old Peter now, in his green chair. “What was I supposed to do?” He’s so angry he’s rising out of his seat, but he’s too old to come to a full stand. “I couldn’t just walk up to her in that shirt! Leaving was my only choice!”
He falls back into his chair. He shakes his head, obviously regretting a choice that had a profound impact on the rest of his life.
“Peter?”
Peter looks up to the right of the camera, at whoever belongs to the off-set voice.
“Can you tell us what happened to Mary?”
Peter winces, his eyes somehow finding a way to pull in even more wrinkles.
“What happened to Mary, Peter?”
Peter half stands again, angry, throwing an arm out. “She married Dan Stanley! That’s what happened!” He falls into his seat again, sadness consuming him. “They met that night . . . at the theater. The night I was supposed to take her out in my blue shirt. They fell in love. Ended up having three kids and some goats. Or sheep. Heck, I can’t remember. They had a lot of ’em, though. I used to have to drive by their farm on my way to work every day, and them darned animals looked so . . . healthy. Like Dan Stanley took real good care of ’em. Just like he took good care of Mary, even though she was supposed to be mine.”
Peter reaches over to an end table next to his chair. He grabs a Kleenex. Blows his nose. “Now here I am.” He waves his hand around the room as if he has nothing to show from his life. “Alone.” He wipes his nose again, looking into the camera. It zooms in on his face. There’s a long, awkward pause. Then Peter says, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m done.”
The screen goes black again.
The next scene opens on Dr. Bloombilingtington, her eyebrows drawn together in concern.
“What do you hope people gain from this documentary?” the off-set voice asks her.
She looks into the camera. “What I hope for . . . the only thing I hope for . . . is that everyone watching this comes together in the banning of this atrocious color. Not only does orange ruin lives, but the word doesn’t even rhyme with anything. People try to rhyme words with orange, but . . . there’s no perfect rhyme. There just isn’t.” The camera zooms in on her face. Her voice is a serious whisper. “There never will be.”
The screen goes black.
New words flash across the screen in every color but orange. They say, If you or someone you know has ever seen the color orange or spoken the word orange out loud, you could be a sufferer of chromophobia. Please contact a psychiatrist for an official diagnosis. If you would like to donate to or be a part of our campaign efforts in the banning of this color from our language and our world, please email us at [email protected].
The screen goes black.
The credits begin to roll, but there are only three of them, since me, Miller, and his gramps played every role.
Miller held my hand through the whole thing. His palm is sweating. I know the entire video is only five minutes long, but it felt longer. It certainly took a lot longer to make.
The room is quiet. I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad sign. I loo
k over at Jonah, but he’s still staring at the television.
Lexie and Efren are staring at the floor.
My mother is the first to speak. “That was . . .” She looks to Jonah for help, but he’s still staring at the TV. She continues talking. “That was . . . unexpected. The quality was great. And the acting. I mean . . . I don’t know. You asked for honesty, so . . . I don’t get it. Maybe I’m too old.”
Lexie shakes her head. “No, it’s not about age, because I am so confused right now.”
“It’s a mockumentary,” Miller says defensively. “They’re supposed to make fun of documentaries. They’re funny.”
Efren nods. “I laughed.”
“No, you didn’t,” Miller says. He walks over to the light and flips it on.
I’m still waiting for Jonah to say something. He finally looks away from the television, bringing his eyes to the two of us. He just stares for a silent moment.
But then . . . he starts to clap.
It’s slow at first, but the clap picks up speed as he stands. He starts to laugh, and I can sense Miller finally begin to ease up with Jonah’s reaction. “That was brilliant!” Jonah says. He puts his hands on his hips and stares back at the television. “I mean . . . the quality. The acting.” He looks back at us. “Who played Peter?”
“That’s my grandpa,” Miller says.
“So good,” Jonah says. “I thought it was fantastic. I think you two might have a shot with this one.”
“Are you just being nice?” my mom asks Jonah. “I can’t tell.”
“No. I mean, I think we all went into it thinking it was going to be something a lot more serious. Maybe something more personal. But when I realized it was a mockumentary, I was speechless at how well you pulled it off. You nailed it. Both of you.”
Miller and I both sigh with relief. We worked so hard on it. And I know it’s silly, but that’s the point.
I’m not offended that no one else understood it. We really only cared what Jonah thought, because his name is going on it as the sponsoring teacher.
Miller scoops me up into a hug. I can feel the relief emanating from him as he sighs against my neck. “I’m so glad that’s over,” he says. “I thought he was going to hate it.”
I’m relieved too.
This is good.
Miller goes to the laptop that’s hooked up to the TV. “Okay, I have one more video.”
I tilt my head, confused. “But we only made the one . . .”
Miller looks at me and grins. “This one’s a surprise.”
He pulls up a different file, and as soon as the television connects to his computer, Miller rushes to the lights and turns them off.
I don’t know what he’s up to.
I’m still standing in the back of the living room when Miller wraps his arms around me from behind. He rests his chin on my shoulder.
“What is this?”
“Shh,” he says. “Just watch.”
The film opens with Miller staring at the camera. He’s holding it himself, pointing it at his own face. He waves. “Hey, Clara.” He sets the camera down. He’s in his bedroom. He takes a seat on his bed and says, “Okay, so I know you said you don’t like anything elaborate, but . . . I kind of started this before you told me that. So . . . I hope you like it.”
The screen goes black and opens up to footage of the two of us. It’s all the B-roll he’s taken over the last several months. Clips of us sitting against the tree at the park. Clips of us working on our video submission. Clips of us at school, at his house, at my house.
The montage of clips ends, and in the next scene, it actually has sound. It’s Miller, fumbling with the camera. He’s at his truck, and he slams the door, pointing the camera at himself. “Hey, Clara. I think you should go to prom with me.” He whispers it when he says it, then sets the camera up on the tripod. He points it at me.
It was the first day he had set up the camera, when we were at the food truck. He walks away to go order our sandwiches, and the footage shows me making silly faces at the camera.
The next scene is the day we skipped school. He’s setting the camera up, pointing it at the tree. I’m leaning against the tree, staring out at the water. Miller isn’t in the shot at first, but then he sticks his face in front of the camera. “Hey, Clara,” he whispers in a hurry. “You should go to prom with me.” Then he backs away from the camera and slips between me and the tree, like nothing was amiss.
I had no idea he was doing any of this. I turn around to look at him, but he urges me to keep watching the television.
The next three scenes are all from while we’ve dated, with him sneaking in random promposals while we’re together and me having no idea he was doing it.
Then a scene opens up to him standing in line at Starbucks. He points his camera at me. I’m sitting alone in a corner, reading a book.
Oh my God. This is the first day we kissed.
Miller turns the camera back on himself as he’s standing in the Starbucks line. “You’re so cute, sitting over there reading your book,” he whispers. “I think you should go to prom with me.”
“Miller,” I whisper. I try to turn around and look at him again, but he doesn’t want me to take my eyes off the television. I’m just in shock. I wasn’t expecting any of the footage to be from before we were dating.
In the next scene, Miller is outside, leaning against a pole. I don’t recognize the location at first, but when he wipes away beads of sweat from his forehead and pulls the sucker from his mouth, I realize he’s standing in front of the city limit sign. He’s looking into his camera when he says, “So. Clara Grant. You just drove by, and I know you saw me standing out here on the side of the road. Here’s the deal. I have a girlfriend, but I stopped thinking about her when I go to bed at night, and Gramps says that’s a bad sign and that I should break up with her. I mean, I have had a thing for you for a long time now, and I feel like I’m running out of opportunity. So I’ll make you a deal. If you turn your car around at the bottom of that hill and come back, I’m gonna take that as a sign, finally listen to my gut, break up with my girlfriend, and eventually ask you out. I might even ask you to prom this year. But if you don’t turn your car around, then I’ll assume you and I just weren’t meant to—” His eyes flash up, and he catches sight of something. He grins and then looks back down at his phone. “Look at that. You came back.”
That portion of the video ends, and now I’m crying.
When the next scene begins, I don’t recognize it at all. The camera is pointed at the floor and then at Gramps.
Gramps looks a few years younger in this video. Healthier than he looks now. “Get that out of my face,” Gramps says.
Miller turns the camera on himself. He looks younger too. He’s skinny, probably about fifteen. “Gramps is excited for the show,” Miller says sarcastically into the camera. Then he points his camera toward the stage.
My heart is thundering in my chest when I recognize the set.
My mind also starts to race. Twice, Miller’s grandpa tried to tell me about something that happened when they were at the school when Miller was fifteen. And twice, Miller was so embarrassed by it he shut him up.
Miller kisses the side of my head because he knows I’ve been wanting to know this story since the first day I met Gramps.
The camera cuts off. When it cuts on again, it’s the same night, but it’s the end of the play. The camera is on me now. I’m fourteen, standing onstage by myself, delivering a monologue. The camera slowly pans away from me and onto Miller.
His gramps must be holding the camera now.
Miller is staring at the stage. He’s leaning forward, his hands clasped beneath his chin. The camera zooms in on him as he watches me onstage. The camera stays there for a solid minute. Miller is hanging on to every word I’m saying onstage, completely engrossed. Gramps never once takes the camera off him, but Miller has no idea his gramps is filming him.
The monologue is the end of the play, s
o when I deliver my last line, everyone in the audience begins to clap.
Miller doesn’t.
He’s immobile. “Wow,” he whispers. “She is incredible. Epic.”
That’s when he looks at his grandpa and sees the camera pointed in his direction. He tries to snatch the camera out of Gramps’s hand, but Gramps pulls it away. He angles the camera so that it’s showing both of them. Miller rolls his eyes at his grandpa when he says, “I think you just fell in love.”
Miller laughs. “Shut up.”
“You did, and I got it on camera.” He points the camera at Miller again and says, “What’s her name?”
Miller shrugs. “Not sure. Clara, I think?” He opens the playbill and scrolls through it, pausing on my name. “Clara Grant. She played the role of Nora.”
His grandpa is still filming him. Miller isn’t even denying what his grandpa is saying. Everyone in the audience is now clapping for the actors as they walk out onstage, but Miller is staring at the camera. “You can stop now.”
His grandpa laughs. “I think it’s cute. Maybe you should ask her out.”
Miller laughs. “Yeah, right. She’s a ten. I’m like a four. Maybe a five.”
Gramps turns the camera on himself. “I’d give him a solid six.”
“Turn it off,” Miller says again.
Gramps smiles at the camera. He points it at Miller one more time. When they announce my name and it’s my turn to take a bow onstage, Miller bites his lip, trying to hide his smile.
“You look lovesick,” Gramps says. “Damn shame, because she’s out of your league.”
Miller faces the camera. He laughs and doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he seems smitten. He leans forward, closer to the camera, looking directly into it. “One of these days, that girl is gonna notice me. You just wait.”
“I’m not immortal,” Gramps says. “Neither are you.”
Miller looks back at the stage and laughs. “You’re the worst grandpa I have.”
“I’m the only grandpa you have.”
“Thank God,” Miller says, laughing.
Regretting You Page 32