St Mary's Academy Series Box Set 2

by Seven Steps

  My chest felt tight and I rubbed it.

  I should’ve told Clay to shove his idea where the sun didn’t shine.

  I should’ve told Julius about Clay’s plan.

  I shouldn’t be considering this offer at all.

  But it was hard to do the right thing.

  Sometimes, it was absolutely impossible.

  Ten minutes and two sore toes from kicking a trash can later, I walked into the St. Mary’s Academy Digital Media Program, or as we liked to call it, film club.

  Back in September, Mr. Walters had showed us an independent studio’s version of The Odyssey. Now we, as a club, were tasked with making our own thirty-minute short inspired by the film, and I had been elected cinematographer. It was a good job for me, since I brought my camera everywhere, but of course, like every other person in this industry, what I really wanted to do was direct.

  I shuffled into the classroom—half in pain, half in annoyance—and was immediately greeted by Mr. Walters’ irked gaze. Though his eyes moved, his body did not. He remained reclined at his desk, script in hand, feet stretched out in front of him as if he were in a poolside lounge chair drinking a mojito instead of supervising a classroom.

  “Miss Kotopuli, thanks for fitting us into your busy schedule. We’re honored to be counted worthy of your very precious time.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sorry. I was dealing with a snake problem.”

  Mr. Walters rolled his eyes the same way I had, giving my sass right back to me. It was one of the reasons I liked him to so much.

  “Well, let’s hope you took a picture of it, Madame Cinematographer. Did you do your assignment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Let’s see it.”

  My Clay-inspired irritation disappeared as I smiled and held up my camera.

  Mr. Walters was one of those cool teachers who would definitely fit into my friend group if he were forty years younger. He was funny and witty and just a little bit out there. I could tell he was a former theater geek. It was written all over his thin body and Errol Flynn moustache, but the dead giveaway was his ever-present ascots.

  Mr. Walters sat up as I angled my camera and showed him the sites I’d picked out the previous weekend for our film. As cinematographer, one of my jobs was to scout out possible shooting locations. I showed him a couple of shoreline shots that looked slightly like coastal Greece, as well as houses that had the Grecian vibe we were looking for. When he came to the last picture, he sat back and rubbed his chin.

  “I don’t know. Those coasts are too rocky, nothing Grecian about them. And the houses all have such a modern feel. We need something that looks more…I don’t know…ancient, something with a wide, open living area and Grecian columns, I think.”

  “I know. I’m still looking for the perfect spot, but it’s hard to find anything locally. There’s a spot in Rhode Island that I really liked, but it’s not in our travel budget.”

  “Show me.”

  What was the point? Even if he liked it, we couldn’t afford to go.

  I sighed and pulled my phone from my pocket. I scrolled through my saved pictures before finding the right one and showing it to him: Mohegan Bluffs. Its grassy coast, blue sea, and rolling green hills were perfect for our shoot.

  And entirely out of our five hundred dollar budget.

  “How much do you think a trip like that would cost?” he asked.

  I blew out a breath. “I called a bus company. It’ll be three thousand dollars minimum. That’s for a bus rental and tip for the driver. We’d also have to pay for the ferry from New London to the island and back. Plus there’s meals to think about.”

  Mr. Walters leaned closer to me, as if sharing a secret. “I’ll present it to Mr. Mann, see if I can get him to up the funds. In the meantime, have the kids spread the word to their parents that our film program is underfunded. I’m sure I can get three times what we need in donations alone by the end of the week. And, if that doesn’t work, I’m sure your dad can cover it.”

  He laughed.

  I laughed too. I didn’t mean it though. My dad struggled to pay my tuition, so there was no way he could afford to pony up three grand for my film club.

  “Don’t worry about the money,” Mr. Walters said. “I’m sure your shoe budget is more than the cost of this bus trip. We’ll discuss it with the director. Once we come to an agreement, we’ll get the permission slips signed and we’ll be playing the slots before noon.” He cleared his throat. “Not you kids of course. I, myself, however…” He smiled nervously, as if he’d crossed the line. “Don’t tell anyone and there’ll be a mojito in it for you.”

  My eyes lit up. “Really?”

  “Virgin, of course.”

  And there went that.

  Mr. Walters laughed. “I’m a good teacher, not an idiot.”

  Then he shooed me away and restarted his read through of Nancy’s script.

  Mr. Walters was my favorite teacher, not because he taught me much—I didn’t have him for any classes, just for film club—but because he made me feel like a person instead of an inept child. I felt like I could be myself around him, and he wouldn’t judge me. He was the only teacher I would even consider coming to with my problems.

  I sighed.

  If I had to leave St. Mary’s, would I like my new teachers? Would I ever find another Mr. Walters?

  I walked past the popcorn machine, bean bags, and scattered bookbags to the back of the classroom where a group of students were rehearsing while standing on top of desks. The director, Madeline Brawny, sat below them in a plastic blue chair.

  She clapped loudly, shaking her head so vigorously I was surprised it didn’t fly off.

  “No. No. No. It’s all wrong!”

  She stood up, pointing long fingers at the two students on the makeshift stage: Sophia Johnson, our recent recruit from swim club, and the bane of my existence-slash-ex-boyfriend, Homer Gibson. Sophia was playing the part of Penelope, while Homer played the part of Eurymachus, also known as Mike in our contemporary retelling.

  “Mike is charismatic, not a circus clown!” Madeline screamed. For some reason, she was talking in a French accent today. Odd, since Madeline wasn’t French.

  Homer ground his teeth.

  “It’s my interpretation of the character,” he growled.

  “Yes, well, you are interpreting him like a circus clown. Mike is smooth and pompous, with a layer of deceit.”

  “I know that.”

  Madeline snorted. “Well, from your performance, I couldn’t tell.”

  Homer glared at Madeline while Sophia put her hand over her mouth to keep in her laughter.

  I didn’t bother with such courtesies. I laughed long and hard and entirely too much for one of Madeline’s quips. I probably looked insane, but I didn’t care. I wanted to embarrass Homer. I wanted him to feel like a fool, just like I’d felt when he dumped me for that plastic, blonde cheerleader.

  Yes, that was months ago.

  Yes, I was still bitter about it, and I wasn’t opposed to publicly shaming him whenever I got the chance.

  I was petty like that.

  Madeline turned to look at me, and I instantly quieted myself.

  “Sorry.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. Madeline Brawny was the sort of person who took herself way too seriously. She wore a French beret and a long, itchy-looking, navy blue scarf. She looked more like a caricature of a film director than an actual director. Her father, Jack Brawny, was an actual director, and a good one, too. His movies had substance and texture and meaty stories—none of that fluffy stuff that overran movie theaters lately. Madeline may have tried, but she was far from the master her father was.

  “Megera, dear, though I appreciate your…uh…verbal support, perhaps your talents would best be used to scout out locations for Odysseus’ home and the Greek terrain. Why don’t you take your little camera and run along.”

  I gave her a tight smile.

  She returned the ges
ture and turned back to her actors.

  Yup, Madeline was going overboard—again. Meanwhile, Sophia was still muffling her laughter behind her hand, and Homer was too busy glaring at Madeline to pay attention to me.

  I walked to the side of the classroom, past where Jonathan Freeman, our resident Odysseus, was practicing his lines, and stopped next to the few people I actually got along with…and by got along with, I meant I wasn’t openly hostile to them.

  Sarah Whittier and Caleb Connors ran the lighting crew, and Poppy Pritchett was my assistant cinematographer. They all sat in bean bags with their laptops on their laps, posting reviews on HSFilmClubs.Org, the organization that sponsored our club.

  In exchange for HSFilmClubs’ financial support, we had to post reviews of their family-friendly independent films. Ninety-nine percent of these movies were total snooze-fests, but every now and then, one was actually pretty good.

  “Hey guys,” I said with a wave. I dropped down into a bean bag and fiddled with my camera settings.

  “I’m watching a movie about a woman who thinks God lives in her cereal bowl,” Poppy said, pulling her chocolate brown hair into a messy bun atop her head. “Every morning she wakes up, pours herself alphabet cereal, and tries to figure out what God’s saying to her. It’s demented and weird and oddly fascinating.” The bun didn’t hold, and the dark strands fell like rain over her shoulders again.

  Caleb gave her a half-smile.

  “I’ll bet he says oh and ah a lot.” Caleb was the type of kid who wore turtlenecks and Hawaiian shirts at all times of the year. Needless to say, he was frequently prey for bullies.

  “Shouldn’t God live in kale and egg white omelets?” Sarah asked. “Cereal is so high carb.” She chuckled at her joke. No one else did.

  Embarrassment for her warmed my cheeks.

  “We’ve told you a million times, Sarah,” Poppy said. “Your. Jokes. Aren’t. Funny.”

  Sarah pouted. “Well, that’s harsh. I’ve been planning that joke for like a week. It was the perfect opportunity to use it and—”

  “Please clear all jokes with us in writing first,” Caleb said, not looking up from his screen.

  I waved them away, smiled at Sarah, and gave her the laugh she was craving.

  “It was a very funny joke,” I said, placing a hand on her knee.

  Sarah wasn’t funny. In fact, she was the unfunniest person I’d ever met, but she tried to be funny, and I was behind anyone who knew they were terrible at something and tried to improve themselves.

  Sarah smiled at me gratefully. “Do you mean it?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Of course I do.” It was a lie, but the way Sarah beamed at me made it all worth it. She may not have been funny, but she was easy to talk to, patient, and kind. I’d actually thought about calling her a few times, just to talk. I’ve missed her lately. We’d been close freshman through junior year, but ever since Mom was diagnosed with cancer, we’d fallen out of touch.

  Poppy spoke up again. “The lady just asked God if she’d have a happy life, and the cereal just spelled out ‘perception’.”

  “I call bullcrap on that,” I said. “What if she’s reading the letters wrong? Like she thought it said perception, but it really says reception and the P is all wonky—like God’s saying, Don’t go into areas with bad reception.”

  Poppy and Conner both looked at me with questions in their eyes.

  “So, God doesn’t want her to connect to bad Wifi networks?” Poppy asked. Her chocolate hair had fallen in her face, and she pushed it back over her shoulder.

  I was being facetious. They didn’t get it.

  My cheeks heated again.

  Sarah was bad at jokes, and apparently, so was I.

  “It was a joke,” I said.

  Conner and Poppy shared a look then returned their eyes to the screens. The two of them were best friends, along with another girl named Christina who was apparently too cool for film club.

  Imagine that—three best friends.

  I didn’t even have one.

  Sarah gave me a half-smile.

  “I got your joke,” she said. “It was funny.”

  She was lying, of course. I knew this because I’d just lied to her in the same way.

  I gave her back the same pitiful yet grateful smile she’d given me. It’s amazing how shared trauma can bring people together. Both Sarah and I had just been mortally embarrassed, and now I felt closer to her than ever. I resolved to call her as soon as I could. After all, us weirdos had to stick together, especially against tough crowds like Caleb and Poppy.

  I sat back in my bean bag—or rather leaned back awkwardly—and allowed the sights and sounds of my favorite place in the world to wash over me.

  Sophia delivering her lines in perfect rhythm while Homer botched his.

  Madeline yelling at someone for missing their cue.

  The clicks of fingers typing on keyboards.

  The smell of costumes.

  The sound of music samples being played for Mr. Walters.

  This club felt like home to me. We were all different—some of us more than others—but we shared a common bond. No matter if we were directors, or actors, or composers, or cinematographers, we all came together to create something mind-blowing.

  Art.

  It wasn’t perfect, but that was the beauty of it.

  I loved this club. It was my life.

  Clay’s offer floated back into my mind.

  Would I do anything to stay?

  Even tell a lie?

  2

  With a deep breath, I turned the key in my front door, closed my eyes, and exhaled.

  Clay’s asinine offer came to mind yet again, and I deliberately drowned it out. I was done thinking about it.

  One hundred percent, completely done.

  My feet dragged forward, while I listened to…nothing.

  The house was void of any noise.

  No television. No machines. Just dead silence.

  My heart beat like a swimmer during a meet.

  Is Mom okay? Please God, let her be okay because I can’t handle one more thing.

  Not bothering to be quiet, I dropped my bag by the front door and hauled myself up the worn stairs to search for my parents. Reaching their bedroom, a quick glance confirmed it was empty. The pillows on their bed were all neatly lined up in order according to size and color. Dad learned the proper way to make it after Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer the year before and became too weak to do it herself.

  Where was everyone?

  I ignored the smell of sickness, a strange mix of rotting apples and powdered chemicals, and hurried back down the stairs. No matter how much we cleaned, everything still smelled like medicine. Maybe if we nuked the room, the odor would disappear.

  I ran to the kitchen, searching for evidence of my parents’ whereabouts.

  They would have called me if something terrible had happened, right?

  Where was my phone?

  Where is—

  My eyes fell on the calendar on the refrigerator. Today’s date was circled in red along with the words Onc. dr. at three.

  A long sigh escaped my body.

  Another chemotherapy appointment.

  Mom was fine—well, as fine as she could be anyway.

  The pile of letters my dad had left on the table called my name. I plopped down in the hard-backed chair and in three minutes, I’d managed to sort the mail into three piles: new bill collectors, repeat bill collectors, and junk mail. Not a single card or letter graced any of the exponentially growing piles. So much for our rich friends and family. We hadn’t heard from any of them since the diagnosis.

  Jerks.

  The phone’s red light flashed, and I hit the programmed number to retrieve the voicemails.

  “Mr. Kotopuli.” My eyes widened to the point that they might pop out. Mr. Mann’s deep voice continued, “We’re extending you this courtesy call to advise you that your daughter’s tuition is way p
ast due. Unfortunately, your request for extending the monthly plan was denied. Based on your family’s long history with the school, I’ve decided to give you until the 25th of October to send in the funds.”

  My hands shook. Yikes, that’s not a lot of time. Maybe I should text dad.

  I put on a pot of water to boil and when the steam hit the top of the large hood, I headed to the fridge to pull out a chilled glass bowl filled with chicken pieces. After half-listening to the fourth bill collector’s threatening message, I erased them all.

  No need to hear the rest of their message repeating the same phrase in one form or another over and over again.

  “Please call us back about your account, Mrs. Kotopuli…”

  “It’s important that we reach you, Mrs. Kotopuli…”

  “This is your final notice, Mrs. Kotopuli.”

  They were all sharks, circling a single drop of my mother’s blood, but they wouldn’t get us. Dad would make sure of that. He always did.

  Mindlessly, I found the ingredients for dinner and leaned my hip against the stove, waiting for the water to boil. Cilantro, dill, pepper, salt, turmeric, and the rest of the herbs for my awesome chicken soup circled each other in the water while nagging thoughts circled around and around in my head.

  Why isn’t Dad paying our bills? Mom’s bills? The utilities? My tuition?

  No one needed to shout the answer. Rumors did that just fine.

  Rumors I couldn’t believe—wouldn’t believe. Not about my dad, the man who taught me right from wrong. They couldn’t be true. He loved us too much to jeopardize our future.

  My father, Marco Kotopuli, built Zeus Construction to be the most prestigious construction company in the entire country. He was known for using the best materials and having the most skilled workers, and everyone knew his workmanship beat the competition in both price and quality. Major businesses used to clamor for him to bid on contracts, and then, one day, it all stopped.

  That’s when the stupid rumors began.

  First online, then in newspapers and on television, until finally they reached St. Mary Academy’s exclusive doorsteps.

  I dumped the chicken into the boiling water and placed the lid on the pot. With the timer set, I headed back to the table and rested my head on my forearms.