“Ta-da,” he said.
Clenching my jaw, I put my signature on the bottom of the paper and passed it to the front, where it was added to the pile.
Gena smiled. “Now I can officially welcome you to the BB Gun family.”
“Wait a minute, Gena,” a voice behind us said. “I’m pretty sure that’s my line.”
We all turned to the other side of the room, to find a door—where a door hadn’t been before—opening out of the center of the wall. A man stood there, not eight feet tall like I had imagined, but very, very tall. He was wearing black pants, a white shirt, and a black tie. His shoes were neon-green sneakers.
“Welcome,” Bryan Beckett said. “We’re excited to see what you can do.”
CHAPTER FIVE
It was a little like seeing a movie star in real life. Someone I recognized—someone I felt like I knew—but didn’t really know at all. He looked exactly how he had in the video from yesterday, except close up I was able to see that his dark hair had quite a lot of gray in it. There were lines fanning out from the corner of his eyes but I could easily imagine Mom describing him as “a total hunk,” as she embarrassingly did when referring to celebrities she thought were cute. He looked like Bear and not like Bear. Same jawline, different eyes. Different smile, too.
Like a school of fish, we followed him through the hallways of BB Gun Films. It was hard to know what to concentrate on—a tour of a previously unseen animation studio that had shaped most of our childhoods, or the man who had inspired those stories.
I’d decided to focus on Bryan himself, nearly elbowing my way to the front of group. At some point, I’d left Sally and the other girls behind.
“I founded BB Gun Films because I wanted to tell the type of stories I wasn’t seeing out in the world,” Bryan was saying. His back was to us, his strides long and quick as he moved through hallways he could clearly navigate in his sleep.
“Most people think that animated movies are for children, and most people think that children are stupid.” He turned to face us. “But you’re not stupid, are you?”
“We’re also not children,” Bear said.
His father ignored him. In fact, the two of them had barely acknowledged each other. I didn’t want to care, but I was confused. If Bear disliked his father—referring to him as “the devil” seemed to indicate as much—why was he doing this internship? When Nick had accused him of getting the whole thing essentially handed to him, Bear had only confirmed everyone’s suspicions.
Bryan was still talking. I pushed thoughts of Bear out of my head and listened, trying to absorb as much of his wisdom as possible. If I were to animate myself, I’d be a giant sponge, squishing behind Bryan, soaking up his droplets of words as we walked.
“I wanted to create movies that appeal to a child’s innate creativity, but also entertain the parents who would have to go watch it with them. I wanted to remind them of their own curiosity,” Bryan said. “Sadly, we seem to grow out of it the older we get. You all don’t realize how lucky you are to be able to hold on to some of that wonder.”
The hallway ahead seemed to clear magically. When employees saw us coming, they quickly ducked into offices or cubicles. Bryan didn’t seem to notice, his pace never faltering.
“I grew up watching princess movies where furry little animals broke out into song and villains were identifiable the moment they appeared onscreen, twirling a mustache or wearing a black cape,” he said.
Nick had also pushed his way to the front of the group and was standing next to me, his head bobbing in agreement. We were two sponges, taking it all in.
“I wanted to create movies with nuance. With depth,” Bryan said. “I wanted the heroes to be villainous and the villains to be redeemable. No more fairy tales. No more musicals.”
I knew the kind of movies he was talking about. I liked those movies. At least, I thought I did. Maybe I needed to rewatch them—maybe I needed to look through Bryan Beckett’s eyes. I needed to see what was wrong with them. How I could do better.
“I built my career on creating complicated stories—crafting vibrant worlds and sympathetic but complex characters. With each film, I want to push the limits of filmmaking—of storytelling. Every new project is a chance to improve. To astonish.”
Bryan halted so abruptly that we all had to stop as well. My feet got bunched up beneath me, and I began falling forward. I put my palms out, prepared to hit the floor, but before I could, a hand on my arm yanked me upright.
“Careful,” Bear said. His voice was in my ear. His tone wasn’t cocky or arrogant, and he let go of me almost as quickly as he had grabbed me. He ducked his head and I did the same. A Thanks for saving my ass nod. Then, I stepped away from him. Refocused.
“Do you know how lucky you are?” Bryan asked. “You have the most powerful weapons in your arsenal right now—curiosity and determination. You can do anything—anything!”
I felt like a soldier, preparing to go into battle, with Bryan as our commander.
“There are no limits to your imagination,” he said. “Challenge yourself. Surprise yourself. Each one of you is capable of extraordinary things.” He was looking out at all of us, but I knew he was speaking to me.
“This is where I leave you,” he said, and gestured toward the back of the group. “Gena.”
The internship coordinator wove her way through the pack. “Thank you, Bryan.”
“Looking forward to seeing your pitches,” he said. “Impress me.”
And then he was gone, long strides taking him down a hallway and out of sight. I stared at the place he had just vacated. That was it? I wanted more. More time, more guidance, more advice.
“Inspiring, isn’t he?” Bear asked.
I glared at him. Even though it had been brief, it had been inspiring. And now I just wanted to impress him even more.
“Your father is a very busy man,” Gena said.
Bryan was running an entire studio. We were lucky to have any time with him at all.
“We’ll be returning to the conference room for orientation, which will last for the rest of the morning,” Gena said.
There was an audible ripple of disappointment.
“It’s standard for all new employees,” Gena said.
We puffed up a little at that—it was such a thrill to be referred to as “employees.”
“Your mentors will come take you to lunch and then you’ll be shadowing them for the rest of the day.”
With a wave of her hand, we were off, following her down the enormous staircase at what seemed to be the center of the building. I wanted to memorize this place—wanted to know everything about it.
“In addition to working with your mentors and on your short films, you’ll also get the chance to learn how our pipeline works,” Gena said. “Starting next week, you’ll be having Wednesday lunches with different department heads, and we’ve divided you into five smaller groups so you’ll get more one-on-one time.”
We made it back to the enormous conference room where shiny plastic folders were now laid out in front of each seat. Inside were several informational packets, a phone registry, and thankfully, a map of the studio. I studied it, discovering that in addition to the theater and the main building, there was a large cafeteria on the other side of the campus and several smaller bungalows in between.
“If you look inside your packet, you’ll find a piece of colored paper with a number on it—that’s your group for the lunchtime lecture series. There’s also a schedule included.”
I found a green piece of paper with a number one. Sally, sitting next to me, pulled out a blue square with a two. Looking down the long table, I saw that Caitlin also had a blue piece of paper. She saluted Sally. None of the other girls were in my group.
Bear didn’t bother opening his folder.
“Lots of rules,” Sally said. “Guidelines for everything, it seems. Look at this, it says that clothing isn’t optional. I wonder why they had to put that in the manual. Do you
think it was a problem before?”
She was flipping through one of the thick, stapled guides labeled EMPLOYEE CONDUCT. I was focused on the double-sided sheet of paper that outlined the pitch process.
“Interns will be expected to present a five-minute pitch, which includes artwork and a proposed story synopsis, twice. First to the BB Gun Films brain trust and secondly to Bryan Beckett himself. The brain trust will offer feedback, but the final decision will be Bryan’s alone.”
We were going to be pitching directly to Bryan? And he’d be the one choosing the directors? My hands went numb, but my heart sped up. I was overwhelmed with a desire to run back to the dorms to perfect my pitch. I’d suspected that Bryan would be involved in determining who would be leading the short films, but to see his exact role spelled out so clearly had me feeling both terrified and exhilarated. No matter what, I was guaranteed one-on-one time with Bryan. I was going to be able to present my idea directly to him.
Getting the internship wasn’t enough. Getting the chance to direct a short would prove to my parents that I could do this. It would show them—and Bryan—exactly what I was capble of. That I belonged here.
Confidence surged through me. My idea was good, I knew it was. It was well-thought-out and beautifully designed and absolutely perfect for BB Gun Films. It just needed a few tweaks so it could be perfectly tailored for its now-intended audience.
I was going to knock Bryan Beckett’s socks off.
* * *
Sloane was waiting for me outside the conference room when it was time to break for lunch. She was wearing the same black-and-gold glasses from last night, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Her dress was a green graphic print that buttoned down the front, with big pockets on either side. I tucked my orientation folder into my bag, next to my sketchbook, and followed her down the hall. We walked by the mural, and I slowed to take it all in.
It was beautiful—a dreamy, colorful interpretation of all the notable BB Gun characters—each of them in action poses. All of the movies had had their own distinct style, but the artist of the mural had found a way to fit them all into the same universe, tweaking and adjusting each to fit more neatly with the other.
“This is so cool,” I said to Sloane.
“Thanks,” she said. “I drew it.”
I turned toward her, my eyes wide, mouth hanging open. She laughed.
“You drew this?”
She nodded.
“How long did it take?” I wanted to reach out and touch it, but stuck my hands in my pockets to keep from doing exactly that.
“The initial design took a month or so,” she said. “Approval took another month. I think I got the actual painting done in two weeks.”
“It’s… wow.” We continued walking, but I kept twisting my head to look at the mural.
“Why is it down here?” I asked as we turned the corner. “Shouldn’t it be where more people can see it? Like in the theater?”
The lobby of the theater had been decorated as well, but the mural wasn’t nearly as good. That one had been done by Josh—I knew because there was a plaque next to it.
Sloane shrugged. “You’d have to ask Bryan.”
She pushed open a door, and suddenly we were outside. I squinted. Even though I’d grown up in Southern California, the heat could still surprise me. It was a bright, cloudless day and I peeled off my cardigan, already too hot. Luckily, we didn’t have to walk far before we were shielded by a canopy of leaves.
Unlike the front of the building, which was colorful and bright but consisted mostly of the theater and a parking lot, the rest of the campus was lush and beautiful—almost like a botanical garden. There were trees everywhere, flowering bushes, and vines climbing up the sides of the building. Everything that wasn’t green was painted in soft, warm beige tones and there was even a small stream running between us and the cafeteria, complete with a wooden bridge to cross. I knew there was a freeway nearby, but I couldn’t hear it. All I heard was the gargling of the water and the chattering of birds.
“Wow,” I said.
Sloane—who hadn’t stopped—glanced back and grinned. “There are even some ducks that hang out by the stream,” she said. “We get ducklings in the spring.”
“Really?”
“Yeah—that’s the reason there’s always a duck in our movies.”
I felt like my brain was going to explode with all this new, unexpected information. Because there was always a duck in BB Gun films. Plenty of people had noticed—there was even a Twitter account that tracked all the appearances of said ducks—but I had never imagined that this was the reason.
“The story department likes to come out here and sketch them,” Sloane said as we walked over the bridge. “It can be a nice break if we’re in crunch mode.”
I kept an eye out for the ducks but didn’t spot one. It would have to happen before the end of my internship, though. I’d make sure of it.
The cafeteria looked a lot like the CalAn dining hall (or the “Wingy-Dingy,” as Josh had called it), only bigger and with twice as many options. There were signs at the end of every buffet, with vegetarian, gluten-free, and other dietary options clearly labeled, plus a massive salad bar.
“What looks good?” Sloane asked.
“What do you usually get?”
“Depends on my mood,” she said, and grabbed a tray. I did the same. “Sometimes I go for the healthy option, but since I had a salad last night, I think I’ll load up on carbs,” she said, leading me to one of the stands where a Black man was standing behind multiple pots of pasta.
Dreadlocks peeped out from under his chef’s hat. Just like the intern class, there were only a handful of mentors that weren’t white, and I hadn’t seen much more diversity on our brief tour of the studio.
“Hey, Ron.”
“Sloane! What can I get you today?”
“Penne with pesto and chicken, please,” she turned to me. “What about you?”
“I’ll have the same.” I was overwhelmed with options. “Please.”
“Is this your mentee?” Ron asked.
“Hayley Saffitz, meet Ron Austell.”
I waved.
“How do you like the place so far?” Ron asked as he threw a cup of pasta into a hot pan before adding some fragrant green sauce and sliced chicken.
“It’s amazing.”
“She’s a fan,” Sloane said.
“Aren’t we all?” Ron asked. Something in their tone made it seem like they were having two conversations at once. Ron plated our pasta and passed it over. “Nice to meet you, Hayley,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
Following Sloane’s lead, I took my tray and added a piece of bread. We went to get beverages next—a row of machines that had everything from soda to iced tea to coffee. I thought about getting a root beer but saw that Sloane was drinking iced tea, so I got that instead. I glanced around for registers but didn’t see them.
“It’s all free.” Sloane led us outside. “One of the perks of working here.”
“Wow.” I was saying that a lot today.
There was a small table overlooking the stream, and I took the chair closest to the water, hoping that one of the ducks would swim by while we were eating. Even though I knew they would probably look like ordinary ducks, I couldn’t help imagining them as bigger, brighter, fluffier than the average duck. As if just being around all this magic and creativity would make them visibly different.
I felt a little different being here.
“What do you think of the studio so far?” Sloane tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the excess sauce on her plate.
I’d just taken a bite of the very, very good pasta, so I had to nod and chew. “It’s really cool,” I said once I had swallowed. The food was good, too. “Bryan gave us a tour this morning.”
Sloane lifted an eyebrow, and for a moment I wondered if I should be referring to him as Mr. Beckett. Then she smiled and I relaxed.
; “How was it?” she asked.
“Interesting.” I took another bite of pasta. “I mean, the tour itself was confusing, but he told us all about his reasons for starting the studio, which was really awesome.”
Sloane laughed. “Yeah, it’s pretty easy to get lost,” she said. “When I first started, I always seemed to end up in the layout department, no matter which way I turned. My mentor used to joke that I had a crush on someone there.” She made a face. “I didn’t.”
“You had a mentor?” I asked.
Sloane nodded. “Monica,” she said. “They assign mentors to all the new employees—it helps people acclimate quicker. It’s a great model. She retired about a year ago, but she taught me the ropes when I was starting out.” She smiled at me. “Don’t worry, after a week or so, you’ll get the hang of it.”
“I was reading the orientation stuff”—I pulled the folder out of my bag—“and it said that Bryan is going to be determining who will be directing the shorts.”
Sloane scanned the printout. “Seems about right,” she said. “Any ideas for your pitch?”
“I’ve been working on it for weeks.” I put my sketchbook on the table. “It’s ready to go—I just need to make a few adjustments now that I know I’ll be pitching it one-on-one to Bryan.”
“Do you want some help?” she asked.
It was exactly what I had been hoping for. I’d had numerous art teachers over the years, all of whom had been helpful and encouraging, but they hadn’t known anything about working in animation. Sloane’s feedback would be invaluable.
“Would you mind?” I opened my notebook and took out a pen.
Sloane looked down at my supplies. “Ah, the special-edition series,” she said.
I touched a hand to the page, self-conscious all of a sudden. “They’re good notebooks.”
It came out more defensively than I intended.
“Only the best for Bryan,” Sloane said. “Let’s take a look at some of your ideas.”
The brief tension faded as I flipped through the pages, looking for something to show her.
Drawn That Way Page 5
