But before I could escape, he slung his arm around my shoulder—he had to reach a little to do so—and started walking me back in the direction I’d just come from.
“I want to show you something,” he said.
“I don’t really have a lot of time.” It was a lie, of course. I had nothing but time now.
I’d never imagined what the internship would be like if I wasn’t directing my own short. Not really. All my plans were based on the assumption that I’d get the chance to direct. That Bryan would choose me.
Where did I even go from here?
I thought I liked Nick—he was usually nice and sort of funny—but he was also sort of annoying. Like now, when he completely ignored what I said and kept walking us to the other end of the story department. I wanted to be supportive, but he was making it really hard.
“Check it out,” he said, and led me into one of the conference rooms.
Up on the wall was a big poster that said Jack and the Beanstalk. Taped beneath it were sketches and vis-dev art.
“This is going to be our mission control,” Nick said.
I stepped away from him to take a closer look at the art—to really examine the pitch that had beat out mine for this coveted position.
It was… fine.
Nick was a good artist, there was no denying that, but I struggled to see what was so special about the story he was telling. It was a reimagining of Jack and the Beanstalk, with the biggest change being that he’d made it contemporary. According to the sketches, Jack lived in a skyscraper, nicknamed the Stalk. The giant was a Wall Street tycoon named Mr. Bigsworth.
I cringed at the name. The project looked boring and predictable, but I also knew that I wasn’t looking at it with clear eyes. I wanted to get out of there. To go back to Sloane’s office. Or maybe even back to the dorms. For the first time in my life, I wanted to be anywhere but BB Gun Films.
“What do you think?” Nick asked.
Bryan hates fairy tales, I thought. My pitch was better.
“It looks good,” I said, swallowing back my bitterness.
“Yeah, I think so too,” Nick said. “But I’m really looking forward to hearing your thoughts. You’re the only other person here who really gets the BB Gun philosophy.”
I realized what he had said when I first walked in. This is going to be our mission control. “My thoughts?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he looked at me, confused. “Didn’t you see? You’re on my team. You’re going to be working for me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We’d all gotten emails that morning—they’d arrived when I was in the kitchen with Sloane—that had included who had been chosen as department heads and who was assigned to each short film.
Not only did I have to work on Nick’s project, but I wasn’t even the head of story. That had gone to his roommate, Karl. I looked at the rest of the projects and saw that none of the girls had been given a department head position on any of the teams. Were none of us good enough?
I thought of asking Sloane about it, but in the end, I didn’t see the point. There were only six girls in the program, after all. I didn’t know anything about statistics but that probably had something to do with it. Strength in numbers and all that. Besides, it’s not like there was anything that could be done.
If I hadn’t been such a jerk last night, I probably could have commiserated with the others, but when I waved to Caitlin at lunch, she ignored me. The rest of the girls didn’t even look up. If Sloane noticed, she didn’t say anything.
Bear was sitting with Josh at the other end of the cafeteria. I made sure to sit with my back to him.
“You know,” Sloane said, “I’ve been assigned to projects I wasn’t excited about. We all have to pay our dues when we’re starting out.”
I moved my salad around on my plate. I’d tried to follow her lead, but while Sloane’s meal looked delicious and fancy, mine just looked kind of sad, the whole thing drowning in dressing.
Sloane tried again. “Monica always used to remind me that when Disney was developing The Lion King, no one wanted to work on it.”
“Really?”
“Everyone thought that Pocahontas—which was in production around the same time—was going to be the big hit.” She shrugged. “So, you never know.”
I was pretty sure that Nick’s short film wasn’t going to be the next Lion King, but she was right. All I’d really seen was Nick’s artwork—I hadn’t even heard his pitch. Maybe there was something there that had really knocked Bryan’s socks off. And Nick’s art was good. It had a bold, graphic style that reminded me of Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse.
“Animation is all about collaboration,” Sloane said. “Sometimes, the best thing you can do when you’re starting out is to show how good of a team player you can be.”
I knew that she was right. I just wished knowing that would make me feel better.
“People don’t talk about it, but there’s a skill in being able to put aside your own personal tastes and preferences—helping someone else make their project the best version of itself.” Sloane reached out and patted my hand. “I have faith in you. Animation isn’t a sprint—it’s a marathon. And this is just your first race,” she said. “Don’t be discouraged.”
Easier said than done, but I wanted to make Sloane proud, so I promised myself I’d try.
When we got up, I noticed that Bear was now sitting alone at the other side of the cafeteria, his head bent over his sketchbook. Even though I was still beyond frustrated and annoyed that nepotism had gotten him the role that I wanted, I couldn’t help noticing that the other interns were avoiding him just like Caitlin and the girls were ignoring me.
I didn’t want to feel sympathetic toward him, but at the moment, I couldn’t help it.
Ron came out of the kitchen with a plate of fresh corn bread, dropping one on Bear’s plate as he passed, like a well-rehearsed routine between the two of them. On his way back, he pulled out a chair and sat.
I was too far away to hear what they were saying, but Bear took a bite of corn bread and slid his sketchbook over to Ron, who threw back his head with a laugh at what he saw. Before getting up, he gave Bear a friendly pat on the shoulder. It wasn’t until Bear looked up at me that I realized I had been staring. Just standing in the middle of cafeteria, tray in hand, staring at him.
He chewed his corn bread and stared back.
“Ready?” Sloane asked.
“Yeah,” I said, even though I didn’t feel ready at all.
After leaving Sloane, I headed to the conference room—“mission control,” as Nick had dubbed it—for our very first production meeting. My lunch hadn’t quite removed the sting of the past several hours, of not just getting denied the chance to direct a short, but also losing out on being head of story, but I was determined to be positive. Last night had made it abundantly clear what happened if I let my ego get the best of me.
Nick was already standing at the front of the room when I entered with the other interns on his team. “Welcome!” He spread his hands wide. “Are you ready to make a movie?”
I couldn’t deny that his excitement was infectious. And this was what I had come to BB Gun Films to do—make movies. Make art.
I loved animation. I could make this work. I had to make it work.
Already I was recalibrating my plans. I’d just have to make sure to prove myself during the internship. Find a way to get Bryan’s attention, to show him that I belonged at the studio. Maybe I wouldn’t get to direct a feature before I was thirty, but I could be okay with that. I just had to convince my parents to let me forgo college. I really couldn’t waste those four years now.
Nick had us all go around and introduce ourselves. We had also been assigned two PAs.
“I’m Zoe,” the first one said. “I’m going to be your story and vis-dev PA during this process. I’ve been here about four years, so don’t hesitate to ask me any questions about how things work on the production side of things.�
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Our animation PA was a guy named Cole. “I’m Cole,” he said.
“The Robot!” Nick said with a big grin on his face.
Cole, or “the Robot,” nodded. “I’ve been here three years,” he said.
And that was it. It was clear to see why he’d been given that nickname. He spoke in a monotone and didn’t seem particularly friendly. There were twelve of us, but Zoe and I were the only women on Nick’s team. She caught my eye and gave me a friendly wink. Once introductions were done, Nick stood, rubbing his hands together. Abruptly, he slammed them on the table. We all jumped.
“All right,” he said. “I think the best way to get started is for all of us to get on the same page.” He gestured toward Zoe. “Can you set up the art?” he asked.
She gave him a little frown, but did as he requested, putting a stack of eight and a half by eleven foam boards onto an easel behind him.
“I thought I’d show you my pitch,” Nick said. “That way you can get an idea of what we’ll be working with—and you can see exactly what Bryan saw in me.”
Everyone laughed, but I didn’t. I was too jealous to even move. I tried to remember what Dad had told me. You don’t want to sound like a spoiled brat.
Or like a bitch, as Caitlin had put it.
I didn’t want to be that way. I wanted Nick’s project to be the best it could be. I wanted him to succeed. He was my friend, after all. He’d worked just as hard as I had to get this opportunity. It wasn’t his fault that Bryan hadn’t chosen me.
“You all know the story of Jack and the Beanstalk,” Nick said. “Now imagine what would happen if Jack was a regular guy—just like you and me—and the beanstalk was a skyscraper. The tallest skyscraper in the world.”
As I listened, a kind of numbness spread through me. I had hoped that the pitch would be incredible—that I would be surprised, that I would understand why Bryan had chosen Nick over me. Because I was pretty sure I would be able to accept it—to accept all of this—if Nick’s idea was truly better than mine. But it wasn’t.
It was exactly what it had seemed like when he showed it to me that morning. It was fine. It was serviceable. But it wasn’t good. It wasn’t special. It was boring.
I sat there, listening to my fellow interns laugh and clap, and doubt began to creep in. What if I didn’t actually know what was good? What if what I thought was a brilliant idea was actually the opposite—and vice versa? Because I didn’t understand why Bryan would have chosen Nick when he could have chosen me, unless what he was looking for was completely different from what I had to offer.
“People say that art is subjective,” Bryan had said in his CalTED Talk. “But I think that’s bull. That’s what people say when they want to be nice. It’s the equivalent of a participation trophy, and if we’re being completely honest, it’s unkind. There’s good art and there’s bad art. We all know it. People creating bad art know it, and it does them—and all of us—a disservice to pretend that what they’re creating is of actual value.”
Maybe I didn’t know the difference. Maybe I didn’t know anything after all.
* * *
I had promised myself—and Sloane—that I would try. I sat and I listened. Not that Nick allowed us to do anything else. He talked for nearly the entire afternoon and by the time we all had to leave to catch the shuttle, I was drained.
I felt like a bad friend—bitter and angry. And I had to find a way to shake it off.
I ate dinner quickly, alone, and went back to the dorms, alone. I sat at my desk, my sketchbook in front of me, and willed myself to create something. Drawing had always made me feel better. But when I tried to put my pencil to paper, my body rebelled, forcing me up, away from my desk, and out of the room. Out of the dorms.
It wasn’t cold but I wrapped my arms around myself as I walked the campus.
I had my car keys in my pocket and thought about going for a drive. Just getting away from everything—clearing my head. I’d never been the type to drive with the windows open, sailing down the freeway, but tonight it was tempting.
“Saffitz.”
I turned and saw Bear walking toward me.
For a moment, I thought about taking off—bolting like Wile E. Coyote and leaving behind nothing but a cloud of dust in the shape of my body—but running would have been ridiculous. Instead I didn’t move, just waited until Bear had crossed the large expanse of the quad, not bothering to meet him in the middle.
“Hey,” he said when he reached me.
His hands were in his pockets, and his gaze was focused down at his shoes. He scuffed them against the walkway. They were expensive. He hadn’t had to sacrifice anything to do this internship. He just got whatever he wanted. Whatever I wanted.
“Yeah?” I asked when he didn’t say anything.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay,” he said. “You know, with what happened.” He waved a hand—the gesture encompassing everything and nothing.
“Just dandy,” I said.
He looked at me. I looked back.
Why had he come over? What did he want? He didn’t seem cocky or indifferent. If I didn’t know better, I would say that he was concerned. Like he cared that I might be upset.
It was the last thing I wanted. Because I wasn’t going to cry. Not in front of him.
“Great,” he said. “Good.”
Suddenly I wanted to kick him in the shins. Wanted to scream. Wanted to scare the shit out of him. Wanted to punish him. Bear and his dad and Nick and everyone else who had gotten the opportunity that I wanted so desperately.
But no doubt hitting the only son of the studio head would get me booted out of the program. Probably banned from BB Gun Films for life. It might also officially end my career in animation before it even began. For one horrible moment, I thought that I might not even care.
“I’m going to go,” I said.
“Yeah,” Bear said. “I just—”
I waited.
“Never mind,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, and walked away.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Even though the short films were our main focus now, I was still starting my mornings with Sloane. I was eager to soak up as much influence as I could, when I could. She was also the only constant female presence in my life at the moment. Texting with Julie and Samantha was sporadic. I’d told them I hadn’t gotten the director position—and they had been sympathetic—but I’d left out the part where I’d effectively alienated myself from the rest of the girls in the internship. Mom texted and called—checking in—but I avoided any details, just telling her that everything was “fine.” She didn’t mention the conversation I’d had with Dad, but I was pretty sure he’d filled her in on what I’d told him.
That morning Caitlin had shown up to the shuttle with her head completely shaved. It looked amazing. I’d heard giggling and laughing coming from the bathroom the night before but the last time I’d tried to join their gathering, it had just been awkward and stilted. Not exactly a cold shoulder, more like a chilled cheek, but still, it was clear I hadn’t been forgiven.
I didn’t blame them. I hadn’t really forgiven myself, either.
Being able to follow Sloane around was a welcome distraction. The project she was working on—No One Fears the Woods—was slated to be released in two years. Parts of the story were assigned to different artists, who storyboarded them—illustrating setting, rough animation, and character interactions. Once they were approved by Josh, they were sent down to editorial, where they were assembled. The editor would add dialogue—usually using scratch vocals.
I got to see that part of the process firsthand when the editor called Sloane and asked her to come provide a temporary voice for a few lines that had been recently added to the script.
“I’ve done it quite a few times,” she said as we took the elevator down to the basement where the editorial team was. “Any time they need a female voice to pick up a couple of lines, and it’s between the scheduled recordi
ng sessions with the actors, they usually call me.” The elevator door slid open. “I like to think it’s because I’m good at it, but I also know that it’s just because there aren’t enough women in the building.”
It wasn’t the first time that Sloane had referenced the lack of female artists. I saw it too. It seemed like the ratio was pretty similar to the one in the internship.
There were several offices off of a larger common area that had one desk and a familiar face. Zoe, one of the PAs assisting us with Nick’s short film, stood up when we arrived. Her vintage style reminded me of Rachel’s, with her horn-rimmed glasses and green-checked dress. Even though most of the artists were men, I had noticed that most of the production staff, especially the PAs, were women.
Zoe’s desk was clean, but her wall was just as chaotic as Sloane’s and she had pinned pictures of herself and a tall, white, dark-haired guy on the wall alongside vis-dev art for No One Fears the Woods. Most notably there was a picture of one of the characters—a lumberjack—who had been drawn wearing a very, very tight flannel shirt.
“Sloane did that,” Zoe said, noticing where my attention had gone. “Pretty good, huh?”
I blushed. It was good, but I felt weird getting caught staring at it.
“You should see the stuff the guys have in their cubicles,” Zoe said, reading my mind. “Makes this look beyond tame.”
“What am I recording today?” Sloane asked.
She and Zoe exchanged a look, and Sloane rolled her eyes.
“Of course.”
Zoe handed her some pages. “They’re waiting for you.”
We walked into the dark room. There was a tall white guy behind a desk, raised high enough that he could stand while working. He was wearing a colorful button-down shirt and square glasses. His face was blue from the glow of the screen. Along the wall was a wide couch and there were three figures sitting there—but my eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the dark so I couldn’t tell who they were.
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