Isaac waved when I entered the conference room.
“I thought Josh was the head of story,” one of the other interns said under his breath.
The room was quiet, though, and everyone heard him.
“Josh is the executive head of story,” Isaac said. “His attention is focused on No One Fears the Woods. We still have a lot of other projects in development, so I often step in to take on some of his responsibilities.”
We sat, and I could immediately tell that this wasn’t going to be like the other lectures.
“I’m not going to talk to you about story,” Isaac said. “You’re all here because you know something about story. I’m going to talk to you about being an artist. About being a working artist.”
I looked over at Bear. He was watching Isaac but there was something in his expression that told me that he knew something was going on.
“This is a hard life,” Isaac said. “It’s not easy making your living off of something you love. Or something you used to love.”
I was confused. Was Isaac saying he didn’t love animation anymore? That it was something he could live without? That you could choose something different?
I heard people outside the conference room—the increase and decrease of sound as people walked by. The studio was rarely quiet—even at night—but right now, it all seemed kind of hushed.
“Sometimes you end up making sacrifices that you regret,” Isaac said. “We all have to put our own visions—our own ideas—aside once in a while, but if you’re not careful, you’ll become too accustomed to that. You’ll spend years building someone else’s dreams at the expense of your own. And you might forget that this—all this—used to be something you did for fun.”
I didn’t understand what he was trying to say, and it seemed like I wasn’t the only one.
“What was that about?” one of the interns asked as we left the conference room afterward. “All that cryptic shit about sacrifices? What was he trying to say?”
I glanced back at the empty room. Isaac had already left.
“What’s going on?” I asked Bear.
He slowed his step, separating us from the rest of the interns.
“Isaac’s leaving BB Gun Films,” he said. “He quit.”
“What? Why?”
Despite everything, I couldn’t imagine that anyone would willingly stop working here. It wasn’t the perfect environment, but they made amazing films. I still felt it was worth the trade-off.
“He’s been here forever,” I said.
“Yeah,” Bear said. “And my dad was super pissed. I guess there was some yelling and name-calling. My dad said he was being ungrateful.”
It had been hard enough listening to Bryan tell me I had no talent—I don’t know what I would have done if he yelled and called me ungrateful, too.
“Don’t worry about him,” Bear said.
Selfishly, I was worried about myself. The thought that anyone could choose to walk away from BB Gun Films, maybe even from animation completely, was terrifying.
Because animation had never felt like a choice, and I didn’t like thinking that it was. Despite everything, despite my doubts about BB Gun Films and my place at the studio, I’d never really questioned my love of animation. My ultimate goal was still to make and direct my own films. Even if the industry still had one foot in the past, I was determined to make a place for myself. Animation was a part of me. It made me who I was.
I never thought there’d be a point where I’d be able to give it up. And if I did, what would be left? Who would I be without it?
That fear must have shown on my face, because Bear looked at me and stopped.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “Everything is going to be fine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
By the time we reached the end of the week, I didn’t feel fine. I felt tired and overcaffeinated and stressed and very, very annoyed. We were behind on our schedule, because everyone kept missing deadlines.
“I meant to finish the final golem last night,” Sally said as we headed back to the dorms on Friday. “But I just fell asleep.”
“I guess we need to get more coffee,” I said, trying to figure out how I could motivate the others to get their work done.
I didn’t need any motivation, of course. I was planning to work all weekend.
“I’m getting jittery.” Sally held up her hand, which was trembling slightly. “I don’t want to use an X-Acto knife if I can’t hold it still. I’m going to rest and get a fresh start on Sunday.”
I bit my lip, holding in my frustration. All the other girls were taking Saturday off as well. No one had asked—they just told me they were doing it. They even had plans to watch movies together tonight. I was the only one in our group who was getting things done when they were supposed to be done. I was also sleeping the least. It would all be worth it, though, if we pulled it off.
When we pulled it off. There wasn’t any other option.
Sally slept in the next morning. I didn’t. I’d worked until two, but I was still up at seven. And I planned to do the same thing today.
“We’ve been cooped up in here for hours,” Bear said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
I’d moved to his room in order to keep from yelling at Sally, who still hadn’t finished the paper cut of the last golem. We were running out of time, and it seemed like I was the only one who cared.
This was my last chance to impress Bryan—to prove to him that he was wrong about me. To prove to myself that he was wrong.
“I don’t have time to go for a walk,” I said.
I’d taken over Bear’s desk—not that he seemed to mind. He was sprawled out on his bed, sketching something that I was pretty sure had nothing to do with our film or his. The aquarium otter cam was playing on his computer, and the fuzzy little bastards were annoying me with their freewheeling ways, squeaking and diving and playing with one another.
“Did you think of a title?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Did you talk to John?”
“Not yet,” he said.
I put down my pencil and glared at him. I hated this. I hated pushing and nagging and trying to get other people to do the work they had already agreed to do. I hated being the only one who cared.
“The screening is coming up soon,” I said.
He shrugged. I balled up a piece of paper and threw it at him. He caught it easily.
“You need to take a break,” he said. “You have murder in your eyes.”
“I wonder why,” I said.
The otters squeaked. I definitely wanted to murder them.
“Come on.” Bear pushed up off the bed. “You can’t just keep working nonstop. You need to do something else for a little bit. Let’s go outside. Five minutes. Maybe ten. You remember what outside looks like, don’t you? Big blue ceiling, brown tall things with green tops. All that stuff you draw in your notebook? Outside—it’s real.”
He was always trying to get me to take a break. Sometimes it was cute. Right now, I was about as amused by him as I was by the otters who were currently floating together holding hands. A few minutes ago their chaotic playing had bothered me; now it was their inactivity that was getting on my nerves. Didn’t they have better things to do?
Bear gave my chair—his chair—a spin, forcing me to face him, his hands on the backrest, bracketing my shoulders. He definitely had better things to do. Like finish our project.
“We could go for a drive,” he said, and nodded at his computer screen. “Go to the aquarium. Sketch some fish. Or sketch nothing at all. Leave our sketchbooks in the car, even.”
“I have to work.” I tried to spin away.
He held tight. “You’re burning yourself out,” he said. He wasn’t teasing anymore. He actually looked a little worried.
“I’m fine,” I said. “All I need is some more tea and some more time.”
“This isn’t sustainable,” he sai
d.
“I know,” I snapped. “I just have to get through the next few weeks. And it would be great if everyone else would help me out instead of slacking off.”
“They’re exhausted,” Bear said. “We’re all exhausted.”
I threw up my hands. “What do you want me to do about that? We all knew this would be hard. We knew we’d have to make sacrifices.”
Bear knelt down, taking my hands. He held them in my lap. I wanted to pull away.
“I have an idea,” he said. “Instead of trying to kill yourself to get two shorts done, why don’t I give you a director’s credit on my project?”
I stared at him. He wasn’t serious, was he?
Bear didn’t seem to notice the way I’d gone completely still. In fact, he was smiling as if this was a brilliant solution. “This way you only have to focus on one movie. You can finish your short film another time,” he said.
“You’re kidding.” My voice was flat.
He finally registered that I wasn’t pleased.
“Hayley,” he said, but I tugged my hands from his and stood.
“Do you really think that a codirector credit on your movie is the same as presenting something that I created—something that I made—to your father and the brain trust?”
Bear had stumbled back a little when I released him, but he pulled himself to his feet.
“I think that you’re exhausting yourself over something that doesn’t matter,” he said.
My eyes nearly bugged out of my head. “What the hell?” I asked. “When I first brought it up you were all on board. You encouraged me.”
“I know,” he said. “But I also know you’re doing this to impress my dad, who is never going to give you what you want.”
I was so angry. This wasn’t just about the short film anymore. It had become so much more. It was bigger. Bigger than me, bigger than the internship—hell, it felt like it was bigger than the entire animation industry.
“I get it,” I said. “Now that my project is taking me away from your movie, suddenly it’s not important. Suddenly it doesn’t matter.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“You don’t like it that I don’t have time for your project anymore. For you.”
“It’s just a movie, Hayley.”
But if I failed, I wouldn’t just fail myself. I’d fail everyone. And it would prove them right. Bryan and Hal and Nick and every other guy who had made me feel like I wasn’t good enough to be a part of something I desperately loved.
If I couldn’t do this, what could I do? What good was all this ambition and drive and talent? Was it all a waste?
“Of course you’d feel that way,” I said. “Because it is just a movie to you. And no matter what you do—no matter what half-baked, bullshit short film you present at the end of the showcase, your father—the whole fucking studio—is going to applaud you and tell you what a genius you are.”
“Yes,” Bear said.
“It’s not fair,” I said. “I try so hard. All I want is a chance. That’s all. Just a stupid fucking chance to prove myself.”
My face was hot. Hot and prickly and not in a good way. Bear didn’t say anything. What could he say?
“And you don’t even care.” My voice cracked. “You have all this opportunity and you don’t even care enough to do something with it.”
“I care,” Bear said. “I just don’t care about getting credit for a fucking movie when it comes at the expense of the people I love.”
“That’s not the point,” I said. “You don’t get it!”
There was a long pause.
“I’m not the only one who doesn’t get it,” Bear said. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I think I’m in love with you.”
I had heard him. But I couldn’t deal with this. Not now.
“No, you aren’t,” I said.
My pulse was racing. I was sweating. It was like I was standing outside my body, watching as I tore Bear’s heart to shreds.
“If you loved me, you would understand exactly why this is important to me,” I said. “You’d understand that what you’re asking me to do is impossible.” I put my hand to my chest, my palm sticky and hot. “This is who I am, Bear. And it’s not about the credit. It’s about recognition. I want to be able to stand in front of your father—in front of the whole studio—and say, ‘I made this. This is mine.’ ”
We stared at each other. I waited. Waited for him to understand.
But it didn’t happen.
“It’s never going to make you happy,” Bear said. “There’s more to life than this. Than chasing credit. Chasing approval. I saw my mom do it. Saw how miserable it made her.”
His mom had deserved credit on A Boy Named Bear. Suddenly I hated Bryan Beckett so much I couldn’t see.
“She had a choice,” Bear said. “She could fight my dad in court, or she could get custody of me. Walking away was the best thing she could have done,” he said. “It saved us. Saved her.”
Maybe Reagan Davis didn’t regret what she’d done—the decision she’d made—but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t like that. I couldn’t just give up. I wasn’t going to be erased from my own story.
“What about us?” Bear asked. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
Isaac had said that sometimes you had to put yourself first.
“I have to do this, Bear,” I said. “I really thought you would understand.”
I desperately wanted him to, but it was clear he didn’t.
“I’m going to go,” I said.
Part of me thought he’d try to stop me. But he just lifted his hands and stepped away. It was only a foot or two, but it felt like an entire ocean had opened up between us.
He’d never fully comprehended what this short—what this whole internship—meant to me, and it was clear now that he never would.
We were done.
I gathered up my things, praying that I could hold back my tears until I was out of his room. I felt numb, my chest, my heart, my everything, encased in ice.
“Your movie will be great, Hayley,” Bear said. “But it won’t be enough.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I was still working on Bear’s short film so avoiding him was nearly impossible, but we did our best. We sat on opposite sides of the table in the conference room and managed to keep from speaking directly to each other whenever possible.
It hurt to look at him.
I’d never fully understood why Shelley Cona had fallen apart so completely when she’d broken up with her boyfriend, but I got it now. Because I felt totally and utterly adrift in my own life. I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t even want to draw. Didn’t even want to pick up my pencil.
I wanted to lie on my dorm room bed, staring up at the ceiling and willing each day to end so I’d be one step closer to being done with this internship and with Bear. Having to see him every day was torture, and every time I did, every time I felt that horrible twinge in my chest, I sent out a silent apology to Shelley.
I didn’t know anything besides animation could make me feel such big things.
I was exhausted and heartsick. And it wasn’t just Bear. I was tired of fighting what felt like an endless battle. Against Bryan’s words. Against the studio’s indifference. Against my own self-doubt.
I knew that Bear was right about one thing—that no matter what I did, no matter what I put in front of Bryan, he would never—ever—say that he had been wrong about me.
And even though I’d told Bear that I had to finish the project, after our fight, I couldn’t find the strength to work on it anymore. I wanted to put my pencil down, push away the sketchbook, and say, Enough. To just be done with it all. For good.
Isaac had said that this was a hard life. Maybe I wasn’t up for it. Maybe I wasn’t as strong as I thought I was. As strong as I needed to be. Maybe I was exactly the person I was afraid of being. The person who could give it all up.
When I told everyone that the proj
ect was done, I’d put a happy spin on it.
We don’t have to finish to be proud of it, I’d texted Sunday after leaving Bear’s room. Everyone did a great job. That should be enough.
I wished I believed it. Instead I just felt like a failure.
I’d ignored the flurry of texts that followed—the questions, the confusion. I avoided the dining hall—going out for long drives during dinnertime and not coming back to the dorms until late. Whenever one of the girls caught me in the hallway, I forced a smile and said that the short had run its course. I didn’t tell them about Bear, but it was clear that things had changed between us. I came back to the dorms every night on the first shuttle. I spent my evenings texting Julie and Samantha, telling them nothing, just responding with as many emojis and GIFs as I could muster.
“You can talk to me,” Sally had said the morning after I’d shut everything down.
She’d just gotten back from her run. I hadn’t asked if Bear had joined her.
“If you want to talk,” she’d said.
“There’s nothing to talk about. It was too much to take on and we all knew it,” I’d said. “The whole thing was a Hail Mary.”
“A sports reference?” She’d jokingly put her hand on my forehead. “Hayley, if you’ve been possessed by a less-ambitious boy, blink three times.”
I hadn’t blinked. Her smile had faded.
“It’s just a movie,” I’d said.
“Hayley,” she’d said, but I’d gotten up and out of bed before she could pry further.
“It’s fine,” I’d said. “I’m fine.”
I wasn’t. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Didn’t know what to do without this intense, unrelenting drive that used to push me forward. I didn’t feel anything except failure, which was like a huge, gaping wound—a black hole of ambition.
I felt like nothing.
* * *
On Wednesday, I got an e-mail from Sloane. She wanted to see me after our last lunchtime lecture. With everything moving at full speed with the short films, and the studio focused on No One Fears the Woods deadlines, we’d all stopped meeting regularly with our mentors. I missed Sloane but didn’t know why she wanted to see me.
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