by Sean Rodman
“Yes, sir,” says Markus. He closes up his locker. “Excuse me, Reply. I will see you around and later.”
Mr. Pier waits for him to leave. “Nice to see you’re helping Markus out. He seems a little awkward,” he says.
“I’m not really helping him so much as—” I say.
Mr. Pier cuts me off. “Replay, listen, I was surprised by your results from the quiz today. And then I looked at your answers. I know lots of students cheat on tests. But I’ve never come across someone cheating on a career quiz.”
“Mr. Pier, I’m not sure what you mean. I didn’t copy anyone else.” I feel myself hardening up, like I’m bracing for a hit. “How do you even cheat on a career quiz?”
“That’s kind of what I mean. I think the answers you gave are not, well, the answers you really wanted to give. I’ve watched you at this school for years. You’ve shown tremendous talent for two things, football and making movies. I think your talent is outstanding, and I think you should follow that dream if that’s what you want.”
“I know everyone says I’ve got a gift,” I say. “So that’s what I wrote on the quiz. That I’m going for a football scholarship. That I’m an athlete.”
“No.” Mr. Pier shakes his head. “That’s not the talent I meant. I was talking about filmmaking. I’ve seen what you’ve done for class projects and for the student art festival. You’re really good.”
He hands me the sheet of paper. I assume it’s more career-planning stuff. It’s not. The top of the first page reads UCLA School of the Motion Picture Arts. It’s an application. There are several pages full of lots of questions and boxes.
I fold the paper up and stuff it into the back pocket of my jeans. Mr. Pier is looking at me.
“That’s nice of you to say, Mr. Pier.” I shrug. “But making movies isn’t a real job, is it? And I’ve got a recruiter coming to interview me this weekend. It’s like my dad says—I’m destined to play ball.”
“That doesn’t have to be the only thing you do,” Mr. Pier says, smiling. “And there are scholarships you can apply for as well. It was a bit harsh of me to say you cheated on that quiz. But you should always tell the truth on a test like that. Otherwise, you’re just lying to yourself.”
I mumble an awkward thank-you, sling my backpack and turn away from him. I merge into the moving stream of students, losing myself in the flow toward the football field.
Chapter Four
I arrive home with sweat-sticky skin and a growling stomach. Dad is just putting four plates on the table. In the middle is a big tray of roast chicken and potatoes. Dad’s a big guy. It’s easy to see how he would have been a terror on the football field in high school. All these years later, all his linebacker menace has morphed into something more like a big teddy bear. His face splits into a toothy smile when he sees me.
“Ryan! How was practice?”
“Brutal.” I nab a potato off the tray and pop it into my mouth. Mom comes out of the kitchen and frowns at me.
“But you worked hard?” Dad asks.
I roll my eyes, but I actually like that I get the exact same question after every practice.
“The hardest, Dad. The hardest. Do I have time for a shower?”
“After. Sit down and eat while it’s hot,” says Mom. She’s as small and thin as Dad is broad and tall. She carefully sets a napkin over her lap—she hasn’t changed out of her work clothes from her day at the bank. I sit down with my parents, noticing the empty fourth chair at the table.
“Where’s Amber?”
“Who knows? Not like she ever calls with that fancy phone we bought her.” Dad starts to load up his plate with food, then pauses. “You remember that Mr. Howards is coming on Saturday for lunch, right?”
“How could I forget? You guys bring it up every night.” Ever since the recruiter from Ryeburn College called and asked to meet with us, my parents have been like little kids waiting for Christmas. Counting down the days.
“Well, it’s a big opportunity. I don’t want you to waste it.”
“I know.” I push some green broccoli toward a pool of gravy on my plate. “So I was thinking about what I should talk to Mr. Howards about when he’s here. I mean, besides football. Like my other interests.”
Mom blinks and tilts her head a little. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like my movies. It might give him a better idea of who I am. What else I bring to the college.” “What you bring to the college is your god-given talent, Ryan,” Mom says. “Never doubt that.”
“Besides, it’s not like you’re going to study moviemaking at college. It’s a hobby, not a job. Like your uncle Simon and his music. He keeps thinking he’ll be some big-shot drummer in a band. Meanwhile, he’s spending his life on the till at Costco. Might just die there.”
Mom looks uncomfortable. “That’s not fair, is it? My brother had some tough breaks.”
Dad’s response is interrupted by the door banging open. Amber tumbles through it, an avalanche of brown frizzy hair, binders and shopping bags.
Dad puts down his fork and knife, eyes narrowing. “You’re late.”
“I was studying with Shannon.” She drops her jacket in the hallway and comes to the table. “She has the coolest app on her phone for messaging. I want to get it.”
“Messaging? Like, texting? I don’t see why you need another way to talk to your friends on your phone,” says Dad. He points a fork at her. “It’s already a phone. That lets you talk. To your friends.”
“You don’t understand! Nobody actually talks on their phone anymore. And messaging on Facebook or Instagram is old news. The new thing is Yopeep.”
“And this is why I bought you a phone? So you could Instabook your friends?” Dad knows perfectly well what Instagram is. He just likes to get a reaction. But he’s on a roll now. “I bought you a phone so you could call your parents and let us know where you are. And when you are coming home to eat dinner with your family. And you never bother.”
“Dad, you’re so...” Amber slams her fork down on the table. “I’m just asking for an app. All my friends have it. And Ryan too, which is so unfair!”
“Way to throw me under the bus,” I mumble around a mouthful of potatoes. “I hardly use Instabook at all.”
Mom tries to calm everyone down. “Amber is thirteen. Maybe we should talk about this.” She shrugs her shoulders and locks eyes with dad. That’s Mom code for “you’re being kind of a jerk.”
“Okay, then. You’re right. She’s growing up. I guess Amber can have a YoBookFace account.” Dad makes it sound like a royal proclamation. “On one condition.”
“Really?” Ambers looks a little stunned. She’s been working on getting this app for a month. A less honest kid—like, say, me—would have run out of patience and simply installed the app on the down-low. Here she is, winning over Dad. “What’s the deal?”
“The condition is that I will set up the account for you,” says Dad. “To make sure it’s safe.”
“That seems fair,” says Mom quickly.
“Wait,” says Amber. “You won’t even let me set up my own—”
“Take it or leave it,” says Dad. “It’s a one-time offer. We’ll do it right now or not at all.”
“Fine.” Amber pulls her phone out of the pocket of her hoodie, unlocks it and slides it across the dining table to Dad. Mom scooches her chair over so the two of them can stare at the screen. Dad squints at the tiny screen, then puts on his reading glasses. He stabs at the screen with a finger.
“Okay. New account. Uh-huh. Choose a unique user name. Nine characters maximum.” He looks over his reading glasses at Amber.
“QTChick66,” she says confidently. “I use it for all my accounts.”
“No way,” says Dad. “That’s a terrible name.”
“Dad! So unfair!”
“Let’s think a little more about this one.” Mom’s now flashing her special stare at Amber, who just growls. Mom ignores it and says, “How about Buttons?”
<
br /> “Wait—Buttons?” That makes me put down my fork and knife. “I forgot that you used to call her that.”
“Because she was cute as a button.” Dad crinkles his nose, his tough-guy image vanishing for a moment.
“That is so not okay,” says Amber. “I will be teased to death by everyone at school. Literally.”
“Literally?” I say. “I don’t think that’s technically possible, Buttons.”
“Now hang on,” says Dad. “She’s right. We can improve on Buttons.”
“Cool Buttons?” says Mom. “Awesome Buttons?”
“I’ve got it,” says Dad. He quickly taps the screen.
“No!” says Amber as she lunges across the table.
Dad gives her a fierce look, and she promptly plops back down in her chair.
“Mind your manners, young lady,” he says. “I present to you FunkyButtons. Your new Yopeep account name. Safely set up and ready to go.” He holds the phone out to Amber. “Look, it’s already sent a message to all your contacts.”
Amber snatches it and swipes the screen. She stares at it for a long moment.
“Oh no!” she cries.
Mom and Dad look at each other.
“You don’t get it. It’s a maximum of nine letters for your user name,” Amber says. “So it cuts off everything after the ninth letter.”
“Yeah, so?” Dad starts counting off on his fingers. “F-u-n-k-y-B-u-t-t—oh.”
“FunkyButt?” I say. I start laughing. “You just messaged everybody as FunkyButt?”
Nobody else is laughing.
“I’m literally going to die of embarrassment.” Amber drops the phone on the table like it’s contaminated. She drops her head into her hands. “Literally.”
“Technically, I still don’t think that’s poss—” I break off when I see the crazy look on Amber’s face. The one that tells you a whirlwind is coming.
There’s a moment of silence, a single heartbeat. Then Amber starts screaming, Dad starts yelling, and I get out of there as fast as I can. I make a quick pit stop at the dishwasher to drop off my plate and then I’m up the stairs two at a time, still laughing. FunkyButt. Awesome.
Safely inside my room, I flop onto my bed, slide my headphones on and dial up my music to drown out the mayhem downstairs. Something feels weird in the pocket of my jeans. I reach around and grab the crumpled paper. The application form. Reading it over, my heart starts to thump in my chest. Film school. I could learn how to make real movies instead of just screwing around. But as I really read over the form, that feeling vanishes. I have to submit a sample of my work. I’ve got lots of little clips, one or two projects for school—but all of it is junk, really. I mean, I like it. People like Mr. Pier sometimes say nice things. But honestly, I haven’t made anything that would be good enough for applying to film school.
Plus, at the bottom of the form it says that there’s an application fee. It’s $150 just to apply! I don’t have that much in the bank. I had a job at the car wash, but I spent pretty much everything that came in. No way could I ask my parents to pay. They’ve made it pretty clear how they feel about me pursuing anything other than a football down the field.
I fold the paper back up again and drop it over the side of the bed. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep. Film school is a nice dream. Just a dream though.
Chapter Five
I’m running late, sprinting around the west parking lot of Marathon High to get to class. I’m hauling around a corner when I hear a voice say, “You’re full of crap.”
That makes me hit the brakes.
It’s a kid in a black trench coat, his thin face twisted with a sneer. He’s not speaking to me. He has the weird new kid, Markus, backed up against the wall. The two of them are tucked away in a kind of alcove, out of the sight of anyone else. Trench Coat clearly thought he had a spot where he could terrorize Markus unseen. Then I showed up.
The two of them swivel their heads to look at me. Markus grins. Trench Coat looks a little less pleased.
“Reply!” says Markus. “I am most happy to see you again!”
For a moment I consider my options. Keep running to class and leave Markus to get eaten up by the Not-So-Big Bad Wolf. Or step in, play cop, break up this little scene before it becomes serious and risk getting another late slip. Honestly, neither option is appealing. I settle for something in between.
“Dude, don’t be a jerk,” I say firmly to Trench Coat. Then I leave them to sort it out.
Before I make it more than a dozen steps, I hear Markus squeal. It sounds like a cat with a stepped-on tail. Damn.
I pull a quick turn and run back to the alcove. Sure enough, Trench Coat now has Markus down on the ground. He pulls a fancy-looking phone out of a pocket in Markus’s expensive gray jacket.
“Seriously?” I drop my binder. “What did I just say?”
Trench Coat’s face goes pale as he stands up and backs himself against the concrete wall. He doesn’t let go of Markus’s phone though.
“I gave you some good advice, didn’t I?” I growl.
Trench Coat nods. He swallows and licks his lips. The alcove is narrow enough that I can block it pretty nicely. He knows he’s trapped.
“I gave you, like, inspirational advice. Didn’t I?”
Trench Coat nods again, more slowly this time.
“And what was that advice?” I’m right up in his face now and can smell garlicky morning breath.
“Don’t be a…?” He trails off.
“Jerk. That’s right. That’s Einstein-level wisdom, isn’t it? So what are you going to do now?”
Trench Coat’s eyes dart from my face to the phone in his hand. I gently pluck it from his sweaty grip.
“Not be a…?” Trench Coat whispers.
“Jerk. Smart. You know who I am?”
“Reply!” yells a voice behind us. “You are Reply, the football hero!”
For a second Trench Coat almost smirks. I stare him down and call out over my shoulder, “Markus, it’s Replay. Not reply. Please stop talking.”
I grind a finger into Trench Coat’s forehead. “My name is Replay. As in, I keep coming back again and again until I get what I want. As in, I’m going to loop back on you if you disrespect me. Understand?” Trench Coat has returned to looking nicely pale and terrified. I’m satisfied that my job is done. I step aside, and he scurries away.
Markus is still sitting on the pavement. He’s looking at me with wide eyes. “You can be most scary.”
He holds up one hand, looking pathetic. I grab it and pull him off the ground.
“Thanks, I guess,” I say. I give him back his phone. As I do, I notice the time. I might still make it to class without a late slip.
As I start to leave, Markus yells, “Wait!”
“No, man, I have to get to class. If I’m late again, the coach can pull me from the next game.” I scoop my binder off the ground and start to hustle out of the alcove, toward the side entrance of the school.
“I want to pay you!”
“What?” I stop and turn back to Markus. “I don’t know what they do in Narnia or wherever you come from, but we don’t pay people for stuff like that here. We just say thank you. It’s okay.”
“No, you misunderstand.” Markus is smiling a sort of mad-scientist grin. “When I see how scary you can be, I realize I must offer you a business deal.”
“I’ve really got to go. The teacher is—”
“I want you to be my bodyguard. I need protection.”
I take a deep breath. I don’t have time for this. “You’ll be fine.”
I leave but can hear him calling me. He’s panting from trying to keep up.
“I will pay you. One hundred dollars. To be my bodyguard.”
“No,” I call out, not breaking stride.
“One hundred dollars. Each week.”
My hands are on the metal handles, but I don’t pull the doors open. One hundred dollars a week? That sounds like easy money. I think of the crumpled
film-school application on the floor of my room. The application fee.
I let go of the door and slowly turn to face Markus. His nice clothes are rumpled and streaked with dirt. His brown hair looks like it’s been styled with a rake, complete with a couple of leaves.
“One twenty-five,” I say. “You really have the money?”
His smile is so bright it’s like a searchlight flashing on. He stuffs a hand into a jacket pocket and pulls out a wallet. He starts counting out twenties.
“Sixty dollars up front. I pay you the rest at the end of the week.”
He holds out the wad of bills.
“I stick to you like glue and paper, okay? You keep me safe?”
His eyes are wide. I have a sudden stab of guilt—I’m about to rip off a rich exchange student who just had a bad first day at school.
“Markus, you don’t need to be afraid of anyone who goes to this school. Even that idiot in the trench coat. Most of them aren’t like that at all. You don’t need a bodyguard.”
Markus’s face grows serious, and he shakes his head. “I don’t need a bodyguard to protect me from the students of this school. I know that they are just—as you say—jerks. There are other reasons. I can explain later.” He wiggles the cash at me. “Please?”
I don’t have time to figure this out. The money is good even if the kid is weird. Whatever. Let’s do this.
I take the money. “Deal.”
Chapter Six
Sneaking into class is easy. The art teacher, Ms. Darpola, is taking everyone outside to do some sketching, so there’s chaos to cover me as I slip in. A small riot as everyone grabs from a big pile of clipboards, pencils and paper. The occasional eraser flying through the air. The kind of behavior you’d expect from a bunch of unimpressed teenagers who have just been told to go draw a tree. When Alex and I signed up for art, it wasn’t because of our love of painting or anything. It was well known as a bird course, an easy grade. But it’s turned out I enjoy it more than I thought I would. Most of the time.
