by Kasie West
“It’s a big school.”
“With a lot of Irish heritage?”
“One of the Donavans is black.”
“The guitar player or the football player?”
“What?”
“Or the one with the little sister?”
“Are you stalking Donavans?”
“That would make a good movie title.”
His eyes sparkled as if he really did find me amusing and was trying his hardest to pretend he didn’t. I’d never had to win anyone over like this and I had to admit, it made the small victories more satisfying.
I glanced around the empty hall. “So does the tour end here? Your teacher told me you would show me the department. I feel like this isn’t happening. I’m going to make a report to Taylor that you are a horrible tour guide. I’m moving on to the next Donavan.”
He looked at the palm of his hand and picked at a streak of black ink there. “Did your dad tell you I was a writer?”
“No. Why? Was it on your tutoring résumé?”
“No. I just . . . never mind.” He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “Do you really want to see the rest of the department?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been told all about this thing called a printing press. Where does it live?”
He pointed at a door across the hall, then led the way. “You’re in a good mood today.”
“It’s because you’re not holding an empty homework packet in your hand and expecting me to get it done in an inhuman amount of time.”
“Three hours is hardly inhuman. I think my little sister can get it done faster than you.”
“So you do have a little sister. How old is she?”
“Freshman.”
I rolled my eyes. “You made it seem like she was five. I am no longer offended at you telling me she can finish homework faster than me.”
He stopped outside a door. “Are you ready?”
“Is something shocking going to happen when we go inside?”
He smirked and opened the door. The press was bigger than I expected, with lots of metal bars and handles.
“I totally chose the wrong electives when I was in school. If I went here next semester, I would take whatever the class is that gets to operate this beauty. Do you run this?”
“Sometimes. So you’re saying you wouldn’t take drama?”
“Of course I would. I wouldn’t take math.”
He laughed. “Not sure you can trade math for journalism.”
“I’ll be Lacey Barnes. Famous. They’ll let me do what I want, right?”
“Pretty sure most people already let you do what you want.”
“If that were true, you’d be doing my homework packets for me.” I turned and gave him my best pleading eyes. “It’s not too late for that to happen.”
“Funny.” He watched me walk around the machine twice. “Are you going to go here next semester? When you’re done filming?”
“No, I’m going to finish out my senior year at home.” I wondered if he cared. Why did I care if he cared? I ran my finger along a black knob. “We should print something. A paper that says, Lacey Barnes is the next big thing. That’s some hard-hitting news.”
“I would get in serious trouble for that.”
“Would you, though? With those cute boy-next-door looks of yours, I’m pretty sure people let you do what you want, too.”
“No, they don’t, actually. Never.” He opened the door for me, and we stepped back into the hall.
“Never? Here, let’s test it. Ask me for something.” I turned toward him and put my hands behind my back as though patiently waiting for a request.
“Can I go back to class now?”
“No.” I smiled. “Huh. You were right, you don’t have a face that people want to give things to after all. You have to smile.” That’s what tempted me, at least—his smile. No, not tempted me. I wasn’t tempted.
“Ha. Ha.”
I pointed across the hall. “And what’s behind door number three?”
“Graphic design. They help with the layout of the paper.”
“Nice. My dad’s a graphic designer.”
“He is?”
“Yes, he’d love it if I took that class instead.”
“Instead of what?”
“Instead of starring in a movie.”
Donavan’s brow crinkled. “Really?”
I shrugged. “It’s no big deal.” I turned a circle and changed the subject. “So this is your world? What articles do you write for the pap? Is that what you call it, because it felt right.”
“No.”
“You should start calling it that. Any school who still has a physical paper, printed from a printing press, has to call it a pap.”
“Isn’t that a British nickname for paper?”
“Is it? You need to research that. I bet you could write a whole article about it.”
“I bet I couldn’t.”
“Because you write the . . .” I squinted my eyes and studied him. “Current events section?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
The bell rang, and suddenly the halls were full of students. Donavan lifted up his arms as if that would make the crowded hallway easier to navigate and then headed back toward the first classroom we’d been in. I followed closely behind him, hanging on to the back of his shirt.
We made it into the room, and he went to a far station and picked up his backpack. I waved to the teacher. “Thanks for letting me borrow your prize writer. He did a good job selling the journalism department to me.”
The teacher waved in return. “You’re welcome.”
I waited for Donavan, and we exited the class together. He didn’t say a word until we were outside, then he said, “Well, I better—”
“You’re not going to say you better get to class, right? You have to finish my tour.”
“That was pretty much the whole department.”
“I want to see it all, baby. The whole campus.”
“I’ll be late to class.”
I gave an exaggerated eye roll. “Please. You are a hard-hitting journalist. You don’t care about rules. You sneak into abandoned buildings and bust drug dealers.”
“Or run away from them,” he said.
“Besides, Taylor in the front office gave me permission to have you as my tour guide.” I held up my visitor’s badge. “I’m an official guest here. Now, show me your favorite place.”
“I don’t really have a favorite place . . . and if I did, it would probably be the room we just left.”
“Okay, then show me what my favorite place would be if I went here.”
I thought he was going to say no, but he stood there for a moment, looking at me. I wondered if he was still trying to process my face without makeup. Then he said, “Okay.” He turned in the opposite direction from where we had been headed, and I took several quick steps to catch up. I wondered which building housed the theater department. That’s where he was going to take me, I was sure of it.
He marched me inside the largest building and, sure enough, at the end of the hall were two sets of double doors. Above the doors were the words Edwards Theater. As predictable as this choice was, I was actually excited to go stand on a big stage. It had been a while. But instead of heading for those double doors, he peeled off to the right and up a set of stairs and then another. We climbed four flights without exchanging a word, until we got to a single door at the top.
“That was my cardio for the day,” I said.
He took a card out of his pocket, waved it in front of a black square on the door, and when it lit green, he opened it.
“Okay, who are you and where are you taking me?”
“This is the student gardens.”
I stepped through the door and onto the rooftop. Bordering the entire edge of the roof were pot after colorful pot of plants. In the center were several groupings of lounge-like areas with couches and coffee tables and more plants. Severa
l students sat around reading or doing homework. The view over the campus from up here was incredible.
I waved my hand at Donavan’s pocket, where he’d stored the key to the door. “Why? What?”
“You have to earn access.”
“How?”
“Grades and a teacher recommendation and extracurriculars and seniors only.”
“Wow. This is amazing.” I slowly walked around, taking in the different plants and what I now saw was art displayed around as well. “But this wouldn’t be my favorite place if I went here.”
“No?” he asked, surprised he had guessed wrong.
“No, because I wouldn’t be allowed in here.”
“Drama counts.”
“I barely maintained a 3.0.”
“It’s not only 4.0 people up here, though probably most are.”
I walked to the far end of the roof, where a group of chairs sat empty, and I collapsed into one. He was absolutely right. I loved it up here and I’d been here less than five minutes.
“I’m sure you’d figure out a way to score a key to this place if you went here. Didn’t we already establish that you get what you want?”
“Did we? Because I thought we established that you aren’t doing my homework for me.”
“You don’t want that.”
“I do, I really do.”
He lifted a corner of his mouth into a half smile. Yes, that was very satisfying to have earned.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“How did I know what?”
“That I’d like this?”
He took in the rooftop, his eyes scanning slowly over the path we just walked. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something but stopped. Then he shrugged one shoulder and said, “Who wouldn’t like this?”
I looked up at the clear blue sky and let out a sigh. “I’ve decided I do miss it a little.”
“Um . . . what?”
“High school.”
“Why?” he asked as though he didn’t understand that thought.
“Mainly because it’s senior year and I’ve missed things like this.” I gestured around us.
“You had a student garden at your high school?”
I sat up and met his eyes. “No, but there are certain perks that come from seniorhood and I’m missing them.” I fell back in the seat again. My dad would probably have gloated if he heard me repeat this realization. “But then, I remember what I actually get to do right now and know it’s all worth it.”
Donavan nodded, then his attention was drawn to the door, where a group of students came in and sat on the other side of the roof.
“So you still haven’t answered my question about what you write for the pap,” I said.
“Stop using that word.”
“But it’s bugging you so much. I can’t stop now.”
“I write . . .” He toed at the edge of a blue-and-green-striped rug that sat under the coffee table. “Entertainment.”
“Entertainment? Like book reviews and such?”
“Yes. And plays and television and . . . movies.” With that last word he looked back at me.
“Oh. So you’ll be reviewing Dancing Graves for the paper when it comes out?”
“Not necessarily. We vote on which movies we’re going to see and which will make the section.”
“And my movie won’t be good enough for the section?” I already knew he thought it was second-rate.
“I’ll vote for it.”
“You better.” I twisted a bracelet I wore around my wrist. “Do you review your school plays or just professional theater?”
“School ones too.”
“I want to read something you’ve written.”
He was back to picking at his palm again before he said, “You probably already have.”
“What? No I haven’t.”
“One of my reviews went viral.”
“I thought your school only has a physical paper.”
“I have a personal review site online as well.”
“Oh.” I slowly started piecing a few clues together. I gasped. “Wait. ‘Grant James Goes Down in Flames’? Was that you?”
He bit his lip and shrugged. “I stand by it.”
“You’re not a Grant James fan?”
“He has enough fans without me.”
“You’d be surprised at how much the review bothered him.”
“He’s read it?”
“Of course. It’s all over social media.”
“I wasn’t the only one who reviewed it badly. There were a lot of big-time reviewers who did as well.”
“I know, but yours got passed around more. It was witty and clever and funny and very, very shareable.”
He ran his hand over his hair a few times. “Thanks.”
I was right. Reading something he had written did give me more insight into who he was. It wasn’t that I didn’t think he was witty or clever or funny, I’d seen bits of all of those things, but how much they popped on page surprised me. In real life, he seemed more reserved. Maybe he was just private. Pretty much the exact opposite of me. “So is that why you didn’t want to meet Grant? Because of the review?”
“No, because I’m not a fan.”
I chuckled. “Yeah right. If I had written that review I wouldn’t have wanted to face him either.”
“I’ll face him.”
If I were talking to anyone else, I might not think that were true. But this was my tutor. This was the guy who was on the set of Grant James’s movie all the time. He probably would have to face him. I wondered how that would go down.
“So is that what you want to do with your life? Become a professional reviewer?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Wait,” I said, a realization coming to me. “Is this why you don’t date actresses? So you don’t have to worry about trashing their performances?”
He laughed, but then the smile slid from his face. “Pretty much. I like to stay objective.”
“I’ll do you a favor and warn all my costars away from you.”
“No need. I’ve never been tempted.”
Ouch. Well, the feeling was mutual. I wasn’t tempted at all.
Dancing Graves
INT. ABANDONED CHURCH—NIGHT.
SCARLETT’s appearance has changed. She looks more zombie than human now even though her logic hasn’t left her. BENJAMIN brings supplies to the church, fearful that any day he’ll find her mind fully changed. She hides in the shadows when he arrives.
BENJAMIN
Scarlett? Are you here? It’s me.
SCARLETT
I can’t stay here much longer. What if the other hunters find me?
Look at what I have become. They won’t spare me.
BENJAMIN
You must come home. We can protect you there.
SCARLETT
But who will protect you from me?
Thirteen
As soon as I was back in my car in the parking lot, I picked up the phone and called my mom.
“Hello, Lace,” she answered. “How are you?”
Between the fight with my dad, being back at high school again, and discovering my tutor was a critic who might one day trash my movie, I was feeling very low. “I’m okay.”
“Thanks for sending Abby and Cooper over the other day. That was so nice. I got to run some much-needed errands.”
“I’m glad it worked out.” I had forgotten I’d asked Abby to do that. I had the best friends ever. “So I have the rest of the day and tomorrow off. I was thinking about driving up to see you and the littles tonight.” It was only noon. I’d be there by four and could have twenty-four hours with my family. It sounded like exactly what I needed—my mom.
“Yes, you should come!”
“Okay, I will. See you in a little bit.” I sent my dad a text and didn’t wait for an answer. I didn’t need permission to see my mom. The fact that I didn’t go home to pack had nothing to do with not believing that.
&n
bsp; I was so excited that the four hours it took to drive home felt like four hundred hours. The Central Coast was cooler than LA, and as I finally reached my neighborhood, I rolled down the windows and took a breath of fresh coastal air. I was surprised at the lump rising in my throat as I parked the car and hopped out.
My mom was waiting for me on the porch, and she came running down the walk when I stepped out of the car. She looked as beautiful as ever with her dark hair and even darker eyes. We collided into a hug. I held on longer than normal.
“I’ve missed you,” she said.
“You too.” I stepped back and moved toward the door.
“Didn’t you bring anything?” she asked, gesturing toward the car.
I cleared my throat and waved my hand through the air like it wasn’t a big deal. “No, I left a lot of my stuff here because it doesn’t fit at dad’s.”
“I know. It’s just . . .”
I was worried my dad had called and tattled on me, so I rushed on, not wanting another fight. “Where are Colby and Syd? I’m dying to see them.”
“They’ve made you a special treat.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Try to choke down a little, at least. We’ll throw the rest away when they aren’t looking.”
“I’m scared,” I said.
“You should be.”
The house felt the same but different when I walked inside. The same paintings hung on the wall. The same bench and kids’ shoes scattered the entryway. But it felt bigger. Much bigger than I remembered. I assumed this was the result of a month in a small apartment.
My mom kicked a stuffed animal out of the way and said, “Guess who’s home!”
My brother and sister came tearing out of whatever corner they’d been hiding in, and each grabbed an arm. “Lace! Lace!” they yelled.
“Hi, guys. I missed you. Have you each grown a foot since I was gone?” This was why adults said this. I now understood.
“We made you a salad!” Sydney said.
“A salad?” I raised an eyebrow at my mom.
“I told them you’d given up sweets for a couple of months.”
“How thoughtful,” I said.
They dragged me into the kitchen, where a bowl full of what looked like everything they could find in the fridge sat on the counter. “Am I going to get salmonella if I eat this?” I asked my mom under my breath.
