The Summer of Me & You

by Rae Hachton

We were still doing it

  *

  We were still doing it.

  For some reason, Kayleigh avoided me. She didn't want to see me or talk to me. We hadn't spoken to each other since I'd taken her home the morning after that party. I probably called her two dozen times over the weekend, but she never answered any of my phone calls.

  If she didn't stop doing this to me, I was going to lose my mind.

  Mr. Macon's film class began the following week. The reason the class was being offered over the summer was because the school's budget didn't allow for art classes—they spent all their money on funding the sports teams instead. It killed me how no one considered filmmaking a real career. I wanted to ask the idiots who said such a thing, “Oh yeah, if it isn't a real career, then who in the hell makes all those movies to entertain you then? They don't just pop into existence from nowhere.”

  And someone has to make films, right? Just like someone has to perform surgery on people who need it. So why not me? What was so wrong with me aspiring to be a film director? It was no different than those who aspired to be lawyers.

  I was surprised to realize we had sixteen people in the class. I hadn't realized that sixteen people at this school wanted to be filmmakers. That was a shocker.

  You wanna know what else was shocking? Only two of those sixteen people were female. Wanna know who one of the females was?

  Kayleigh.

  And I was beginning to think we didn't have much in common. I hadn't even told her I was taking this class, so it wasn't like she'd signed up at the last minute to annoy me. She sat in the very back. I'd seen her when I first walked in, but I pretended not to. My calls had been ignored, so now I was going to ignore her. Her black hat with a film reel on it enshadowed her face. I wore my green shirt that I'd gotten from last year's short film festival in North Port. I'm not sure she'd realized I was there yet. She doodled in a notebook, not looking up. When Mr. Macon walked into the room, calling our attention, I quickly pulled my eyes away from her before she caught me staring.

  “Okay,” he clapped his hands together. “Who can name an American film director?”

  People began spouting the obvious names that we'd all heard of before.

  “Great,” he said. “But did you know that New Wave cinema began in France? So—can anyone name a French director?

  “Truffaut,” Kayleigh said with confidence. I swiveled around.

  “Godard,” I countered, gazing directly at her.

  “Oh,” she spun around in her seat. “You think he's better?” So now she had something to say to me?

  “I know he is.”

  “Why are you even in this class?”

  “Why are you?” Kayleigh had spent most of her time doing theater. I had no idea she was into filmmaking, but maybe she'd only been in theater because it was the next best thing, since the school didn't offer cinematography classes.

  The teacher hopped up on to the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. “You two do know they were friends at one point, right?”

  “Yeah, well we aren't,” Kayleigh said. The way she kept saying that bugged me. I didn't want to be her friend. I wanted more than that. It was like she was deliberately torturing me to see how far she could take it. It was obvious how much she liked me, since she had to make it a point to remind me and everyone else that she didn't.

  “It was a sour friendship,” I told him. Here was our perfectly good summer going to waste because she'd decided to ignore me, avoid me, pretend not to want me. What did she want from me? She knew I liked her and it was like she was rubbing it in.

  “Not at first,” the teacher said. “They made some good films together.”

  “That's opinion. Define your idea of good.”

  Another guy in the class spoke up, “I really liked Breathless. It was a good film.”

  “Never knew there were so many Godard fans,” Kayleigh rolled her eyes.

  “There's that word good again.”

  Kayleigh shot a glare my way, “Oh, you didn't like King Godard's film?”

  I kicked my feet upon the desk, twisting a pencil. “Actually yeah, I loved it.”

  “Interesting,” she tossed her hair back, peering at me through those damn glasses, “because Truffaut wrote it.”

  I leapt out of my seat, hoisted myself up and over a desk that was in my way, and traveled across the room to her. I jerked out a chair, turned it backwards so that the back of it was facing in her direction and sat down, the way that guys do. I leaned in, as though she and I were the only ones in this class. “Just because he wrote it doesn't make it his. Ever heard of the auteur theory? Perhaps you should look it up. Godard speaks about the danger of wanting to become an auteur—the writer and director of your own film.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh, that's real interesting given the fact that it was Truffaut who introduced that entire idea. Must've been when they were really good friends.”

  I leaned in closer.

  “There's always someone who writes the film and someone who directs it. The director puts himself in the film, thus becoming just as much the author as the one who wrote it.”

  She became huffy. “So you're saying it's okay for someone to steal someone else's work, someone else's vision?”

  Our eyes gazed into each other.

  “No! You've got it all wrong.” My hand smacked the top of the desk she was sitting in. She jerked back. “Words on pieces of paper isn't a work, or a vision. It's the director who takes it, shapes it and transforms it into what it is. The author of the film is the one who directs it, not the one who writes it or puts the words on the page. This is filmmaking—cinematography, not scriptwriting 101. Maybe you're in the wrong class.”

  “Guys, guys, guys,” the teacher leapt off his desk. “You're not the only two in this class.”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled realizing how passionate I'd become about my own thoughts. I'd blocked everyone else out. Everyone but Kayleigh. I ran my fingers through my hair. Everyone in class was staring at us.

  “Is this argument even about Godard verses Truffaut? Am I missing something? I don't think this is just about film. What do you two have against each other?”

  “Maybe it's what they don't got against each other,” Gunner said. “Kayleigh won't let him put it on her.” The rest of the people in the class laughed.

  “Shut up, Gunner,” Kayleigh said, her face turning red.

  “If it ain’t true then why's your face gettin' all red and shit?”

  “Gunner,” Mr. Macon addressed him. “I would tell you to leave my classroom, but,” he shrugged, sighing, “—you paid for this class, so....” He picked up the chalk, walking to the blackboard. “While I can't tell you to leave, I am not required or obligated to write you that recommendation to art school.”

  “I bet I know how he paid for this class, too,” Kayleigh remarked. Both Gunner and Mr. Macon gave her a funny look.

  “My lips are zipped,” Gunner said. “But I think you should let Kaleb over there teach the class.”

  “Only those who can't do, teach,” I said, without realizing how that might've sounded to Mr. Macon. He turned away from the black board.

  His eyes immediately shot to mine and the class silenced. “You're absolutely right, Mr. Scheffler. And if you don't start doing you'll be just like me, teaching an unoffered film class over the summer just so you can finish paying for your Jeep.” He sat the chalk down on the desk.

  Now my face reddened. “Sorry, I didn't mean anything by it.”

  “Don't apologize, please. But what we're not going to do is sit in an unairconditioned room with a small fan all summer long and talk about film theory. That's not going to get any of you anywhere. So—” he walked around the room, handing each of us an envelope. “I'm refunding your money.”

  “You're not going to teach us!” Gunner exclaimed.

  “Film isn't taught. It's learned. By experience.”

  “Why are you freaking out, Gunner,” Kayle
igh said. “It's not like you're not going to get to see him outside of class.”

  Gunner glowered at her.

  “We're all going to take Kaleb's advice. Do. I want each of you to do.”

  A few of them turned to glare at me, like it was all my fault.

  “Want to know why I made everyone who wanted to take this class pay for it instead of just hosting it for free?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It separates the serious from the non serious. I didn't want slackers showing up just so they'd have something interesting to do all summer long.”

  “I see.”

  “So—” the teacher passed out the last envelope. “What you all hold in your hands is the budget for your first short film. The first and last lesson of this class—” he wrote on the board, “—is to-do. That's your assignment. Low budget filmmaking is anything the filmmaker currently has in his pocket to make a film. Guerrilla filmmaking suggests you beg-borrow-steal the rest of what you need. You didn't hear that from me.”

  “This is stupid,” another guy said.

  “Okay, awesome,” Mr. Macon told him, “There's about five hundred dollars in that envelope. Buy weed, throw a beer party, do whatever it is you teens do over summer break. Or, make a film.”

  “What if we don't have a camera?”

  “Then get the digits of someone in this class who does. Combine your resources, ideas and money, and Make. A. Film. We'll all meet back up at the end of summer, before school starts again, or before Kaleb l'extraordinaire—our future famous film director—goes off to college, as he's already a graduate, and we'll screen your films, see what you all came up with. If you don't show, I'll assume you didn't make a film. I'll probably be walking on foot or riding my bike, but I'll be here. Hope at least one of you is here, too.”

  “All we're going to see from Kaleb, who thinks he's Holden freaking Caulfield, is some pretentious film about the day in the life of Camus.”

  Kayleigh's opinion about me made me grin.

  Gunner spoke up for me though. “Look Miss. Thang, we don't wanna see your film about Polly Pockets either.” The class giggled.

  Mr. Macon gripped the desk, leaning onto it. “That's a very interesting judgment, Kayleigh,” he said.

  Gunner rolled his eyes. He turned his attention to Kayleigh. “Kaleb really likes you and you're too stupid to see it.”

  I tried to piece together what had happened between her and Gunner. One minute he was taking her to a party and they seemed to be friends, and now they were giving cryptic looks and bickering back and forth, and most of what they said involved me.

  I had to jump in. “Those are Gunner's thoughts and words, not mine. Never said that,” I laughed.

  “Oh please,” Gunner said. “You don't have to say it. Everyone here can see it.”

  Mr. Macon interjected. “May I have my classroom back please? I haven't dismissed any of you just yet.”

  We turned our attention back to him.

  “Thank you,” he said. “The last part of the assignment is that I'm going to encourage you work in groups of at least two. It's highly recommended that you pair up. It'll be easier to make a film that way. I have the names of the groups right here. Our first pair is....Ah—how could you guess it? Kaleb and Kayleigh.”

  “No!” she sat up alert in her seat. “That's outrageous. He and I do not get along. Nothing will get done.”

  “Someone might,” Gunner said.

  “Enough,” Mr. Macon told him.

  “It was only a suggestion,” I mumbled. “Thank God.”

  “Precisely the reason you two ought to work together, Kayleigh. If both creators always agree on every aspect of the film and applaud each others genius all the time, neither of them grow and it doesn't do any favors for the work either. In fact, it does the opposite. It makes the work mediocre and the style of each film becomes more monotonous and synonymous with the last film. Any good art needs contrast—an objective eye. It's what's best for the art and the artists. I'm sure you two will find a story, an angle. You'll find what makes it work.”

  “So you want me to let him take full control of my film? Don't think so.”

  “I don't think that's what he wants full control over,” Gunner said. I just sat and listened. None of this really mattered to me. But I was loving Kayleigh's reactions.

  “The Lady doth protest too much,” I said, grinning. That got her attention. Quick.

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  I peered at her. “Thought you read? It's from Hamlet. Look it up. I'm not gonna educate someone who so clearly knows it all.”

  “I bet you've never even read Hamlet. You lifted that quote from the cliffnotes so you could pass senior English. You don't know anything about Shakespeare at all, because if you did, you'd know that in Shakespeare's time, the word protest meant something entirely different than it means today.”

  “Okay,” Mr. Macon clapped his hands together. “Class is over. You're dismissed. Use this energy to fuel your art. Goodbye. Have a great summer, see you all in the fall. Maybe I'll see your films, too.”

  Mr. Macon grabbed his satchel and left with Gunner following him out the door. Everyone else disparted from the room also, but Kayleigh sat there, staring up at me with a daring glare. I gripped the desk she was sitting in. Our little debate carried on.

  “Let me guess. Since you're a six year theater nerd, and on the honor roll in AP English, you're a literary expert now.”

  “No, you used the word out of context.”

  “Actually, the way I used the term fits this situation perfectly, you're just being too literal about it.”

  She wanted to tell me I was wrong again, but I didn't give her the chance. I elaborated, explaining my thorough opinion. “Either way, I win. If you were to translate the word into today's meaning, protest in that sentence would refer to a lady who's promising too much. And you've already insisted on something of which you cannot do.”

  She gave a taunting laugh. “Oh yeah. And what's that?”

  “You can't stay away from me.”

  I'd caught her off guard. She didn't have anything to say. It was like someone had switched the stage light on her and she'd froze.

  “Admit it,” I said, returning her gaze. “You want me.”

  “You're delusional.”

  I reached up and grabbed her filmmaking hat, placing it on my head. I stepped away from the desk, rotating to leave. She flew up from the desk, chasing me.

  “Give it back, jerk!”

  “Not until you admit that you want me. Or deny it.”

  Her face turned red. She was blushing. Or she might've been angry. Never could tell. She jumped up, trying to reach for the hat. I smiled, blocking her. It was fun watching her leap like that. She had to know she wouldn't be successful, right? Finally, she sighed, defeated. “Keep it. I'll just get another one in North Port at the film fest next month.” She gathered her bag and hurriedly shuffled to the door like someone had pulled the fire alarm.

  But I stopped her in her tracks when I said, “You didn't deny it either.” She paused. Yep. That ought to do it. “Well,” I scooped up my notebook. “Thanks for the hat. I'll be sure to annoy you again real soon.” I circled around her, spinning backwards so I could see her as I left.

  “And I'll make extra sure to avoid you.”

  “Does it really take an extended effort?”

  She grimaced, causing me to smirk again. Before I walked out the door, I asked, “Why don't you go back to doing theater since you like pretending?”

  She was about to say something when—

  “—Cut,” I interjected. “I already know why. It's because you suck at it.” Her mouth fell open in shock. I chuckled to myself as I left the building.

  Ah, this was going to be the best summer of my life.

  CHAPTER TEN

  You're going to see me this weekend

  *

  At 5 am a week later, my phone rang. Grrrr, I'm sleepy. Only one per
son would call this damn early. My mom, to tell me that she had to work a double shift at the hospital. Why couldn't she just text? I reached over on my nightstand and grabbed up my cell, answering the call.

  “Hello?” I said in a sleepy voice.

  “I think I'm gonna call you everyday at this hour.” It took me a moment to place the voice on the other end.

  “Kaleb?”

  “Yeah,” I heard the smile in his voice. “It's me.”

  “It's five am, what's wrong with you?” This was my best hour of sleep. If it got interrupted I would be grouchy for the rest of the day.

  “You gave me your number, you didn't give me a list of available times to call.”

  I plopped back down on my pillow. “A normal person would know not to call someone at this hour,” I groaned.

  He chuckled. “I know that. I wanted to annoy you some more. It's fun.”

  “I'm hanging up.”

  “No—don't.”

  “What do you want? Just text me. Maybe I'll answer at a normal hour.”

  “I just wanted to let you know that you're gonna see me this weekend whether you like it or not. Aren't you excited?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Alone with him in the middle of the night

  *

  My mom was gone for the weekend.

  When Kaleb picked me up, Rebekah was in the passenger's seat. He asked her politely to get in the back but she said—

  “You treat all of your girlfriends this way?”

  “You're not my girlfriend, Bekah.”

  “This is my dad's car. I could take it from you if I wanted.”

  “And you're drugged and you no longer have a license. Sounds like a smart move to me,” Kaleb countered.

  “I'll just walk where I need to go,” she climbed out of the car and slammed the door. She marched over to me. “Just remember that whatever you two do tonight, I was with him first. Taught him everything he knows.”

  “Okay? Eww, that's gross. He's your step-brother and you have a baby with that creepy dude.”

  “Didn't used to be that way.”

  “That's how it is now, so back off.” Rebekah disappeared down the street.