The Sidekicks

by Will Kostakis

  Mum eats all the mushrooms she has served herself, then starts to fork them off Dad’s plate. ‘Gerard is okay with me taking a half-day,’ she says.

  She wants to come to the funeral. I tell her no one else’s parents are going to be there.

  ‘Ryan’s will be.’

  ‘But she is a teacher.’

  She goes for Dad’s last mushroom, and he blocks her with his fork. I twist my plate so that my mushrooms are closest to her. She makes a start on those. ‘Are you certain you’ll be fine?’

  INT. SCIENCE LAB – MORNING

  Mr Barber faces the whiteboard. He is talking the class through last night’s homework but he has hit a roadblock. He checks the page in his hand and then adjusts what he has written on the board.

  ISAAC

  Have you thought about zombie

  vampires?

  MILES (O.S.)

  What about them?

  ISAAC

  Let’s put them in the movie.

  MILES (O.S.)

  (beat)

  Really?

  ISAAC

  Yeah, why not?

  MILES (O.S.)

  How would it even work? Would they

  be vampires first, who then became

  zombies, or were they zombies who

  were then bitten by vampires?

  ISAAC

  That’s the film!

  MILES (O.S.)

  (beat)

  No.

  It works like an IV drip of memory. My computer sits to one side, propped open just enough to keep from hibernating. The cord snakes from the audio jack, up under my blazer and out my left sleeve. The bud sits in my palm, pressed against my head.

  ISAAC

  Okay, then. What if we shoot one

  scene completely hammered?

  I can hear Isaac’s smile. It softens his words, but they have a different meaning now. Between his mouth and my ears, they pass through everything that has happened since.

  ISAAC

  (continuing)

  It won’t tank the film – we’ll

  make sure it isn’t obvious, so at

  the screening, the top brass of

  the school will watch it and not

  realise they’ve just seen us off

  our tits.

  It is all I can do not to shatter while Isaac speaks. That would be excellent for my social standing, bursting at the seams with sadness in the middle of Chemistry.

  ISAAC

  (continuing)

  What? No bueno? Harley thinks it’s

  a good idea.

  I snap the laptop shut and Isaac is quiet. Mr Barber is searching the whiteboard for his error. I check my work and identify where our calculations diverge. I raise my hand.

  ‘The equation is imbalanced,’ I tell him.

  Mr Barber checks over his shoulder. ‘It is?’

  ‘Yes. There should be two molecules on the right instead of one.’

  He makes the adjustment. ‘So there should.’

  ‘Also, may I go to the bathroom?’

  INT. BATHROOM – MORNING

  I stare at my reflection. Leaning on my hand in class has flattened a patch of hair by my ear. I produce a comb from my top blazer pocket and try to tease some volume into it.

  I remember a character doing something similar before their own friend’s funeral.

  Last year, Mr Mochan encouraged us to immerse ourselves in visual stories. We could not be young filmmakers without an intimate understanding of the medium. I probably took it too far, consuming hours of video, mostly television. I started to notice the repetitions. When someone dies on television, there is an arc to it. Characters grieve, there is lots of watching their own reflections, lots of contemplation, and in the episodes that follow the funeral, they begin to embrace life without the deceased, and meet the new kid who looks strangely like the person who has just died. After a few episodes, the new character goes from existing on the show’s fringes to featuring in its opening credits.

  That is largely how it goes. Largely, not always. Sometimes, a character might grieve, do everything they are supposed to, like contemplate opposite their own reflection, but when they try to rebuild their life, they falter. They are redefined by their persistent sadness, and they are never quite the same.

  I run the comb through my hair.

  That will not be me, will it?

  No. I have the footage. I am fine. I am fine.

  The door swings open. Ryan enters shoulder first, his tie hangs unmade around his neck. He is surprised to see me standing here.

  We exchange greetings and the occasional glance. He struggles to tie a knot. I can see him bouncing back after this. Swimming is everything to him. Two episodes and he will be fine. I am sure of it.

  And I have the footage. I am fine. I am . . . not sure of it.

  ‘Do you ever worry about getting depression?’ I ask Ryan.

  INT. CORRIDOR – MORNING

  I hesitate. The rest of my class files into the chapel. Through the doorway, past the adults exchanging solemn looks, I see the coffin. Isaac’s photograph rises from a bed of flowers.

  I fall out of myself. I picture the extreme close-up of my mouth as my breathing wavers, and then, the mid shot from my right side that reveals the corridor and stream of students walking towards the chapel.

  I step back. Omar asks me where I am going.

  INT. COMPUTER LAB – MORNING

  I steady my trembling hand and select ISAAC_01. I look to the wall and Isaac fills it.

  Isaac looks down at his lap.

  ISAAC

  And I’m just there like, ‘What are you doing?’

  I exhale. Isaac is alive.

  Isaac is alive.

  INT. COMPUTER LAB – AFTERNOON

  SUPERIMPOSE: TWO WEEKS LATER

  I pause the footage. Isaac is blurred mid-motion. I jump forwards a few frames until he is in focus. Perfect.

  Isaac smiles.

  ‘So, what is for lunch today?’ I ask for him. It is penne drenched in some kind of secret sauce. I pop open the plastic container and catch a whiff. ‘Yes. You are not missing much, to be honest. Anyway, in English . . .’ I shovel some penne out and taste it. ‘Actually, revising my verdict. This is not half-bad.’

  Isaac smiles.

  If I had to guess, I would say I have eight or so hours of Isaac footage. It might seem like a lot, but in the context of how many hours I have to fill in a week, it is not much. I have to pace myself. I have to pause pretty regularly. We have a chat. Well, I chat and Isaac smiles. I like it.

  ‘Right, English . . .’

  INT. MILES’S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

  I slide my book back under the coffee table and push up off the lounge. On my way past her, Mum asks, ‘How are the boys?’

  ‘Good. We are talking a lot.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  INT. COMPUTER LAB – AFTERNOON

  ‘I got a Chemistry assessment back. I topped it by half a mark.’

  Isaac smiles.

  INT. CORRIDOR – MORNING

  ‘Miles!’

  I stop and Michael quickens his pace to catch up.

  ‘Hey.’ He rolls his neck a weird way and it cracks. ‘We were talking in Drama about your movie from last year. Do you still have it?’ He leans in like it is a secret. ‘The one with Isaac in it?’

  ‘Um.’

  I have never contemplated showing Point of View again. It was made for one night and one very specific audience. Its success at the festival had less to do with the film and more to do with the jury, and what I knew about each juror. Brother Mitchell, a man of faith, he was especially moved by the religious themes. Ms Thomson, a mother, she was pleased to see her son in such a prominent role. Mrs Herrera, a late addition to the jury, she saw her culture reflected in Harley, who I added to the film at the eleventh hour and had speak in a Spanish accent.

  ‘I reckon it’d be neat,’ Michael says, ‘just to see him again.’

  ‘I a
m not sure . . .’

  ‘Heaps of people would want to see it.’

  INT. COMPUTER LAB – AFTERNOON

  I do not expect many people to show up. The room gradually fills, and twenty minutes into lunch, Michael closes the door and gives me a thumbs up. Thirty-three people. We have run out of chairs. I had not anticipated a crowd. I had expected Ryan though. Perhaps Michael thought I would invite him.

  I still have the speech memorised, the one I introduced Point of View with at the festival, but that was more about appeasing the jurors (‘This film features positive representations of people of colour, religion and Ryan!’) than anything else. I stand in front of thirty-three people and realise this is not about Point of View.

  This is about Isaac.

  ‘Here it is.’ I nod and step back.

  When he realises that is the extent of my introduction, Michael dims the lights.

  I start the film.

  When Isaac first appears on-screen, there are gasps. At some point, I stop watching the projection and watch the others instead.

  They stare wide-eyed, enraptured. His narration shots are composed like the rest, but they feel strikingly different. He has a presence on-screen, a charisma death has intensified. His smile is other-worldly.

  They look past all the jury-appeasing cleverness and they see Isaac.

  Point of View is not Miles Cooper’s triumph any more, it is Isaac Roberts’s final starring role.

  INT. MILES’S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

  My phone whistles a notification. Mum looks up from her book. Her gaze burns. I do not check my phone until she turns away. It is a new Black Ops email from Michael.

  We had a screening of your movie today, man. It was something. All the Drama kids came. Miss you, and not just because I have this piece of shit essay due and could do with a hand. Hope you ’re rocking it up there.

  Goosebumps prick my forearm.

  I could help him. All I would need to do is email an essay. There would be no need to do it in person, because I would not be doing it for money. The problem is, it would be too easy to trace back to me. Michael would wonder who wrote it, and who else would write an essay he did not have to?

  No, if I were to do it, I would need to deliver it in a way that pinned it on someone else . . .

  INT. AQUATIC CENTRE CHANGE ROOM – MORNING

  I emerge from the cubicle when I am certain all the swimmers are gone.

  I find Ryan’s bag in one corner. THOMSON is written in liquid paper beneath the top zipper. I slide the envelope underneath and retreat to the cubicle.

  I sit on the lowered lid and wait. The task was not particularly difficult. I found the details on the English intranet. It was a close textual analysis. We had done something similar so I could lift whole lines from mine. I added spelling mistakes and syntactical quirks, though, for authenticity.

  Someone enters the change room at half-past seven. Michael is on time. The footsteps circle as he searches for Ryan’s bag. He finds it. He unzips it. I told him the envelope was under the bag. He recognises his error. He zips it up. I strain to hear what he is doing. After a minute, he leaves.

  I count to ten and let myself out. I check underneath Ryan’s bag. The envelope is still there. I check inside.

  Michael has left a fifty-dollar note.

  All I wanted to do was make his life without Isaac a little easier. I had not expected payment, but I am not going to complain about an extra fifty dollars. I pocket it.

  INT. COMPUTER LAB – MORNING

  I re-read Isaac’s Herald Daily article.

  I would give the world to be mentioned in it once.

  INT. COMPUTER LAB – AFTERNOON

  I bite into my sandwich as ISAAC_13 begins to play. It is the final solo Isaac file.

  Isaac cleans his teeth with his tongue and bares his grin at Miles, off-screen.

  ISAAC

  Anything?

  MILES (O.S.)

  All clear.

  I cringe. I hate hearing my recorded voice.

  MILES (O.S.)

  (continuing)

  And go.

  Isaac shifts in his seat and clears his throat. He shifts some more.

  MILES (O.S.)

  (continuing)

  Sometime this year.

  ISAAC

  (smirking)

  I have a process.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Hurry it up, Brando.

  ISAAC

  (still smirking)

  ‘Well, sir, I just really think –’

  MILES (O.S.)

  Can you say it without the smirk?

  I lean closer.

  Isaac’s smirk fades.

  ISAAC

  (deadpans)

  Hi. I’m not allowed to show any real emotion in this piece.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Isaac!

  Isaac laughs. He applauds himself.

  ISAAC

  You’ve gotta admit that was pretty funny.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Yes. Gold star.

  Isaac shifts in his seat again. He begins to chew on the inside of one cheek.

  MILES (O.S.)

  (continuing)

  Isaac?

  Isaac pops open his mouth to stop chewing. His gaze is vacant.

  ISAAC

  Yeah?

  MILES (O.S.)

  Can I ask you something? And you will be honest with me?

  Isaac nods.

  MILES (O.S.)

  (continuing)

  Are you on something?

  Isaac scoffs.

  ISAAC

  It’s Friday arvo, isn’t it?

  MILES (O.S.)

  Is that a yes?

  Isaac laughs again.

  ISAAC

  It’s pretty funny.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Stop saying that. It is not funny. I ask you to do this one thing, and you show up blazed!

  ISAAC

  I’m not blazed.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Forgive me if I do not know the correct terminology, Isaac.

  ISAAC

  Annoying when people correct you, isn’t it?

  MILES (O.S.)

  (beat)

  All I need is ten minutes, two if you take it seriously and just say the line.

  ISAAC

  All you need. This is all you. Your movie. Your glory. You do it yourself.

  Isaac stands up.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Very funny. Come on, sit down . . .

  There is a cut, and then:

  Miles sits in the seat. His eyes are bloodshot. He smiles feebly.

  MILES

  I guess it is just you and me now.

  I look into my own eyes. I remember that feeling.

  INT. MILES’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

  I sit on the edge of my bed and watch the four statuettes standing on the top shelf – Best Film, Best Director, Best Script and Best Editor. From the moment Mr Mochan pitched the festival idea, to the night of the festival itself, I worked for those four statuettes. I lived and breathed that film. And I triumphed.

  BEGIN FLASHBACK:

  INT. CHAPEL – NIGHT

  I stand at the podium, clutching my fourth statuette of the night.

  ‘And thank you to Isaac, Ryan and Harley,’ I say, ‘without whose help this film would not have been possible.’

  I see their three seats in the back row are empty. They must have ducked out between awards.

  ‘I dedicate this to them,’ I say anyway.

  END FLASHBACK.

  INT. MILES’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

  Maybe triumphed is the wrong word. The more time passes, the less it feels like triumph.

  Maybe I should have let Isaac film a scene with a traffic cone on his head, and written in zombie vampires, and acted drunk in one scene.

  Maybe then it would have been different. Maybe Isaac would not have shown up under the influence. Maybe he would have stayed for the final award. Maybe I would have featured in his He
rald Daily article.

  Maybe I would not be here, after weeks of watching footage, wondering if he and I really were friends.

  ‘Isaac?’ I ask out loud. ‘Were we actually friends?’

  In the absence of an answer, my eyes drift to the floor. My laptop charges at my feet. I pull it up onto the bed and pull back the screen. I navigate to the folder of raw footage. My instinct is to revisit one of his solo clips. I reconsider and select ACTION_01. I have no idea what it is.

  The vision is shaky – I am holding the camera in my hands.

  Ryan and Harley prepare for their fight scene. Ryan grips his foot and pulls it back, stretching his quadriceps. Harley sips an energy drink.

  HARLEY

  I don’t get how this is going to make any sense. Do they just start fighting in the middle of -?

  I stop the clip. Isaac was away that day. I select DIALOGUE_01. My heart skips a beat when I see Isaac standing on the edge of the frame. He blurs in and out of focus.

  Isaac leans against the wall, exasperated. Miles is off-screen.

  ISAAC

  Wouldn’t it be easier if the others were here?

  MILES (O.S.)

  No.

  ISAAC

  Such venom!

  I remember the plan. I would get Isaac in focus, then step into frame and act out the scene. I did not need the others. We could do it on our own.

  MILES (O.S.)