by Jen Brady
“Big game against Andover Tuesday,” Craig said. “You going?”
“Yeah, probably,” Rick said.
Craig wore a high school letterman jacket with several pins on it that jangled when he moved.
“Cool. Noah might start.”
“Awesome,” Rick said, nodding his head once. “See you then.”
“Yep.” Craig retreated, and I heard him and Emma whispering behind us. Rick bent down to retrieve the other popcorn bucket, then settled back into his seat.
“Neighborhood friend?” I asked.
“No, a good friend from high school,” Rick said. “We played basketball and baseball together for years.
That made no sense, grade-wise. Why would a guy in his second year of college have played on a basketball team with people who were currently in high school?
“But . . .”
“But what?”
“You’re a sophomore, right?”
“Yeah, technically.” He popped a piece of popcorn into his mouth.
I felt my eyebrows narrow. “What do you mean technically.”
“I just finished my first semester at Lowell. But I tested out of math and got a bunch of retroactive credits for blowing through a 400-level German course. Growing up in a bilingual house was pretty handy for that. I’m sophomore status, but it’s a technicality. If I hadn’t skipped second grade, I’d be suiting up for the game Tuesday with Craig.”
This new info threatened to change everything.
“You have a bunch of retro credits and you skipped second grade?”
“Yep, got pulled up to third after the first marking period. I honestly don’t remember much about those few weeks of second grade, but apparently I was causing a lot of trouble and the teacher figured out it was because I was bored.”
It was suddenly more difficult to breathe. I had to force myself to inhale normally, even though I felt like I needed a paper bag to hyperventilate into.
I wasn’t out with an older college guy who would never look at little, old junior-in-high-school me. I was sitting next to a guy who should be graduating this year with Megs.
That was all it took for this whole friendship, partnership, safe crush—whatever you wanted to label it—to feel much more dangerous. Rick wasn’t some cool college guy at a different stage of life than me. He was an actual, viable option, boyfriend-wise.
He’d seemed so mature I’d never questioned it. Then again, I didn’t really spend time with guys except for Ted, who liked pulling immature pranks and putting off work as long as possible.
I was now hyper-aware of everything about him—his body next to mine in those tiny seats with narrow armrests that didn’t leave much room between them, the way his laugh made me smile, and—worst of all—his lips. I suddenly noticed everything about them. The way they framed his huge, genuine smiles, the tiny piece of popcorn that stuck briefly to his top lip, how they looked soft and full but not too soft and full.
This wasn’t a safety crush.
One tiny detail had turned our relationship into as big a risk as hanging out with any other guy would be. This had the potential to turn into the type of distraction I’d spent years belittling and avoiding.
As the lights dimmed, every instinct screamed at me to run, but something anchored me—a tiny voice in the back of my mind that whispered, contrary to everything else I believed, that maybe a certain guy wasn’t such a waste of time after all.
20
RICK
THE LIGHTS DIMMED, and that flicker of excitement I always got when a movie I’d been looking forward to was about to start raced through me.
The bright green screen announcing the first preview showed, and Joanna muttered, “I hate previews.”
“How can you hate previews?”
She stiffened and shifted away from me, and I realized it had come out as a harsh accusation, but I couldn’t help it. I loved previews more than the actual movie. I’d even bought tickets to a few movies just because it had leaked out that a certain much-anticipated preview would be shown at them.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I mean, I really enjoy previews. What don’t you like about them?”
She laughed, but it felt more forced than the rest of the easy laughter we’d shared that evening. Was she really so offended that I was surprised she didn’t like previews?
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You trying to be all nonchalant about something you’re obviously uber-passionate about.”
I ducked my head.
“It’s not the actual previews I dislike,” she explained. I had to lean closer to hear her over the snippets of the action scene that played in front of us. “But when I see a preview for a movie that looks awesome, I get impatient, and it drives me nuts that I can’t see it for months or even a year or more.”
“But the anticipation is what makes finally getting to see the movie so satisfying. The build-up makes it more exciting. Haven’t you ever made a countdown to opening night?”
She shuddered. “That would be horrific.”
I couldn’t help chuckling.
She fixed me with an intense stare. “I’m not a patient person.”
“You don’t say,” I said, in the most deadpanned voice I could get out.
She smacked me in the shoulder playfully. It released the sudden tension between us, and I considered teasing her more so she’d keep making physical contact. There was something hot about getting flirty-smacked by Joanna March.
She had her hair down, and it was gorgeous, as usual, falling in its caramel-colored waves. And she’d opened up to me big time, confiding all that stuff about her dad and her family’s money issues, like I was more to her than this dull-as-dirt, documentary-making slob she was forced to hang out with.
Not that she had feelings for me that went beyond friendship (because let’s face it; what fool would dump Laurence and his Porsche for me?). But that was precisely why I’d felt comfortable asking her to see the movie with me. It was more fun going with a pretty girl I could joke around with than by myself (or as Craig and Emma’s third-wheel, as I often did), and it’s not like she’d expect anything to come from one night of movie-going.
The next preview started. It was obvious within the first three seconds it was for the new James Bond.
Joanna leaned closer to me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up as her breath skimmed my ear. “See,” she said softly. “How am I supposed to wait to see that? It looks awesome.”
I turned my head slightly, but she didn’t pull back, so our faces ended up about an inch apart.
All I’d have to do was lean the slightest bit farther, and our lips would touch.
“Well,” I said, fighting to keep my words even as “Bond. James Bond,” introduced himself on-screen and I caught a whiff of her shampoo that made me dizzy. “The good thing about this being a second-run theater is that the previews are also for second-run movies, so they’re probably almost ready to be released in the regular theaters. You won’t have to wait long.”
A date in big, block typeface appeared on-screen, and the announcer’s voice boomed. “This February . . .”
“See,” I said. “You can see it in a couple of weeks.”
February at the movies. Valentine’s Day. What if we came back then, only I brought her roses and put my arm around her during the movie and kissed her good-night when I dropped her off?
Nope. Would never happen. I shoved the thought out of my mind.
The dancing popcorn and candy cartoon started, reminding us to turn off our phones and throw trash in the garbage instead of on the floor like Neanderthals.
“Aww,” Joanna said, leaning in and sending a shock of shivers up my spine when her arm pressed against mine. “This one’s cuter than the one at Concord Crossings. The dancing popcorn guy on that one has creepy eyes.”
She leaned over even farther to take a handful of popcorn out of the bucket I held, and her hair brushed my cheek. When she pulled
away, a couple of flyaway strands stuck to the stubble on my cheek. It was all I could do to discreetly brush them away instead of twist in my chair and run my fingers through a huge chunk of the silky waves.
There was no way I was going to be able to pay attention to the movie sitting this close to her for two hours.
THE QUALITY OF THE movie saved me.
It was so good, it took my mind off Joanna, even though she was sitting right next to me.
I was ready to stay in my seat to soak it all in, but she got to her feet as soon as the credits rolled.
“Don’t tell me you hate credits, too.” I always stayed until the bitter end. You never knew when a cut scene or trailer for the next in a series would be tacked on.
She stuck her tongue out at me. “No, smarty pants. I don’t mind credits. I’m just used to leaving right away because Ted always wants to beat the crowd so nobody dings his car in the parking garage.”
“Luckily, there are probably only twelve other cars in the lot, and I don’t care if someone dings my car,” I said.
She sat back down, and we watched the credits roll, listening to the soundtrack play in silence for a couple of minutes.
“Wow,” I commented.
“Yeah, that was really good,” she said, and I refrained from admitting how shocked I was that we’d agreed on something movie-related. “Someday, people will feel like this when they sit through the end of my credits.”
I had no doubt she was right. Spending creative time with her had shown me she was so much more than the fun-and-games YouTuber she shared with the rest of the world. She was smart, creative, and determined. She’d take Hollywood by storm someday.
“Have you always wanted to be a director?”
“Director and screenwriter,” she corrected.
“Sorry. Have you always wanted to be a director and screenwriter?” I repeated, trying my best imitation of her tone.
“I used to want to be an actress,” she said. “But when I got older, I realized I wasn’t a good actor. Not like Megs. I could tell by watching our movies. She was a natural. I wasn’t. Plus, actresses are pretty.”
“You’re pretty,” I said. How could she not see that?
“You’re sweet,” she said. “But you’d think differently if you knew my sisters. I’m fine with it. We all have different gifts.”
“No, really, you—”
“How about you?” She didn’t want to continue the conversation about her looks, it seemed. “Have you always wanted to make movies?”
“Since sixth grade. That was the year we had this assignment to look into three jobs we wanted to have someday. I chose movie director as one of my three. We were supposed to look up all these questions like how much money it paid, where jobs were in the field, what you’d have to do. Stuff like that. I got in so much trouble over that assignment.”
“Why?”
“My teacher only wanted us to put down realistic career ambitions, so she made us do any of them over that she felt were too out there. Like Craig put NBA player, and she told him that wasn’t possible and made him pick something else. And one girl put President of the US, and she had to do it over, too.”
“That’s awful,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “Way to crush little kids’ dreams, lady.”
“I thought so, too, so I refused to redo it. I told her I was going to be a movie director and she couldn’t make me redo the assignment. She ended up calling a meeting with my parents, and my dad told me I had to do what the teacher said. Ever since then, we’ve been at odds about filmmaking. He calls it my hobby and thinks I spend too much time on it. I once asked him what I could do to prove to him it wasn’t just a pipe dream, and he held up this gymnastics trophy of my sister’s and said, ‘Win a competition.’ That’s why Lights, Camera, Vance! is so important to me. It’s probably my last chance to prove to him that I can do this before I get shuttled down a different career path.”
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, sheer determination dancing in the pretty gray. “Then let’s get you a win.”
21
JOANNA
RICK SHOWED UP AT MY house a little early on Wednesday. I’d like to think it was because he was anxious to see me after we’d shared the movie together, but I knew that probably had nothing to do with it. More likely, he’d had an errand to run earlier in Concord or something.
His early arrival interrupted my editing. The other day, Ted and I had filled his entire staircase and entry way with those colored ball-pit balls they have at fast food restaurant play-lands and then devised silly competitions, the best of which were:
Bethany marking one yellow ball with a black Sharpied X and making us search for it in the huge room-o-balls.
Hiding various items among all the balls and seeing who could find the most within five minutes.
Jumping off the stairs into the balls and having each jump scored.
Pelting each other from across the room with Nerf guns and diving under the balls to avoid getting hit.
I was going through the nearly two hours of footage, choosing the funniest parts to compile into a 12-15-minute video when Rick texted to say he was on his way. I texted back permission to let himself in, since I was the only one home.
Rick was way more patient than I would have been, sitting next to me for over half an hour while I worked. I’d already chosen and spliced together nine minutes of footage, and I still had to fit in the Nerf gun battle and the banister diving. This one was going to be hard to cut down for time. I could let it run longer, but the sweet spot for our viewers had consistently clocked in at under fifteen minutes.
I clicked back and forth between a shot of Ted turning around to grin at the camera right as I hit him in the back of the head with a Nerf bullet and one of us trying to beat each other to the top of the stairs and be the first to jump into the balls.
“Which one’s funnier?” I asked as I replayed them again.
“Both are awesome, but you gotta love Laurence getting popped in the head while preening for the camera,” Rick said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s perfect.”
I highlighted the clip of us running up the stairs and hit delete. The total length decreased by eleven seconds. Rick sat close to me, watching as I worked, but I didn’t mind him hovering nearly as much as I did when Mya mouth-breathed behind me. Maybe it was because Mya didn’t smell as good as Rick.
“Did you see that?” I cried from on-screen. I thrashed through balls to get to the camera. “He totally cheated!”
“I did not!” Ted retorted. He jumped up and belly-flopped into the balls, then whined, “Ow!” as he stood up.
Both Bethany (behind the camera) and I (about a foot in front of the camera) started laughing at his silliness as he limped to me, holding his side.
“That hurt!” he moaned, giving the camera these sad puppy-dog eyes that would get several *swoon!* comments. “And I didn’t cheat.”
I picked up a green ball and threw it at him. “You totally cheated.”
Ted clutched the spot on his chest where the ball had hit. “Ow.” He stuck his face in the camera and declared, “She’s mean.”
“That didn’t hurt,” I said, pushing in front of him to get closer to the camera. “Click the Like button if you think Ted’s being a big baby.”
I paused the video there. I wanted to keep it in because it included a great call-to-action that would get us lots of engagement, but it wasn’t as funny as some of the other moments I hadn’t put in yet.
“Wow,” Rick muttered as I considered.
“What?”
“If I could change anything about myself, I’d want to be more comfortable on camera like you guys.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. My face always looks so forced.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
In the videos I’d seen, he looked rather put together and professional. It was funny how different he was in real life. IRL Rick was so laid-back and friendly. On-
screen Rick was poised and polished.
“Thanks,” he said with a wistful smile, “but I know I’m not charismatic. That’s why I need everything to be scripted. All my intros, my questions. I don’t deviate much, even when an interview takes an unexpected turn. I couldn’t do what you do.”
He said it like he was impressed with the random ad-libbing of our videos.
“What I do? On the channel?”
He couldn’t possibly be impressed with our content. It was silly compared to what he did. It took no talent to goof around on-screen with your best friend.
“Yeah.”
“All we do is mess around. Anybody can do it. You just come up with a funny thing to try and do it while someone films you.”
He’d started shaking his head before I was done talking. “Nope. There’s way more to it than that. You and Laurence have this . . . thing . . . that most people don’t have. You’re natural on camera. When someone watches your videos, they feel like they’re part of your life, like they’re along for the ride, sitting right next to you as you throw bath bombs in a pool or toilet paper trees. People don’t feel like that when they watch my videos.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I saved my progress and toggled over to Wrap Up Pro.
“Your turn,” he announced. “What would you change?”
I knew instantly the one thing I’d most want to change about myself, and there was no way I was admitting it to Rick.
“I’m not playing that game.” I did my best to look bored with the topic as I turned to the computer. “We should get to work.”
He nudged my arm with his elbow playfully. “Come on. The one thing you’d most like to change about yourself. It doesn’t have to be related to filming.”
It should have been my hot temper. Or my impatient nature. Or the way I blurted things out without thinking. Or even my bull-in-a-china-shop clumsiness and my tendency to sit on cupcakes in the middle of school dances (long, embarrassing story; don’t ask).
