by Viv Daniels
A little farther away the glass and metal tower of the Bioengineering Department rose up among a copse of trees. It was one of the newer buildings on campus, paid for by the largesse of the local pharmaceutical company, which liked to hire graduates. The bioengineering program here was what had lured Dylan, and then Tess, to this school. I used to wait for Dylan in their beautiful atrium, though I’d never taken one of the courses myself. I couldn’t even hack statistics.
I veered away from both structures and through the far gate. Here, administrative and classroom buildings of brick and stone lined the block. The sidewalks were crowded with students and booths set up for the back to school activity fair. I wandered listlessly through the throng, glancing at the displays without any real interest. I wasn’t about to suddenly join an acapella group or a service organization or a juggling team, halfway through what I supposed was my junior year.
God, this was depressing. All my friends were seniors. They were going to graduate. I had one more semester after them.
That is, if I could get my act together.
At that moment, who did I see but Miss Has-Her-Act-Together herself, Tess McMann, coming down the path toward me. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and her hair was in a ponytail. Her backpack was situated primly on both shoulders and she clutched a notebook in her hands, like she was posing for the Canton College brochure. Come to Canton, where we have pretty brunettes who are also genius science students. Sure, they may steal your boyfriend, but they’ll also solve the energy crisis!
I bolted from the sidewalk before she could spot me, hurrying up the steps and into the nearest building.
I was such a coward. I couldn’t even look my own sister in the face.
But wasn’t that why I’d left school in the first place? After the semester I’d had, with the thyroid testing and the class failing and the being dumped, I could barely show my face on campus. I needed to suck it up and get on with life.
Like my parents said. Like Boone said.
And Boone would know, wouldn’t he? The sting of seeing Tess prance around campus like the perfect co-ed was nothing compared to what it must have been like for him those first few years after running away, when he couldn’t afford the basic necessities, while his horrible father enjoyed his riches. What it must have felt like to see his mom remarried to another rich man, when he was living out of a truck.
I was being such a baby by comparison. So my sister was smarter than me. So she was in love with my boyfriend. Talk about rich girl problems.
But I still didn’t head back to the street.
I was in the building housing the American and Film Studies departments. I’d spent some time in here, the semester I’d tried American Studies, and also for that intro film class I’d tried my sophomore year. The halls were wide and the ceilings high, the better to house the screening rooms I knew were situated on both sides of the hall.
I wondered if there were screenings going on now. I’d rather bury myself in a dark room for ninety minutes of silent German Expressionism than risk going back outside and running into Tess.
There was a bulletin board in the hallway and I read the notices, trying to kill some time. Mostly listings for upcoming student films—the usual casting notices, or calls for help with production or lighting. A few announcements regarding upcoming Film Society screenings and some specialty events for the fall season.
And then I caught sight of an email print out. It seemed to have been sent by the department head to everyone in the Film Studies department regarding a new class, Film 323: Screenwriting Workshop.
The two open slots in this semester’s junior screenwriting workshop will be filled on a merit basis. Potential applicants should submit the first thirty pages of their screenplay to Professor Thompson at [email protected] by five p.m. on Monday of the first week of classes.
Inside my chest, some tiny spark flared to life. My mind filled with fantasies of sitting around a big seminar table chatting about screenwriting with other students. Pacing and characterization, budgets and framing.
Of course, it would never happen that way. I’d want to talk about The Exorcist and James Whale and they’d laugh me out of the room.
Actually, I’d never even get in the room. I’d written precisely one screenplay in my life, and it was nowhere near ready to submit to a college-level workshop. I bet the other kids applying were all Film Studies majors. I’d bet they’d done internships at Sony and Disney. It would be idiotic of me to even think of submitting thirty pages of Bloodlines to this workshop.
Stupid. Moronic. Pointless.
I headed to my next class, as my traitorous mind tried to remember where the thirty page cut off of Bloodlines ended. Was it on a good hook? Not that it mattered. I wasn’t sending it in. I was not applying to a screenwriting class. No way. Never.
I sat down in the lecture hall of Advanced Lit Theory and opened up my laptop. People were still filing in as I opened my word processing program and pulled up the Bloodlines file. I’d just check really quick and then put it away. No problem.
I have no idea what happened in my first class in Advanced Literary Theory. I fell into my screenplay and didn’t look up for fifty minutes. And when class was over, I pressed send on the email I was never supposed to write.
Twenty-Six
The reply came on Thursday afternoon, a blip in a rush of administrative announcements marking the start of the semester. I picked up my phone to check my email and my heart stopped.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Film Studies 323 Applicant (Bloodlines)
Dear Ms. Swift,
We are pleased to offer you a place in the Fall Semester class Film Studies 323: Screenwriting Workshop. Due to high demand on the waiting list, we can only hold your place for twenty-four hours. Please reply to this email as soon as possible to confirm your intent to enroll in this class. Attached, you will find the course syllabus and reading list.
We hope to see you next Monday at two PM,
Sincerely,
Donna Thompson
Canton Film Studies
P.S. BLOODLINES was such a treat. I look forward to workshopping it with you.
I squealed and jumped off the couch. I clutched my phone to my chest and danced around the coffee table. I hopped up and down and shrieked, “I got it! I got it!”
I couldn’t believe I got it. And such a treat? Insane. This was unreal. Half the department must have applied to that seminar, and I wasn’t even in the major, and I got in!
Oh wow. Oh… Wow. What in the world was I going to do now?
I’d have to take it, right? I couldn’t waste an opportunity like that. Just one little screenwriting seminar. I could fit another class into my schedule.
I sat down at my computer to check my schedule. Sure I could. Just one class, right on…
No.
Monday afternoons. When Advanced Lit Theory met. I needed that course for my major. What’s more, I needed to take it this semester, since it was a prereq for the spring senior seminar, which needed to be completed before I could start on my thesis project the semester after that. I couldn’t enroll in both classes. Shit.
I closed my laptop and sat back in my seat. Well, that was that. Nice while it lasted. I couldn’t change majors again. I needed to focus on finishing school. Not taking stupid screenwriting courses that didn’t get me any closer to a degree. I wasn’t a Film Studies major, and becoming one wasn’t even an option for me, since I only had two other classes that could be applied to the requirements.
I opened up my laptop and clicked over to the email program to send a reply.
Dear Professor Thompson,
Thank you so much for this opportunity. Unfortunately, I have a required course that conflicts with the seminar, and so will be unable to enroll. I’m sorry that I didn’t realize this conflict before you spent time on my application. I hope I may be considered for any
future class—
I stopped typing. Why bother? Why would I ever get accepted into another class, after blowing her off for this one? Why take a screenwriting class at all? This was so dumb. My dad’s eyes would roll out of his head.
My phone started buzzing on the tabletop, and I picked I up.
“Hey, bitch!” Caitlin singsonged. “We’re all meeting at Verde’s to get our drink on. Come out, come out wherever you are!”
Verde’s, again? We really needed to find a new bar. “What time?”
“Nowwwweeee,” she whined. “Get your fine ass over here.”
I looked at the computer. I didn’t need to answer now. I’d figure out a nice way to turn the slot down later.
“Okay,” I said to Caitlin. “See you in fifteen.”
* * *
Verde’s was hopping. It was the start of the semester, so no one had much work to do yet, and everyone was catching up post-summer vacation. Our entire usual crowd was here, which meant the giant round table Caitlin had reserved was overcrowded, with people squeezing around the booths and standing in clumps with their drinks.
I pitied the waitresses trying to sort out bills at the end of the night. Last year, this might have been Tess, trying desperately to make sure folks paid before they left. I always wondered how much money they lost on giant, sprawling tables like these where they couldn’t keep track of diners, and whether the waitresses themselves were on the hook to cover bills if students drank and dashed.
It had never really occurred to me before who paid the price when my friends got sloppy. Sloppy drunk, sloppy with their bills, sloppy at home or school or anywhere in their perfect, privileged lives.
Caitlin caught me nursing a glass of white wine. “Oh no no no no no no,” she slurred, collapsing into the booth next to me. “This is shot night!” She handed me something bright blue and creamy and lifted her own, matching shot glass.
I set it down on the table. “I’m not really in the mood tonight.”
Her face fell. “You’re never in the mood anymore, Hannah.” She laid her head on my shoulder. “What is going on with you lately? You haven’t been the same since Europe. No, before Europe,” she amended. “Since that whole mess with Dylan. You need to get over him.”
“I’m over him,” I snapped. I hadn’t even thought about him tonight—even here at Verde, when I couldn’t help but think of Tess. “Jesus, Cait. This isn’t about some stupid guy.”
She lifted her head and looked at me. “Then what is it? I have no idea what’s going on with you anymore. You’re sleeping with some homeless guy, you’re never answering my phone calls, you come back from Paris and don’t bring me so much as a scarf…”
“Sorry about that,” I replied. She wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t been keeping her in the loop about my disaster of a life lately. But I didn’t have any idea how to even start. Dylan wasn’t just Dylan, it was a giant tangle of Dylan and Tess and my father. And if I started talking about it, well, that would make an even bigger mess. I picked up the shot. Maybe if I drank with her, she’d forgive and, more importantly, forget. “To a great year.”
She clinked her glass with mine and we downed the shots, which instantly coated my mouth and throat in cloying creaminess. I didn’t even feel the burn of alcohol. “Whoa. What was in that?”
“I dunno.” Caitlin shrugged. “Blue. Cream. I dunno.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Seriously, hon,” she said. “What’s on your mind?”
Tonight? I took a deep breath. “Well, I got into this really cool class but I’m not sure I can take it.”
“What class?” Another pair of shots appeared in front of us, courtesy of the crowd across the table.
I grabbed mine and knocked it back. “A screenwriting seminar,” I gasped as the alcohol burned my throat. Tequila, this time. “But it meets at the same time as one of my required courses.”
“That sucks,” Caitlin said. “Screenwriting? Like, scripts and stuff?”
“Yeah.”
She cocked her head drunkenly at me. “Did you write a script?”
“To get in, yeah, I had to write a script.”
“Holy shit!” she exclaimed, and smacked my arm. “Hannah! I had no idea. What’s with you and the secrets?”
She had me there. “Well, it was just something I was doing for fun. I only applied to the class last minute.”
“That’s so cool. What is it about?”
“It’s a horror movie.”
She snort-laughed. “Figures. You love that shit.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I do.” That wasn’t so hard. Maybe next I could tell her about the blog. I’d told Tess, who I was angry with; I’d told Boone, who wasn’t speaking to me; maybe I should start telling my actual friends.
Becca sailed over with her hands full of more shot glasses. “Come on, ladies! Catch up.”
Caitlin grabbed one. “Let’s drink to Hannah and her awesome screenplay.”
“What?” Becca leaned over us, shouting above the crowd. “What is this about a screenplay?” I drank another shot to save me from answering. A pleasant heat had started in my belly and was buzzing its way up to my brain.
“Hannah got into some hotshot screenplay writing seminar in the theater department,” Caitlin announced.
“Film,” I corrected, trying to talk around her hair, as she’d flipped her head to look at Becca.
“What?” Becca said. “You wrote a screenplay?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, with a wave of my hand. “I’m not going to take the class.”
“Aww,” Becca whined. “That sucks. Why not?”
“It conflicts with one of my required courses.”
“Sucks,” Caitlin agreed, then burped. “Guess you could always change your major…again, right Becks?”
Becca laughed and they clinked their shots, then drank them down.
Caitlin jostled my shoulder. “Kidding, honey. Kidding.”
“Though you could,” Becca added. “You aren’t graduating with the rest of us anyway, so who cares when you do it?”
“Good point.” Caitlin stood. “I’m going to get us some more drinks.”
I stared into my still-full wine glass. “Yeah, but change it to what?” I asked. “Seriously. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be studying here.”
Becca peered at me. “Really? Jeez, Hannah. It’s not rocket science. Just pick something.”
That’s what my parents wanted me to do, too. “Is that what you did?” I asked Becca.
“Hell, no!” she replied. “I want to work in politics, that’s why I’m a poli-sci major. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what about this screenplay thing?”
“I don’t know!” God, now I was snapping at them. I took a big glug of my wine.
Becca shook her head. “Honey, maybe you should have stayed in Europe a little longer.”
After that, Becca wandered off to find people who weren’t such a bummer. People who had focus. Caitlin didn’t return, probably for the same reasons. I found another shot to drink, this one hot pink.
God, I was a mess. It was probably better that I didn’t take the class. I didn’t need a psych degree to tell you what Bloodlines was about. When I was writing it, I had all these crazy ideas that I was writing an homage to Rosemary’s Baby. The truth was too pedestrian. A girl discovers that her beloved father fathered multiple children, promising each to different demons in return for his earthly success. As the children come of age, they are gruesomely murdered. Is she next on the list?
Yeah, not much of a question where my inspiration came from. How did I propose to sit in class to workshop characterization when I couldn’t even tell my best friends why I was so screwed up?
I pulled out my phone, squinting as the screen blurred in front of me. I pulled up my other email, and tapped out a response that was way overdue.
Dear Sam,
Actually, we did speak at a s
creening. I was just incognito. I’m so glad you liked my review and that your movie is getting the response you hoped for.
I was hoping you might give me a bit of advice. I just got accepted into a screenwriting class at my school, but my script is horror and I’m afraid I’ll get laughed out of the room. Thoughts?
Blood and guts,
Final Girl
Ha. I was so witty. I pressed SEND.
Holy shit, what did I just do?
I spent quite a while staring at my phone.
Some time later, I felt a body slide in next to me. “Hey, there, gorgeous.”
I blinked at the figure next to me. “Hi.”
“Where’s your friend tonight?”
I had no friends. “Who?”
“That loser you were out with last month.”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I haven’t spoken to him.”
I felt his arm slip around my shoulders. “My lucky night.”
I shrugged, but it did nothing to dislodge the arm. Had it gotten darker in here? “Where’s Caitlin?”
“I think she went home.” I felt his lips vibrate against my ear. “Don’t worry, Hannah. I’ll take care of you.”
Twenty-Seven
The tile was cold and gritty against my cheek, and my body ached as I was hauled roughly off the floor.
“She weighs a ton. She doesn’t seem like it, but she does.”
“Shut up and grab her before she smacks her head on the toilet.”
I knew that voice. How did I know that voice? Hands slipped beneath my armpits and more of my body was forced upright.
“Where am I?” I groaned as light rays like daggers pierced my eyes.
“Are you kidding me? No,” the first voice said, annoyed. “No—eww, she’s disgusting. She’s not going in my car.”
“Then we’ll use hers. Find her purse.” The second voice seemed close to my ear. Gentler, somehow. I leaned toward it.
