Love Somebody, page 9
Mrs. Reagan doesn’t even watch the whole video. She pauses about halfway through, and as she opens her mouth, I blurt out, “That’s not the final cut, obviously. I still have some things to clean up in the video, and I don’t have good sound-recording equipment at home, so the music is a little—”
“The music is actually what I wanted to talk about.” She’s frowning, her earlier excitement about the project gone. “Don’t you think that it’s … I don’t know … unsettling for a Bellerose Assembly project?”
I shake my head. “That’s what I was going for. Something to contrast the story a bit, make the viewer think.”
Clearly, that’s not what she wanted me to say, because she sits back in her chair, pursing her lips. “I understand that your fathers’ story has its sad moments, and it’s certainly worth addressing the hardships gay couples have suffered in the past”—It was barely fourteen years ago, I think but decide against saying out loud—“but I don’t know if a school-organized assembly is the best place to make that statement, Miss Shew.”
“If not there, then where? Sure, love is great or whatever, but so many people take it for granted. I said that was something I wanted to address in my original proposal.”
“Yes, but I didn’t think you’d take quite this approach to it,” Mrs. Reagan says, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “As it stands now, I can’t approve this version of the project for presentation.”
I stare at her. “All because the music isn’t happy enough?”
“The music is unsettling, Rosalyn. It doesn’t fit the tone of the rest of the assembly or the day at large. It would be out of place to include it the way it is now.”
“So, what, I’m just supposed to scrap everything and start over?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been this up-front with a teacher before, but I can’t help it. I told Mrs. Reagan what I wanted to do in my proposal, and she agreed to it. But now—because she assumed I would ham everything up and make it sweet and easily digestible for people—I have to lose my hard work?
She shakes her head, giving me a tired smile. “The footage is good. Nothing about that has to change. Just … change the music a little. It can be sad at times, but from what I read of your proposal, your fathers’ story ends on a hopeful note. The music should probably do the same.”
She says “probably” as if it’s optional, but I know it isn’t. Without a word, I take back my USB drive and leave her office, my head in a fog.
She doesn’t get it. No one ever does. They swallow tragic, doomed love stories every day, as long as they’re presented in a way that makes it seem “worth it,” rather than actually understand the loss involved. I’m trying to present something complicated, something nuanced and above the level of thought normally shown by high schoolers, and nobody wants to hear it. Or at least, the ones who do won’t get to because idealists like Mrs. Reagan can’t handle any story that doesn’t come with a “happily ever after.”
It dawns on me, the farther I walk away from her office, that I’m angry. I don’t get angry often—a caring dad and years of support group ever since I was old enough to know what feelings were have made me pretty good at handling negativity—but in situations like this, it’s the only emotion that makes sense to feel. If I follow Mrs. Reagan’s guidelines, I lose my creative vision, but if I stick to my guns, then it’s more than likely I won’t get to present my project at all.
I pull out my phone to text my dad—something unrelated, something to take my mind off how mad this is making me—and instead I see a text from Christian.
CHRISTIAN: hey! sorry this is short notice, but i was wondering if you wanted to grab a coffee or something at flannery’s? i’m free the rest of the afternoon and thought i’d ask
I’m torn between laughing and screaming at Christian’s perfect, horrendous timing. It’s almost as if he knew when the worst time to ask me out again would be and then waited until that exact moment. I’m tempted to shoot him down right away, but as I open the message thread, something stops me.
Why not consider it more of an experience? I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know anything about how high school dating is supposed to work. I’ve avoided everything to do with it, even in the books I read or movies I watch. I’ve never dated anyone before, nor have I ever really wanted to. Is there something I’m missing here, something that might help me understand what Mrs. Reagan wants from this project? Maybe going on this date will give me some kind of insight into what I’m apparently getting so wrong.
If nothing else, maybe it will help take my mind off how pissed I am right now.
ROS: Okay, sure. I’ll be there in ten, that okay?
CHRISTIAN: sounds good! see you then
I shove my phone back into my pocket and head for my car, shaking my head at myself as I go. Going on a date with somebody as research for a project? Maybe this is a little too far. But I already said yes, and honestly, what could it hurt? This way, I can do my stupid research while I figure out if I actually like Christian at the same time. Two birds, one stone.
I throw my backpack into the passenger seat and start the car, whispering a silent prayer as I put it in gear and start to peel out of the student parking lot, ignoring the thrill of nerves starting to build in my stomach. This is normal. This is what normal teenagers do with their lives on weekday afternoons.
For once in your life, Ros, pretend to be normal. Even if it’s just for an hour.
19
CHRISTIAN
Everything about this date is a mistake.
Sam set the whole thing up. I think she got tired of my constant procrastinating and insisted that if I didn’t do something soon, Ros would lose interest. She decided the best place for us to meet would be Flannery’s, since it’s where the two of us first locked eyes with each other and we’d both be on common ground. She told me exactly what to text Ros, and when she agreed to it, I was shocked. I think even Sam was surprised. The nerves before Ros got here were so bad I almost bailed. But now she’s here, sitting across from me at a tiny table in the corner, and it’s so much worse, because I’m remembering that I hate coffee dates.
Here’s the problem with them, and the reason I’ve never been good at them: Coffee shops aren’t active dates. There’s not much to look at and nothing to do except sit there, sip mochas, and talk. All you can do is talk. It makes these sorts of places perfect for people like Sam, but I’m not Sam. I don’t know how to just … talk. So Ros sits across from me with a mug of some kind of herbal tea, staring at me like she expects me to say something, and I feel like if I even attempt to open my mouth, I’ll throw up.
I wonder if Ros can see the shake in my hands as I point at her mug. “What kind of tea is that?”
She looks down at it, like she has to remember what she ordered. “Lavender and honey.”
“Oh. Are you sick?”
She frowns at me. “What?”
“Oh, I assumed—my mom, when she’s sick, that’s what she drinks.”
“No, I just like the taste.”
“Oh.”
Stop saying oh!
My phone buzzes on the table, and I’m more than happy to distract myself by looking at it.
SAM: How’s it going??
CHRISTIAN: NOT GOOD
SAM: What? Why??
She should know why. I’m the problem here. Without her constantly looking over my shoulder, I’m useless in the conversation. This is such a disaster.
CHRISTIAN: i have no idea what to say! and she’s not talking either so we’re both sitting here not talking
SAM: What was all that research we did for?? Ask her about something she likes!
Something she likes. Yeah. She doesn’t have a favorite book, but she’s read a lot of the classics. I don’t read books. I read a summary of Pride and Prejudice in case she asked about that, but now in my panic I’m forgetting most of it. What about that movie she likes, the Italian one? With the kid who makes friends with a projectionist? What was the name of that movie? I just watched it. I should remember this.
I look up to see Ros staring at me and realize I’ve been engrossed in my phone for the last minute. This can’t look good.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s … my sister is texting me about a homework assignment. She’ll blow up my phone even worse if I don’t answer her.”
Ros nods. “That’s okay.”
Starting off the date with a lie. Good going, Christian.
I suddenly remember what Sam told me to ask about, so I blurt out, maybe a little loudly, “I watched that movie you liked.”
Ros looks startled. “I—the movie?”
“Yeah, the one with the kid and the projectionist guy named … well, I can’t remember their names, but it was good.”
“Oh, you mean Cinema Paradiso?”
“Yeah, that was it.”
“The projectionist’s name is Alfredo.”
“Yeah, I wanted to say something about pasta, but—”
“And the kid’s name is Salvatore.”
“Sure, yeah.”
She frowns again. “You watched it because I said it was my favorite?”
Uh-oh. Is that a creepy thing to do?
“W-well, yeah,” I stammer, starting to consider how fast I could run out of this building and all the way home. “I just, I’d never heard of it before, you know? And if it was something you liked, I mean, I thought it must be really good. And I did like it.”
Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking!
Ros still looks a little uneasy, but she nods. “Well, I’m glad you liked it. It’s kind of a nostalgic movie for me. My dad and I watch it every year.”
“Oh! It’s like your tradition?”
She smiles, and for a second, I think I’m getting somewhere. “Yeah.”
“That’s great. Does your mom like it, too?”
And then the smile drops. “I don’t have a mom.”
“Wha—oh, I’m sorr—”
“We watch it every year on my other dad’s birthday. He’s been dead since I was three, so—”
“No, I get it; that makes sense.”
That. Makes. SENSE? That’s it. I have to get out of here before either Ros kills me for being a jerk or I die from embarrassment right here and now.
Both of us go back to being silent, Ros staring down into her tea, and I reach for my phone again.
CHRISTIAN: ABORT MISSION
SAM: Calm down, you’ve got this
CHRISTIAN: no, i really don’t
CHRISTIAN: i tried to ask about her favorite movie and somehow it turned into a conversation about her dead gay dad
SAM: You WHAT
CHRISTIAN: please help me
SAM: Look, change the subject. NOW. And stop looking at your phone, it makes you look distracted
I set the phone on the table facedown, keeping my hand on it in case Sam decides to give me any more advice, but it doesn’t buzz again. So instead, I sit there, glancing sidelong at Ros as she avoids eye contact and wishing with every fiber of my being that my lucky token, sitting uselessly in my right pocket, could suddenly become sentient, jump down my throat, and choke me.
ROS
Maybe this was a mistake.
I realized as soon as I saw Christian standing in front of the counter at Flannery’s that I hadn’t actually agreed to the date because I wanted to spend time with him. I’d wanted a distraction. But now I’m here, and it’s too late to back out.
I think Christian might be realizing something’s off, too, because he’s acting … different. The guy I’ve been texting has been nice, maybe a little dorky, but overall easy to talk to. In person, it’s a completely different story. He’s nervous, almost twitchy, and any time he tries to start a conversation, it sounds like he regrets it before he’s even finished.
Maybe I should help him out. After all, he did watch Cinema Paradiso just because I said I liked it, and that’s kind of sweet. I’m not exactly making it easier for the guy by giving him short answers and not offering up any topics of conversation myself, but what am I supposed to say? We have barely anything in common. I know basically nothing about soccer, and aside from the few things I’ve learned about him in our text conversations—did he say his favorite movie is The Godfather?—this guy is kind of a mystery.
I watch him flounder for something to say for a few more minutes before I decide to take pity on him.
After a sip of my cooling tea for courage, I say, “So when does soccer season start?”
I watch his eyes light up. The relief on his face is almost enough to make me laugh. Finally, it seems, we’ve landed on a topic he feels comfortable with.
“It’s usually more of a summer and fall thing,” he says. “But Coach has us doing drills and scrimmages and stuff in the off-season to keep us all in form.”
“I didn’t know high school sports were that intense.”
“Yeah. We’re the best high school team in the state, so that means we’re under a lot more pressure to stay on top.” He grins, and I can tell he’s proud of that fact. “Not that I mind. It keeps me busy.”
“Are you going to try to get a scholarship for it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Probably. Babson’s got a pretty decent soccer team, but they’re not as competitive as some other schools, so I might be able to get a small scholarship for soccer.”
I raise my eyebrows. I’ve looked at Babson as a possibility for college, but it seemed more focused on business and marketing—not really my area. I didn’t think it was Christian’s area, either.
“So you’re trying to be a soccer player professionally, or are you applying there for other reasons?”
“Oh, I don’t think I could do professional soccer. I’m pretty good, but not that good. Nah, Babson was my dad’s alma mater, and he’s pretty set on my going there, too.”
“Do you want to go there, though?”
He shifts in his chair. “He thinks it would be a good fit for me.”
Ah. So he’s one of those guys. A carbon copy of his dad, whose only ambition in life is to do the same thing the guy who raised him has already done. I can’t say I’m surprised.
I think he senses my cooling attitude, because he quickly clams up. He starts chugging his coffee (which must be almost cold by now) and then immediately goes back to fidgeting with his phone. Again with the phone. This is the third time he’s texted somebody in the past fifteen minutes or so. Is he actually talking to his sister? Does he even want to be here, or did he ask me out expecting me to say no?
The worst part is, I’m almost rooting for him. Come on, Christian. Ask me where I’m applying to college. It’s an easy conversation topic. Come ON.
But he doesn’t. He just keeps typing away, so thoroughly not looking at me that I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose, and any goodwill he might have gained from the conversation a few minutes before has vanished. It was a bad idea to come here. I’m remembering now that I barely know this guy, that we come from completely different circles, that there’s nothing about the two of us that could work, and I don’t even think I want it to work anyway. Maybe I should go home.
And it’s right about then, as if he senses my thoughts, that Christian looks up from his phone and blurts out, like he’s just thought of it and he’s desperate not to lose me, “You want to get out of here?”
SAM
I’ve definitely made a mistake.
Sending Christian in on his own this early in the game was a calculated risk, and clearly, it’s not paying off. He’s been frantically texting me every few minutes, recounting parts of their train wreck of a conversation and begging for my help. I can only do so much from a distance, though, and I know that the more he looks down at his phone, the more it looks to Ros like he doesn’t want to be there. It’s a catch-22, and if I’d thought this through a little more, I would have seen that.
Northeastern’s library is basically deserted after classes let out. No club meetings get held there, and usually people don’t want to stick around here any longer than they have to on a Friday. Normally, I’d be right there with them, but Flannery’s is an easy walk from campus, and I wanted to be close by in case something went wrong on Christian and Ros’s date. Clearly, my instincts were correct.
Trying to fool somebody in real life is so much harder than over message. At the end of the day, Christian still has to be the one Ros talks to. I can’t very well substitute for Chris, or go as him myself. But really, I think the worst of my nerves comes from the fact that if Christian fails here, I fail, too.
I should be used to my success relying on other people by now. It’s one of the biggest parts of acting—you learn your own part, do your own work, and all you can do after that is trust that the other actors are going to do the same. My recent adventures in directing and producing were a refreshing change because suddenly, I could be in charge of everything like I wanted and still have something creative to show for it. Now, though, I’m feeling more helpless than ever. I can give Christian all the direction in the world, but whether he follows it is up to him, and even if he does, Ros may still want nothing to do with him. I can put in the work, and this could still fail.
I’m not going to think about why that makes me feel so nervous.
Christian is texting me.
CHRISTIAN: she went quiet again. i thought we were having a pretty good conversation but i think i said something wrong
SAM: Did you mention her dead dad again?
CHRISTIAN: i’m not an idiot, sam
SAM: Could’ve fooled me, dude. Look, clearly this isn’t working out. Maybe you should bail before things get any worse
CHRISTIAN: no! i want this to work
SAM: Yeah, but it ISN’T. If you keep this up, you’re gonna scare her away
CHRISTIAN: there has to be something you can do to save this
