The boy laughs, and the wave of hair at the front of his head bops. He smooths his hands over his shirt and says, “Sorry. My dad makes us greet every customer with enthusiasm, but I didn’t notice you come in.”
He’s got the enthusiasm part, all right.
“That’s okay,” I say.
“What are you looking for?”
I tell him my mom asked for a foreign film that is emotional but uplifting. He frowns at the collection of DVDs on the wall.
Finally he says, “Does she like slashers?”
His response is so unexpected that I burst out laughing. “I’ve never asked, but I’m going to guess no.”
He isn’t laughing when he says, “That’s too bad.” He starts to walk toward another section, and I follow him, curious. “There’s this Italian guy, Rinieri Ciano?” I shake my head no. I have not been indoctrinated into the world of slasher films. “He makes some of the best—like, justsickmovies. He’s a legend.”
There’s a good chance I’m gaping at him, because he quickly adds, “I don’t mean disturbing or scary. ‘Sick’ as in ‘good.’ In fact, I’d classify them as comedy. Satire. They are horrodies—horror comedies. It’s ketchup and blue string for veins, stuffed socks for intestines.”
I am definitely gaping because he laughs now. A laugh that instantly makes me feel warm all over, negating the air-conditioning, and I don’t even mind. “You have to see it. Like, you know it’s fake, and that’s the whole point. It’s Ciano’s way of commenting on filmmaking and life in general.”
“What’s his comment, exactly?” I ask.
“I’d say art, how to tell stories.” He says it so seriously, so pensively, that now even my ears are warm. As if he is telling me a secret, whispering it inside them. “Will you try one?”
“Okay,” I say. Then quickly add, “Maybe not for my mom, though. I thought, er,Le coeur est une montagnelooked good.”
My face heats even more at my abysmal French.
“Ah,oui,” the boy says, grinning at me as he reaches down to pick up a DVD case. Hisoui,which sounds like a New England boy speaking French (and by that I mean it is almost as bad as my attempt), makes me feel better. “I’d start with this one—The Sea in the Garden.” He is back to being serious, and I realize that this boy does not play around with his slasher movies.
“I’m here all week,” he says a few minutes later, when he’s checking out my movies. “I want to hear what you think.”
“Okay.” It occurs to me then that I might hate his recommendations,reallyhate them, and then what will I say?
“If I’m ever not out front, I’m most likely in the breakroom, so just ask for Zach.”
Zach.It suits him somehow, an energetic, slasher-loving boy.
“Thanks,” I say.
“No problem, Miss Sullivan,” he says, bringing up my mom’s profile on the computer.
“Addie,” I correct.
“Addie.”He is trying my name out, too, seeing if it fits me, fits my big, easily tangled black hair and the way I carry myself, except he is doing it out loud. He must’ve decided it does, because he grins at me one more time.
A bright, radiant smile that makes stepping outside and back into the heat wave on a cloudless summer day in Lyndale seem like stepping into the cool shade. I see spots as I get on my bike.
That night I watchThe Sea in the Gardenon my computer, just so I can come back the next day.
BEFORE
Early July
“Addie!” Zach exclaims when I walk into the movie store. He’s beaming as if I am an old friend. As I get closer to the counter, though, his expression turns serious. “What’s the verdict?”
“Horrible. Really, really horrible,” I say, watching as his face falls.
“Really?” he asks quietly, disappointed.
