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There was very little information available about her. She kept a low profile. The only thing that was really known about her was that she was a brilliant scientist, lived in Iceland, and was worth billions. That, plus the veil of secrecy surrounding her, was definitely enough to spark my interest.
I had found a few pictures of her online from when she was a student at Columbia University—not too far from my neck of the woods. I’d recorded a voice-over narration for a photo collage I’d put together and was editing when—as was always the case when I was editing—my phone rang.
“Have they emailed yet?”
Greta never said hello. But this time, I could forgive her. Who was I kidding? I always forgave her.
“Hello, Greta. I’m doing fine, thanks.”
“Have they emailed yet?” They being the selection committee I’d sent my solar urticaria documentary to, had not, in fact, emailed yet. They said they’d inform me of their decision by noon today, and it was only 11:53. They still had seven minutes. But who was counting?
“I’ve got a good feeling about this,” said Greta.
I could just hear her smiling and jumping up and down with excitement.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I said.
“Ah, Bonita. I know you’re just saying that. It’s a great film. They would be crazy not to put it in their festival.”
“What’s crazy is wanting to make films when you’re not even allowed to go outside.” I regretted my words as soon as I’d spoken them.
Greta was only trying to be positive, and I had crushed that ambition straight away.
“What would be crazier?” asked Greta. “Wanting to make films and not making them or wanting to make films and making them despite the obstacles?”
As she spoke, I stared at the picture of Sasha Snow on my laptop. She was standing next to two other girls, off to the side. Definitely not the alpha of the group. And she was a head shorter than the other girls. She didn’t look like a billionaire. Of course, she wasn’t at the time. Still, I doubt any of her classmates could have suspected she would soon revolutionize solar energy and become one of the wealthiest women in the world in the process.
“I suppose you’re right, Greta.”
“Of course, I’m right. I’m more than just a pretty face, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. You’ve got a car, too.”
“Ha, ha. Funny. Maybe you should make a documentary about stand-up comedy.”
What was wrong with me? Greta was my best friend, and I was saying all the wrong things to her. I could blame it on the apprehension of hearing back from the film festival selection committee, but there was probably more to it than that. “You’ve got a car.” It was supposed to be a harmless joke, poking fun of the car she’d always brag about, but the last time I was in Greta’s car, seven years ago already, I almost got myself killed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That came out wrong.”
“Bonita, I’m the one who’s sorry. I still can’t—”
“How about we make a deal,” I interrupted, “neither of us is sorry. We were young; we took a risk. We shouldn’t apologize for being young and taking risks.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts, Greta. You’re my best friend, and I don’t want you to be sorry. It was just as much my fault.”
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
It wasn’t the first time we’d made such a deal. Funny how difficult it was for two girls in their early twenties with eyes toward the future to put their past behind them.
“And when’s the festival?” asked Greta.
“Not till July; seven months away.”
“Seven months until you go off to sunny California, you meet a sexy Hollywood movie star who sweeps you off your feet.”
“Greta, the film hasn’t even been accepted—”
“Yet,” Greta interrupted.
“And you’re already talking about my going off to California—as if my parents would ever let me do that.”
“And meeting a sexy Hollywood movie star who sweeps you off your feet,” Greta added.
“Of course,” I said. “There has to be a guy in your dream scenarios.”
“And he takes you to his villa on the beach,” Greta continued. “And under the light of the moon with the waves crashing against rocky cliffs, you lose your virginity.”
I rolled my eyes. Here we go again.
“Congratulations, Greta. You managed to go almost four minutes without bringing that up.”
“And who says I don’t try?” said Greta playfully.
“Not me.”
“Speaking of trying,” said Greta, “I hear Ben is single again.”
“Greta, Ben is my friend!”
“Bonita, Ben is a super-sexy hunk!”
Greta was right. But I’d known Ben since we were in grade school. I still remembered when he was a scrawny, pimpled-face class clown. “That would be like me losing my virginity to Noah,” I said.
“There’s another good idea, Bonita,” said Greta. “I like the way you’re thinking.”
“You like to think about sex,” I said.
“Guilty as charged.”
