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“That must have been the same time Lindsay bailed on me last minute. And sometimes,” I continue, really getting going now that I finally have someone to talk to about this, “I think it’s going to be just us, and then Troy shows up. Or y—” I break off, realize I’m about to insult him.
“Or me?” he fills in.
“Not that I mind,” I say quickly. “Things change, I guess.”
“Well, then,” he says, his smile sad but hopeful, “it’s a good thing we started hanging out.”
Outside the restaurant, Zack grabs my elbow. “We need to make one more stop,” he says, steering me in the opposite direction of the theater.
He leads me into a convenience store, which is empty except for a few kids pumping fake cheese onto nachos. I assume he’ll buy some candy for the movie, but instead he grabs a box of plastic spoons.
“You’ll see,” he says when I quirk an eyebrow at him.
We hurry down the block toward the cinema, marquee lettering spelling out CULT HIT “THE ROOM”—ONE NIGHT ONLY!
“Haven’t heard of it,” I say.
“The thing I need to tell you about it,” Zack says, looking sheepish, “actually, the thing I probably should have told you before is that it’s regarded as one of the worst films of all time.”
“Then the thing I need to tell you is that I love shitty movies,” I say, and he laughs.
“Seeing The Room for the first time is a special experience. You’re gonna love it, I swear.”
And I do. The dialogue is forced and awkward. Plot points completely disappear. The acting is on par with my third-grade class’s production of Cats. Then there are the spoons.
“Do you see all the framed pictures of spoons in the apartment?” Zack says into my ear. “They’re those pictures that come in the frame when you buy it. The ones you’re supposed to take out.”
Whenever one of the framed spoon pictures comes into view, we hurl plastic spoons at the screen along with the rest of the audience. It’s the most fun I’ve had in weeks. Months.
“Oh—sorry,” I whisper when I reach into the box to grab a spoon at the same time Zack does. Our fingers tangle, but I don’t pull back. Neither does he.
My heart jumps into my throat. His thumb rubs against mine, back and forth and back and forth until the movie blurs because this tiny movement is dizzying. Tentatively, I run my index finger along the knobs of his knuckles, dipping into the valleys in between. Learning his skin. When I peer up at his face, he’s smiling in the dark.
We don’t stop holding hands until the credits roll.
“Was that not the best cinematic experience of your life?” Zack asks as we file out into the night with the rest of the audience.
It was, for a number of reasons.
“It was incredible. The acting! The writing! The cinematography!” The feel of your hand in mine. I want to grab his hand now, but before I can become brave enough, he kneels and plucks a damp scrap of white paper from the sidewalk.
“Something for your mundane mixed-media project?”
He nods and shows me the faded supermarket receipt.
Ginger ale
Cold care tea
Cough drops
Beer
“Sometimes you get gems like these.” He tucks it into his pocket. “I love this guy. He was sick as hell, but he still wanted to get drunk.”
“I can’t wait to see what you do with it.” I zip up my hoodie as Zack loops a scarf around his neck. “Do you want a ride home?”
Zack doesn’t drive; he confessed earlier when I saw him get off the bus that he’s failed his test three times, and his moms won’t let him take it again until he logs fifteen more practice hours.
