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Thirteen
On Sunday morning, I run through a light drizzle and several deceptive puddles that look like an inch of water but end up leading to Wonderland or somewhere while on my way to the PSH film department. My shoes squelch as I buzz past the library, the campus reminding me of a ghost town because everyone is still in bed with hangovers or doing whatever they do as Almost Real Adults who don’t have classes on the weekend. Maybe they’re running through the rain to get to their jobs two minutes late, too.
I pound down the stairs to the little hallway of classrooms and sound booths, and settle behind the desk for another dull day. I avoid falling asleep by learning to make an origami frog, and then I keep myself entertained by folding another frog and making them play leap frog over each other.
“I need to get in the lab,” Victor says, jogging down the stairs.
“Good morning to you, too. Couldn’t you have used the library?”
He looks at my frogs before swiftly panning to the graveyard of misshapen and half-formed frogs on the floor behind me. “Because you’re so busy here?”
I grab my keys and unlock the first classroom on the right. He slips past, flicking the light switch, and the room full of Macs comes to life. Once I have all my footage, I’ll have to see about sneaking in here during or after my shifts to work because my computer is struggling to run Adobe Premiere at this point.
He settles in front of one and raises an eyebrow. “Started cutting your documentary yet? The deadline will sneak up on you.”
If those words came from anyone else, they’d probably sound polite—concerned or helpful, even. Coming from Victor, though, I know exactly how they’re meant: as condescending and taunting. He doesn’t even get anything out of my failure—if Idofail. Ever since I found out he wanted this job and I took it from him thanks to Professor Michaels, he’s been out to get me in one way or another.
“Yes.”
“And how’s it going?” He clicks a few things on his computer and then meets my eyes again. “We wrapped my project last night so I’m going to finish in the next week probably. Expecting an A.”
“Only a week? Really? Glad you have so much free time. I guess a lack of friends will do that for you.”
He smirks, smoothing down his weirdly formal long-sleeved button-down. “I take it things aren’t going well.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t say anything, which kind of says a lot.”
“It’s not like you really give me time to get a word in. You ask a question and then proceed to talk about yourself, but I know narcissists can’t help it.”
His smirk flickers, but then returns full force because he’s right. I’m not saying a lot. Things aren’t going well.
“I don’t want to talk to you about my documentary.” I cross my arms. He continues waiting. “You’re just using me to make yourself feel better about your probably mediocre short film.”
His smirk gets smirkier and I want to smack it off his strangely symmetrical and smooth face. It’s like he’s been Photoshopped for an Old Navy ad. He’s just missing his white girlfriend wrapped in a too-big scarf on his arm.
I don’t know what happens, but it’s like the longer he stays silent, the more I itch to talk. To spill my guts. What kind of mind games is he playing here? Am I so used to him talking talking talking that I don’t know how to handle the silence—
“My original subject quit.” Well,shit. “It worked out, though, because that’s, like, built-in tension, and a plot twist, and I happen to know a classmate who was doing the contest, so.”
“So, you found a better story?”
“Excuse me?”
“The last one was about unrequited love and going after your dreams. Does your new subject offer something more?”
My whole body slumps. “You said that I was aiding a stalker before.”
“Your documentary contains multitudes,” he says, shrugging. “Or, itdid.”
“This one has a financial struggle.”
“And how does a video game contest fix that?”
“He’s going to sell the headset for a shit ton of money. It’s a prototype, not out for a year.” I spent so much time last night trying to manipulate the footage into a story of a struggle with money for college that the lie slips right out, and I believe it. But I am not having another my-story-has-no-heart stress spiral, especially in front of this smug douchebag. “Sorry. I have to watch the desk. Bye.”
And then I leave him there with his mouth hanging open in a half-surprised, half-stunned silence.
