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I cross my arms over my chest, glowering at Lincoln.
“What?” he asks, grinning. It’s an evil grin, like he’s enjoying my misery, and it makes me hate him even more.
“Now that everyone has a partner, this class will culminate in the spring with a final project,” Dr. Jackson announces. “The owner of Lakeside Cinema on Main Street has graciously agreed to show a collection of short films written and performed by Whitmore U students. English students will write the screenplays and film students will be directing.” He takes a deep breath and smiles. “Whitmore U’s drama department will be performing the pieces, and we’ll have some help from the technical theater majors as well.” His dark eyes scan the classroom. “This is a big deal, folks—it will be seventy-five percent of your grade and a great portfolio piece for a future employer, so I suggest you take it seriously.”
I try to swallow the sinking sensation in my stomach as I glance at Lincoln. He’s completely tuned out, texting on his phone.
This is going to be a disaster.
The rest of class passes quickly, and thankfully, Lincoln doesn’t cause me any more grief.
As we get up to leave, Dr. Jackson raises his hand. “One more thing,” he calls over the din of laptops closing and backpackzippers. “Lakeside is hiring, so if anyone is interested, stop by the theater and ask for John.”
That gets my attention. I could definitely use the extra cash.
I look over as I finish packing up, thinking that I probably need to grab Lincoln’s number, but he’s already gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
CHARLIE
The next morning, I wake to relentless knocking on my door. I sit up, pushing the tangle of long hair from my bleary eyes. I glance at my phone. It’s seven.
Fuck. Who wakes up this early?
I pull on a pair of yoga pants to answer the door. Fiona stands in the doorway practically bouncing on her toes.
I stare at her. “You do realize it’s 7 a.m., right?”
“And that’s why I brought you coffee.” She raises a tray of four steaming cups with a hopeful smile on her face. The smell is heavenly. “I’m not normally a morning person either, but coffee fixes everything, right?” She stares at the drinks. “I wasn’t sure what kind of coffee you like, so I brought you a latte, a mocha, and an Americano.”
“Always a mocha,” I say, grinning. I grab the mocha, then narrow my eyes at her. “But why are you bribing me this morning?”
“Well,” she says, “I thought we could get an early start and get to the theater before our classes this morning.”
Yesterday, I told Fiona about the theater job, thinking she might want in on it, too.
“Yeah, I suppose that's a good idea,” I say around a yawn.
“I did some research last night, and apparently Lakeside was bought up a few years ago by one of the university’s rich donors, and he’s finally gotten around to revamping it,” says Fiona with a shrug. “I heard they are reopening it to show older movies with student pricing.”
“That sounds awesome.”
“I thought we could get breakfast and then walk over. What do you think?”
I gnaw on my bottom lip. “I don’t really have any interview clothes.”
“Oh, I have plenty.” Fiona claps her hands with excitement, and she gestures for me to follow.
I do so reluctantly, sipping my coffee and wondering if I’m going to regret this. I have a lot on my plate with schoolwork since I’m taking one class over the recommended number in order to play catch-up. But my savings are running low, so I definitely need to find a source of income.
An hour later, we walk into the little three-plex that immediately feels like home. The floors are covered with worn, garish red, blue, and gold carpet except for the burnt orange ceramic tiles lining the concession stand, which houses a large popcorn popper, two registers, and a glass countertop case that was probably used to display candy. The box office is a literal box in the corner of the foyer. The place is in need of some cleaning; a grayish layer of dust coats every surface. The walls facing the street are all windows, and I can see dust motes sparkling lazily in the morning sunlight.
Even though I’m certain that the popper hasn’t been used in a while, I can still smell a hint of stale popcorn in the air, tickling my senses like a buttery, salted memory.
Growing up, movies were a huge part of my life. My parents were kids of the eighties and nineties, and they loved to show meclassics likeThe Princess Bride,Back to the Future,Die Hard, anything directed by John Hughes—I could go on. It was part of the reason I became a writer in the first place. Films are a form of storytelling, and storytelling starts with writing.
Fiona and I look stand in the lobby talking quietly until a man enters from a side door. He’s walking backward, juggling a large box while making his way through the doorway awkwardly. Finally, he turns and drops the box onto the gaudy carpet.
