Sophomore Switch(34)
Author: Abby McDonald

Balancing my PowerBook on my knees, I block out Ryan’s monologue about dramatic climax and write another quick email to Natasha running down the small victories that make up my new self.

Lectures skipped: 5

Grades I’ve dropped as a result of missing said lectures: 0

Shopping trips: 3

Fitted polo shirts purchased: 4 — in pale blue, yellow, pink, and white

New average time I arrive for events: 5 minutes late

Amount of guilt I feel at turning up late: Minimal

Parties attended: 3

Parties enjoyed: 1

Number of times I’ve missed my father’s calls: 2

Number of times I’ve read a magazine or the internet during his call: 4

Boys kissed: 2

I emphasize that last statistic with mixed pride. In addition to the boy at the Jared Jameson show, I also hooked up (to use native parlance) with somebody else at a frat party over the weekend. Although it was fun, my initial reckless thrill is fading. I can see what Carla and Morgan like about this type of casual dating culture, but I’m not sure it’s for me. Without the buzz of risk, there’s nothing but a strange boy’s tongue in my mouth and a faint sense of unease, as if my heart knows I shouldn’t be kissing just random strangers.

I hit Send as Ryan yells “Action!” and the actors come to life. Peter wanders carefully over to the park bench where Lulu waits.

“I was looking everywhere for you.” Peter tilts his head just right, looking at Lulu as if she’s the center of his universe.

“So?” Lulu sighs, heavy and tired. “Haven’t you said enough?”

They play the scene just perfectly, the exact mix of jaded hope I was aiming to get across. I’ve rewritten my first draft of the script a dozen times by now. Professor Lowell warned us that a script is never finished until the final edit is over; until then, it’s a work in progress. I didn’t believe him at first, determined to get it perfect straightaway, but the words end up sounding so different when they’re spoken out loud. I’ve been constantly making tiny alterations to fit as we go on, but instead of getting tired of all the changes, I relish them: falling deeper into the characters and story with every correction.

“You’re not listening.” Lulu stares fiercely at her clenched hands, and I feel a shiver of pride. This was supposed to be a fight scene — full of rage and shouting — but two nights ago, I woke up at 3:00 AM with the words dancing around my head, and I realized it didn’t need to be so loud at all. The emotion, the intensity, it would all be more dramatic if they played it quiet and tense. I was right.

“And . . . cut! Let’s run that again, this time from the second angle.” Ryan doesn’t look up from his screen the entire time, preferring to watch the digital version to the flesh and blood in front of him. I’ve learned by now that it doesn’t matter to him what real life looks like, only what comes across on the display.

We don’t have time scheduled to capture the scene from a different angle, but I let him take it, just the same. I may have put my foot down in the beginning, but I know now that there’s no point standing in his way. Yes, he’s stubborn and argumentative, but more than that, he’s got vision. Ryan sees this film in a way I never could. To me, it’s linear, the narrative weaving smoothly through shots and scenes. Beginning, middle, end. But to him, it’s a multidimensional entity. His dark eyes see angles and panoramas, subtext and symbolism.

“Got it.” With a curt nod, Ryan reviews the scene again and finally stands back from the monitor. Taking a deep breath, he runs his hands over his head and blinks.

“Take a break,” I urge him, walking over while the cast members unwind. In rumpled jeans and a faded gray shirt, he looks as if he hasn’t slept for days.

“We’ve got tons left to do.”

“And there’s time,” I assure him. “You really think I’d let you run over?”

Ryan musters a weak smile. “Maybe not.”

“Exactly. Besides,” I add, in case he thinks I’m getting soft, “if you have a nervous breakdown now, we’ll never get the editing done.”

“Good point.”

I push him gently over to the bench and retrieve the Mountain Dew/Twinkie combination that seems to be his only fuel. “Eat. Drink. Breathe.”

Ryan nods listlessly, and I can tell he’s still analyzing the previous scene from a dozen angles.

“It’s never going to be perfect,” I remind him, perching on the edge of the seat. “We just don’t have the time for that — or the resources.”

“I know.” He munches the snack slowly. “I just want to be . . . as near to perfect as possible.”

It strikes me as something of a role reversal: me preaching “good enough” while he strives for flawless. “There are just too many variables,” I agree, watching the cast and crew kick back. “If we were able to handpick the team . . .”

“So I didn’t have to direct and be cameraman.” Ryan sighs.

“And I didn’t have to produce, as well as write. Although,” I add, “I think I’d probably produce regardless. You know I couldn’t stand around and watch someone else in charge.” Ryan laughs, and for a moment we’re united: us against the forces trying to hold our baby film back. I sneak a look over at him, shoulders hunched, and wish I could say something to set his mind at ease — to reassure him that the film will work out wonderfully, that Morgan was an utter fool to cheat on him, that he’s worth so much more than —

I gulp. What on earth am I thinking?

“Well, we don’t — have the time and equipment, I mean.” Forcing my voice to stay even, I finish upbeat and positive. “So it’ll just have to be what it is.”

Turning to me, Ryan pauses. “Do you, do you think it’ll be good?”

The uncertainty in his voice surprises me. “Good? It’s going to be amazing!” He lets out a breath. “Can’t you see it?” I ask.

A shrug. “I guess, I just . . . I get so wrapped up in a project from the inside, I can’t get an objective look.”

“Trust me,” I say forcefully. “I’m more than objective, and I know it’s going to be great.”

I know that you’re great, I add silently, despite my brain flashing a vivid red warning sign.

He smiles at me again, this time with a little more spark in his eyes, and I can’t help but feel a swell of pride. I managed to make him feel better.