Sophomore Switch(7)
Author: Abby McDonald

at the end like all those chick flicks?”

I might have left it at that, just let the class carry on now that I’d contributed my part, but there was just enough condescension in his tone to make me keep talking.

I happen to like “chick flicks.”

“Perhaps, but this isn’t innovative — it’s bad,” I exclaim. “The whole structure is a mess — there’s no journey or tension. Things just happen!”

“What do you know about structure?” the boy next to me asks, his voice even.

I remember my layperson status and blush. “I might not have studied film, but narrative structure is universal. I mean, it goes all the way back to the Greeks and classic literature.” I look to Lowell for confirmation. He inclines his head slightly in what could be a nod, so I press on. “There has to be something the characters want, and then obstacles in their way before they get it. This script has that, but in such a messy way, there’s no real reason to care what happens.” I send silent thanks for those years of dull Classics lessons I had to take in school. Memorizing Latin verbs was torture, but I always loved the great myths and legends. The Odyssey, Hercules, Theseus and the Minotaur. There’s a strange kind of order to the tales: a world where everyone is doomed to tragedy and death. There are few happily-ever-afters, but I found the tales satisfying all the same.

“I’m afraid we’re out of time, but it’s been a great discussion.” Lowell claps his hands together, and immediately a rustle of activity sweeps through the room. “Remember, I want a couple of pages about your script of choice by the end of the week. You can find all our guinea-pig projects on the class website.”

I start to pack my things away, but a moment later, Lowell appears by my side. “Good points, ah . . .”

“Emily,” I reply. “Emily Lewis.”

“Well, Emily, it’s a class requirement that you be part of a project group: making your own short feature.” Tilting his head, Lowell regards me with an amused look. “Since you seem to have so many opinions about this script, how about you work on it?”

I move to speak, but someone beats me to it.

“What?” The boy who lent me his pages is frozen midstep, looking at us both in horror.

“Ryan, meet Emily.” Lowell grins. “She’ll be rewriting your script. I’m sure you’ll make a great team.”

“But —”

“Really, I couldn’t —”

“No excuses.” Lowell cuts off our protests and regards us both with satisfaction. “Consider yourselves partners for the rest of the semester. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”

He saunters away, no doubt to the beach, while Ryan stands, glowering at me.

“Sorry,” I offer, picking up my bag and moving down the steps toward the front exit.

“You could have just let it slide.” He follows, scuffing battered black Converses on the floor.

“And what, pretended your script is some kind of masterpiece?” I pause in the doorway and look back at him curiously. “It was just a little constructive criticism.”

“Constructive?” He raises his eyebrows rather sarcastically. “Sure. Anyway, don’t think this means you can tear it apart. I spent all vacation writing, and I’m not having it wrecked by some . . .”

“Girl?”

Ryan folds his arms. “Someone who knows nothing about screenwriting.”

“Not according to your professor,” I remind him, annoyed by the way his friendly act dropped the moment I had something intelligent to say. Just like a boy to be threatened by a challenge.

“Look, just leave the thing alone. We’ll put your name on the end, and everyone’s happy, OK?” he proposes. “I get my script; you get the credit.”

“Thank you, but no,” I reply, baffled that he thinks I’ll just agree.

“Come on.” He sighs. “It’s not like you even care.”

“How do you figure that?”

Ryan smirks at me. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“What?” I frown.

“Your favorite movie, tell me.”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly!” He stares at me with satisfaction. “You don’t even care enough to decide that. So, just leave my production alone and we’ll be cool.” He slings a graffitied messenger bag across his chest and begins to walk away, as if we’re done now that he’s had his say.

“I’ll be cutting whatever I want,” I call after him. Ryan spins back and glares at me, as if by sheer will he can make me disappear. “It was nice to meet you,” I continue, taking at least a little pleasure from his annoyance. “I’ll let you know when my first draft is done.”

I go straight to the library after that to stock up on film textbooks. My father always drilled us to make the most of all opportunities: if we had to do something at all, we should do it well. Hence if I’m going to waste a term in film classes, I may as well emerge with an A. And if I’m going to be doing battle with Ryan’s smug grin on a weekly basis over our final project, I can’t afford to give him any ammunition. Love Actually to Citizen Kane: I plan to know them all.

Hoisting my stack of books up the stairs to the apartment, I begin to plan the next few days. Without the essays I had due at Oxford, my week is decidedly structure free, but I’m sure a quiet hour with my day planner will remedy that. Unlocking the door, I see a routine taking shape. I can work out a timetable of movie viewings, library time and research, and perhaps even . . .

“What are you doing here?”

The door swings open to reveal a familiar body stretched on the sofa, flicking through a magazine. Ryan sits bolt upright at the sight of me. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” I inform him icily, crossing the room and stacking the books neatly on the table.

“You’re . . .” He blinks. “Of course. The uptight British chick.”

“The what?”

But before I have a chance to ask anything else, Morgan appears from her bedroom. She’s wearing her hair loose and straight, with a white denim skirt and matching tank. She practically glows with tanning product and sunshine.

“Awesome, you’ve already met.” Morgan beams at us, as I begin to get a very bad feeling. “Em, this is my boyfriend!”

5

“No, I get it — it’s cool.”