The Cutting Room Floor (4 page)

There’s the sound I was waiting for. The sound I needed to hear.

“I was afraid Jonah’s girl would drop him for you at first sight,” she adds. “Not a smart move choosing Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious as your wingman.”

“Guys don’t think about shit like that,” I say. “Why? Is that how you see me—tall, dark, and delicious?” I pull her closer and give her my best smoldering look.

“That’s how everyone sees you.” She punches my arm and breaks my hold on her, reminding me that this flirtation is completely futile. “Well, D.” She stands up, signaling that it’s time to go. “It’s a school night.”

“Okay, Mom.” I take her hint.

“See you in the a.m.”

I give her a two-finger salute.

“Good night, Dez.”

“’Night.”

I head across the lawn, home to my mom and my stepdad, Bernie. They’re curled up on the couch watching Letterman. Or, to be more accurate, they’re going at it in front of Letterman.

God, my eyes. My eyes!

“Hi there, buddy.” Bernie sits up quickly, looking like he just got busted with weed or something. “How was your night?”

“Good, good.” I stare at the TV, trying not to make eye contact. “I’m beat though, going up.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Mom says, smoothing down her hair. “See you in the morning.”

I try to shake away the disturbing image and make a beeline for my room.

Actually, I have to say, Bernie is cool as shit. I was relieved when he and Mom got together—especially after years of all the tools sniffing around her. And since Bernie is a cop, I feel like I can finally let my guard down at home.

Inside my sanctuary, the curtains flap in the breeze from the open window. I see Riley in the gap between them. Just as I thought, she hasn’t gone inside. She’s still sitting on her porch, her shoulders all hunched over. She starts to shake.

I turn away because it gives me physical pain to see her like this. To know it’s my fault. I know I’ve got to stop. I’m just not sure I know how.

I close my window and try
not
to think of Riley outside.

Instead, I grab one of my many video cameras. My room is a shrine to cinema. I have vintage film reels and old studio lights scattered around. The walls are covered in hundreds of movie tickets and posters of my favorites, like
Reservoir Dogs
,
Fight Club
, and
The Godfather
. Mr. Pink, the
Fight Club
dudes, and Don Corleone are all staring at me now. They shake their heads in disgust and tell me I’m whipped over a girl I’ll never have.

I ignore them and go to work on the film—the piece we’ll be submitting to the festival next month, the piece that could get me into the film program at Columbia. In the viewfinder, images move across the tiny screen, but nothing registers in my head.

Riley’s still out there.

I put down the camera and grab my notebook. I start to outline the scenes we need to shoot tomorrow, but soon my outline turns to doodles and chicken scratch.

She’s still out there.

I sit on my bed and put my ear buds in, closing my eyes as the music fills my head. The Kings of Leon do nothing to take my mind off Rye.

The Godfather tells me to make her an offer she can’t refuse.

I tell him to shut his mafia-ass up.

I go to turn off the light. It reminds me of the game Riley and I played when we were kids. Rye used to be deathly afraid of the dark, but she was too embarrassed to tell her parents. Even then, she tried to be tough. I, in my infinite ten-year-old wisdom, came up with a plan to help. I told her that she could signal me with her lights when she couldn’t sleep. And when she did, I’d go to my window and stand guard—watch her room—to be sure nothing happened.

Rye would flick her lights when she needed me. Slow, fast, fast, fast. Slow. It was our version of Morse code.

I would answer back with three quick flicks of my light switch. Then I’d go to my window. She’d look out of hers and wave, and finally drift off to sleep knowing everything was safe.

It took her about a month to get over her fears. For me, that meant a month of standing guard at the window and falling asleep in class after my late nights. It was worth every second.

I flick my lights now, seven years later, and go to the window. Riley looks up. She smiles and waves.

After a few minutes she goes inside.

And answers me with her lights.

RILEY

The next morning, as I get ready for another day on social death row, I’m welcomed by a breakfast that I would definitely choose to be my last meal—banana chocolate chip pancakes. It’s quite a step up from the normal knock-off cereal I’ve become accustomed to. I mean, the Fruit Rings, Happy Shapes, and Crispy Rice taste okay, but breakfast is not the same without the toucan and the leprechaun and Snap, Crackle, and Pop. It’s lame, but I really miss those guys.

Dad looks at me over his glasses and smiles. He quickly plants a kiss on my forehead and gets back to the stove. Instead of his usual morning routine of grading English Lit papers for his class, he’s cooking. And instead of rushing around getting ready for her day rounding up toddlers, Mom sits at the table with two monster cups of steaming coffee.

Yep, they know something’s up.

I sit next to Mom and she quickly turns over the newspaper. It’s too late. I’ve already caught the headline:
Community Honors Slain Teacher
. As if the newspaper will suddenly remind me that Ms. Dunn was murdered. As if I don’t think about her every day. She wasn’t just my teacher; she was so much more.

Mom pushes the paper to the side and hands me the coffee cup. I soak in the caffeine and it helps clear my head.

Mom gives me a few minutes before she dives in.

“So, do you want to talk about what’s been going on the past few days?”

“Not particularly,” I tell her.

“Riley, you’ve been so quiet and not eating. I’m starting to get worried.” She leans in and holds my hand. “Talk to me—maybe I can help.”

I shake her off and take a gulp of coffee.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“But, honey—”

“It’s okay.” I cut her off. My parents don’t know about Emma and I’m not about to play catch-up. Not that they wouldn’t understand—they’re pretty open about that kind of thing. Dad even has a few gay friends from the college. But I wasn’t about to come out to my parents before I was absolutely sure.

And Emma made me promise to keep
us
a secret. I did, because I wanted to keep her happy and I liked having her all to myself. I liked that I didn’t have to share that part of my life with anyone. I did at first, anyway. It was exciting. The soft looks that passed between us at school; the love notes she left in my locker; the way we held hands in her car when we snuck out for lunch. It was the first time I felt like someone could actually see
me.
The real me.

It’s hard to breathe just thinking about it.

“I’ll tell you everything, Mom,” I assure her. “Just not now, okay?”

From the corner of my eye I can see Dad motioning to Mom. He’s pushing his hands down—the universal sign for
take it easy
.

I offer up a silent thank you
for giving me a dad who understands.

“Okay, Riley.” Mom sighs. “You’ll come to me when you’re ready?” We both know it’s not a question. It’s an order.

“I will,” I reply, happy to say anything that will get her off my back. For the rest of breakfast, we play a normal family—we make small talk, eat banana chocolate chip pancakes, and pretend nothing’s wrong.

At school, Dez and I spend first period hanging in the edit suite going over footage from one of my scenes. It’s a tiny, soundproof room. Three of the walls are covered with gray acoustic foam and the back wall is glass with a small sliding door. A computer used for digital editing, an old monitor, a table, and two rolling chairs take up the entire space.

We’re working on a short feature for the Midwest High School Film Festival, one of the most important events around here for film. Our school is hosting it this year, and a lot of the local colleges will be coming to hold interviews and auditions. This could put me and Dez on the map. Plus, the scholarship opportunity is huge.

This is the project that’s going to get both of us out of the Heights.

Alternate Realities
is Dez’s baby. It’s a dark story about a strange girl who is the pariah of the school. She’s odd, awkward, and alone. So when she’s given the chance to enter an alternate reality where she’s beautiful, popular, and revered, she doesn’t think twice. Dez calls it the female version of
Fight Club
.

It’s really pretty brilliant.

We go through my scenes, starting with the footage we shot last month. Dez fast-forwards to a medium shot of me and Jonah in a classroom. Ms. Dunn’s classroom. She let us use her room to film that day. Her last day.

For obvious reasons, we haven’t gone through this footage yet—but we no longer have an option. We’re getting close to crunch time. My stomach turns as I remember that day, but I power through it and concentrate on Dez.

“Okay, this scene here.” Dez freezes the video and goes into director mode. It helps me focus. “This is what I’m talking about. See how scared you look?”

“Yeah.” I watch my face on the computer screen. I really do look completely terrified.

“I want more of this in the beginning.” Dez taps his finger on my video face. “Rye, your character has been picked on, snubbed, and abused for years. Going to school for her is like going to war. Every. Single. Day. Imagine what that would be like.”

I laugh. Of course I can imagine what that’s like. I’m living it right now.

It sucks.

“Shit, Rye.” Dez drops his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

He looks up and wraps an arm around me, and I close my eyes for a second. Dez is one of those people who just draws you in. Even before the latest dumping, Dez was always telling me I’m too good for the idiots at our school. Too smart, self-aware, original.

I have to laugh, because he must think the same of himself since he’s never dated anyone in the Heights. And he could. Any girl at school would be thrilled to have him.

“It’s okay,” I say, leaning into him. “Sometimes life imitates art, right?” I add, all drama geeky.

“Rye, believe me, you are
not
anything like this character.” He grabs the script and starts flipping through the pages. “Hey, if it’s too hard to play this part right now, I could do a rewrite. I still have time.”

“Um, no—you don’t. Plus, this is your masterpiece. Don’t worry, I’ll channel my pain.” I give him a quick wink. “Come on, let’s finish going through it.”

Dez hits play and we watch the scene. He continues to give direction, but I can tell he’s taking it easy on me.

I think about what he said:
your character has been picked on and abused for years
. I think about all the insults Tori has spewed at me. The jokes I’ve had to brush off. My horrible track record in relationships. Ever since I started high school, I’ve been dumped by both boys and girls—I’ve become an equal opportunity dumpee. And that’s all before things even get going. I’m a senior and I haven’t even made it to second base yet.

So, playing the part of a social pariah? Yes, this might just be the easiest role I’ve ever had.

Dez’s phone rings. It’s the theme to
The Godfather
. He picks it up and looks at the caller ID.

“Shit, it’s Jonah. This might take a minute.”

Dez motions for me to keep working while he heads out of the edit suite. I continue to watch myself—something I detest. I jot down a few notes until the scene is over. But once my face leaves the screen, the video keeps going. Looks like Dez forgot to turn it off during our break.

I remember how we left to get snacks out of the vending machine that afternoon. Dez bought a Snickers. Jonah chose a bag of chips. I got M&Ms. Of course I remember that day perfectly—I had to tell the cops about it over a dozen times because we were the last known people in Ms. Dunn’s classroom. She had a staff meeting that day, so we had the room to ourselves.

I’m about to fast-forward the video when I hear a voice.

“Hurry up, they’ll be back any minute,” the voice says through the speakers. I recognize it immediately. It belongs to Libby.

She walks into the frame and my scalp tingles.

What is she doing there? On our video?

I don’t think I want to see this. I don’t want to know this.

“Where did that bitch put it?” asks a different voice. A guy’s voice. It’s weirdly distorted. I stare at the empty screen while the conversation continues.