Extra Life (4 page)

Mom could laugh about it now, seeing Yesterly’s name on my report card. Not that he ever once let on that he knew I was her kid, even though he
had to
know, and I bet the dude still carried the torch for Madeline Belmont. I figured maybe he’d even cut me some slack, considering.

Use whatever advantages you’ve got
, as Mom herself would say.

“I wanted to ask you about the deadline on the Young Auteurs project,” I said. “For some reason I had it in my head that it was Monday. I’m just finishing up the final edits on the footage…”

Yesterly flashed his crossing-guard
stop
hand. “I can’t, Russ. It’s for your own good, and I’m sure you’ll agree if you reflect on it. Firm deadlines are an indispensable part of this profession.”

“Honestly, Mr. Yes? I don’t want to be a news director. I want to do movies, and I truly believe this internship with Silver Screens is going to put me right where I need to be.”

“Well, you haven’t won it, yet,” he warned. “You’ve got to put
yourself
where you need to be. And please understand, this morning was your third tardy. If you’re late once more, I’m going to be forced to transfer your director status to another student I can trust to get the job done.”

He didn’t need to say who he meant. A certain snarky redhead who just
loved
to win.

“I’ll be on time from now on,” I promised. “Twenty minutes early.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Get yourself organized, and you’ll be unstoppable.”

“But about the film competition?” Thirty seconds to plead my case before the first period bell rang. I didn’t want to have to mention the distant past: Yesterly’s own junior year, when he stole my mother’s beach towel while she was taking a dip in the ocean. Allegedly. Going over those reruns would be awkward for both of us.

“Aw, Russ—” he groaned.

“Please, Mr. Yes, hear me out. I wasn’t sure if you set the deadline yourself, to provide like a buffer, or if it was studio-imposed, because if there’s any wiggle room at all, first thing Monday morning, or, if you want, I could even bring it around your house this weekend.”

“I’m sorry, Russ. The deadline is four-thirty. That’s when I’m leaving with the entries I have. There are other area high schools, and all of them are adhering to the deadline. I’ve got my own responsibilities to uphold.”

He
did
look genuinely sick to his stomach about it. The poor guy knew I was a shoe-in.

“If I brought it by the studio myself, on Monday, do you think they’d—”

The bell cut me off, time up.

“See, this is what I’m talking about, Russ,” he said. “You can’t go calling in favors all the time. You’ve got the talent. You’ve got the ambition. I’m sorry to have to be straight with you.”

I put my face in my hands and said, “I get it. No favoritism.”

“I’m glad,” he said, wincing a little. “I know you’ll learn from this for next time.”

“Mr. Yes?” I asked, showing him my best tortured, defeated look. “Could I have a tardy slip? I’m late for math.”

T
IME WAS
never on my side. All the work I did convincing Savannah, corralling Conrad and Paige for this film shoot of mine? It didn’t mean squat now. If I had a way to contact Savannah, I’d have called the whole deal off. But our line of communication ran in only one direction.

So instead, every chance I got, I checked my cell for a text from her.

Those chances were few, since most teachers had a phone confiscation policy. The phone had to stay in my locker until lunch break, and all I did was think about getting back to it. Hooked on the hope of that little blinking signal:
new message.

All through lunch I kept the cell on the table, right by my hand. Across from me, Conrad couldn’t start eating till all his green beans were leveled flat in one compartment of his divider tray. His conversation fixation this week was interplanetary colonization, and he was asking me, “So would you do it? Would you volunteer to take the interstellar
Mayflower
to a habitable planet?”

I played along. “Sounds like fun. Why not?”

“Because it’ll take
light years
. You’d live the rest of your life on a spaceship, and so would your kids. It would take, like
ten generations
to get there. By then you’d be ancient history.”

“Does the ship have a movie theater? Would Savannah be there, because making ancestors with her…”

Conrad frowned at his lunch tray. “This isn’t about girls and movies,” he said.

“You’re only thinking about this because of that stupid
Uncharted Cosmos
show. Your zero-gravity sex dreams with that Manic Pixie Dream Girl in space spandex. You know, I think you’re actually happy my video shoot fell through.”

“No,” he said. “I wanted to see you win the internship.”

“Did you even read the script?”

He nodded inconclusively, and then went back to his musing. “Warp speed isn’t so much moving as it is shrinking space,” he said, slowly crushing his empty milk carton as if to demonstrate. I wasn’t even sure he was talking to me.

Sometimes he’d fall into these hypnotic states. He’d answer your questions, but only on autopilot. I was used to this behavior from my dad, who did what he called
thought experiments
for a living, at least before he got canned. Government contract stuff, supposedly. Maybe even military.

Connie was on Dad’s wavelength. He liked to think my dad secretly knew the status of every nuclear warhead in China and could safely wrangle us all into an underground bunker while the world above was blasted to ash and permanent shadows. Seriously doubtful. Connie probably wanted to think of my father as heroic like his was, but Kasper Vale only worked in his slippers, gawking at the harmless glow of his computer monitor.

“Savannah’s probably not even going to call,” I said. “You’re off the hook.”

“I would’ve done your video shoot,” Connie said.

“Maybe it’s time to revisit the radio tower idea I had?”

Connie grabbed the edges of the lunch table. “No freaking way,” he said.

Just the thought of heights could set him off, even if he wasn’t the one in danger. My first video brainstorm before I came up with the diner scene was to climb the WCPF radio tower down by the river, all the way to the top, recording the whole event on a camera mounted to a bike helmet I’d be wearing.

Why? I don’t know. It was the next logical step in a series of stunts that started with the
AFV
trampoline thing, a chance to redeem myself, even if it was more of a performance art piece than a
story
. But Connie vetoed the idea every time I mentioned it. Listening to him moan about the iffy legality and the threat of death took almost all the thrill away.

There was a reason my parents loved me hanging around with him. He was the nagging good angel on my shoulder, drowning out the little devil that had my other ear.

“Wait,” I said. “You want me to strap into a warp-speed space ship and risk getting my molecules ripped apart, but climbing up the side of a radio tower is too risky?”

“I was talking theoretically. You’re actually…”

Just then, there was a buzz on the tabletop and his eyes darted toward my cell. On the touchscreen was the graphic of the dancing envelope, opening and shutting.

And
that promising
(1), written in bold, arresting, unopened-message blue font.

It was exactly one in the afternoon, an hour till the end of school. Eager, I clicked the message icon. The sender’s phone number was
unknown
, but there it was, an eyeful of bittersweet:

ok 2:30 slvr bullet gr8 script! —sl

Sweet Savannah was in for the video shoot, now that I was going to miss the contest deadline. Didn’t matter. The neon marquee lights went bright in my head anyway. At that moment it suddenly didn’t matter whether my movie ever got screened. With Savannah as my star, I was going to make this movie happen, no matter what. The Silver Screen internship could go to some other hack for all I cared. I was free, gonzo, original. Independent. I’d find my own path to success with Savannah Lark as my beacon.

“She’s in!” I said. “2:30 at the Silver Bullet diner.”

Connie dropped his fork.

“Don’t flake on me here, Connie.
She’s in
. Savannah.”

“What about your cinematographer?”

I was already on my feet. “Where’s Paige this period?”

“How should I know?”

“Because you memorize everybody’s schedule for some weird reason.”

“Fine,” he said. “Gym class.”

Before I left, I tousled his hair and said, “Eat your peas, young man. You look greener than they do.” A little reassurance. Acting in my video project was going to be great therapy for him. It was the least I could do. Having my own personal Jiminy Cricket talking me down from ledges was nice and all, but the cricket had to cut loose a bit himself. Balance in all things.

Off I went to find Paige. She was the best digital video stylist at Port City—probably
any
school in the area—and I needed to secure her services. Even it if meant risking detention to sneak outside to the track.

When I got out there, her class was running laps. I climbed the vertical cross-beams on the back end of a set of bleachers overlooking the track. Never mind the normal route. If there was something to climb, I was on it. Getting a bird’s-eye view wasn’t worth it without the burning muscles and adrenaline rush.

Turns out Paige was already done with her jog, pacing in the grass nearby, gasping for air. Weird to see her in shorts, her pale freckled legs. Trust me, this girl was usually all about figure-blurring long and baggy cargo pants.

So here’s the deal with Paige Davis and me. Back in little league, we were the two top pitchers for the Ghering Chemicals-sponsored team. My mother, who happened to be the Southeast Regional Assistant Director at Ghering, coached us into the county playoffs.

Last game, down to the wire, Paige on the mound. The Firecracker, they called her. She lit the fuse and the cracker popped hard when it struck the catcher’s mitt. But late in the game she got winded and allowed too many hits. So Mom put me in. I was good. I was all about The Game back then. Daily pro stats in the newspaper. Baseball cards filed away alphabetically in binders.

Because my parents went to college in Boston (MIT), I was a Red Sox fanatic, and my prize card was a Curt Schilling. 2004: the year Curt helped pitch away The Yankee Curse and finally win the World Series, all with a torn ankle tendon bleeding his white sock red. I kept the Curt card under my hat for good luck. It was sweat-soggy and stank of hair, but whatever.

My first fastball took flight, and a half second later, some bruiser from Market Auto Body grand-slammed it through the windshield of a Cherokee in the parking lot.

So, yeah, we lost. In the dugout, I crumpled the stupid Curt card and tossed it in the trash. Nobody would talk to me. Almost nobody. Paige sat down, punched me in the shoulder, and said, “Cheer up, Charlie. They woulda lost if I didn’t load the bases.”

I probably shouldn’t have said “you’re right,” but I did.

So now, before I could scramble down the bleachers the regular way to talk to Paige, some tall chick in a tennis skirt came cat-walking off the track toward her. One of those girls who always looked like she just sniffed a fart and was eager to lay blame.

The girl said something to Paige. Whatever it was made Paige hike her shoulders and suck in her breath. I froze in place, close enough now to hear what they were talking about.

“I’m just saying, you’re fast, like the boys,” Tennis Skirt said, hitching her hip. “I didn’t mean to call y’all out or nothing.”

Paige folded her arms across her chest. “What do you mean,
call me out
?”

Just then, Tennis Skirt’s male minion trotted up behind her. You know this dude: the one who’s always adjusting his cup, even when he’s not wearing one? He had bleach blond hair, buzzed on the sides, spiked on top. A classic style I liked to call
The Asshat
.