More Than Good Enough (5 page)

“Are you looking for Digital Filmmaking and Communications?” he asked. “This class is full. I shouldn’t let anybody else in.”

“Really? Because I’m pretty good at communicating.”

I waited for him to get pissed. Instead, he just smirked. “I’m Mr. Bonette. Call me Mr. Bones if you like.”

Okay. This teacher was definitely not normal.

Mr. Bones reached into a drawer and took out a folder. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Trent.” God, this was so awkward.

“Have you taken any film classes before?” he wanted to know.

“No, but I’ve watched a lot of movies.”

The girls in the front row laughed. Yeah, I sounded like a complete idiot.

He wrote something in his folder. “What kind of movies?”

At this point, my mind went blank. “Um. I don’t know. Documentaries. Real-life stuff.” I figured this would get him off my case.

“Excellent. You’re into
cinéma vérité
.”

So now we were in French class. “Cinema what?”

“It means truth-film.”

The front-row girls were laughing again. They almost fell out of their chairs. Actually, that would be pretty funny.

“Do you want to be here, Trent?” he asked.

What was I supposed to say? No, I don’t want to be here at school, talking to a teacher who thinks I’m stupid. I don’t want to be home, either. Wherever that is. Stuck in the Everglades. It didn’t matter where I went, because nobody cared.

Mr. Bones waited. “Okay, I’ll fit you in. If you want to stay here, grab a chair. We’re about to go over the rule of thirds.”

Rule of what? I thought we were going to watch movies.

This class was looking to be a lot harder than I’d thought.

While Mr. Bones rambled on about framing the subject, I was busy checking out Pippa’s checkered legs. She kept them bouncing at all times, as if listening to a never-ending soundtrack inside her head.

Pippa used to wear jeans, like, every single day. Now her slamming body was packed into checkered tights and a dress that looked safety-pinned together. Upon closer inspection, I realized the safety pins were staples.

This was the girl who’d played mad scientist with me. We’d raid the fridge, dump chocolate syrup and mayo in a cup, and dare each other to chug it. We used to talk about all kinds of stuff. Then I got into Southwinds in middle school and we kind of stopped talking. I’m not even sure why.

Did she remember me?

The bell rang and everybody jumped like a bunch of dogs. “Listen up, people,” Mr. Bones yelled. “Before you leave,
let’s talk about your final project for this semester. It’s a group project.”

Now I had to do a group project? I’d thought this was supposed to be an easy class. My life depended on it. God, this was going to suck so bad.

“Where’s my documentary fan?” He waved at me. Yeah, just pile on the humiliation. “I need you guys to team up in pairs. You’re going to work together and film Life Portraits—documentaries of each other’s family life.”

A groan washed over the classroom.

“What if my family life is boring?” I asked.

“Your partner’s job is to make it not boring,” he said. “There will be a screening of your films at the end of the semester, in the auditorium.”

Great.

“No ‘talking head’ interviews like you see on TV,” he went on. “You must use the vocabulary of shots that we’ve discussed in class. Wide Angle, Close up, Reverse … ”

“All of them?”

Mr. Bones stared. That’s the problem with teachers. They aren’t fluent in sarcasm.

“Yes, all of them,” he said. “But not at the same time.”

Okay. Maybe I was wrong.

Pippa was the first to grab the sign-up sheet. I got stuck in line behind the front-row girls. They kept arguing about switching partners. It was totally annoying. When I grabbed the sign-up sheet, there were no spaces left.

My eyes moved across the page. At the top was Pippa’s signature in capital letters, and next to it, she’d written my name.

four

As I pushed my way back through the auditorium, a bunch of theater girls shoved themselves in front of me. For some unknown reason, they were carrying one of the legless CPR dummies from health class. Even worse: they were singing “Happy Birthday” to it.

Pippa was sitting alone on the stage. I headed for the stairs and tripped halfway up. (Who’s dumb enough to fall
up
stairs? That’s how uncoordinated I am.) Meanwhile, the theater girls were laughing like a public service announcement:
We’re having more fun than you
.

“Oh, my god, Trent,” Pippa said. “This is crazy. I was reading the morning announcements and when I saw your name, I was like, whoa. Since when do you go to Palm Hammock?”

Maybe I could’ve said something about her purple-streaked hair. It looked so amazing, like a punk rock fairy queen. I could’ve mentioned the way she strutted in those crazy boots, so tall and straight, while the other girls slouched around looking insecure. I could’ve asked if she still believed in monsters like the Wendigo.

I could’ve said a lot of things.

What did I say?

“I got sent to the principal’s office.”

“For what? A dress code violation?” she asked.

“Nah. I usually just come to school naked.”

Why the hell did I say that? Once somebody mentions the word “naked,” it’s kind of impossible to hit the ignore button in your head. Now I was imagining my former BFF in the buff. The mental picture was beyond my control.

“That’s probably not going to win you any fans,” she told me.

“Don’t be a hater.” I leaned in close and whispered, “My fans are legion.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Popular. I didn’t know you had fans.”

“Well, there’s a lot you don’t know. About me, I mean.” I hooked my thumb around Pippa’s.

One, two, three, four. I declare a thumb war.

“Are you kidding?” she said. “I know all your dirty secrets.”

“Yeah, well. Now I’ve got new ones. Even secreter secrets. And dirtier, too.”

God, that didn’t come out right.

I pointed at the avalanche of papers on the stage next to her. “Is this for class?” On each page was a box with stick people floating inside it. Next to the boxes, she’d written things like
Close-up of zombie teeth
.

“They’re storyboards,” she said. “I make lots of drawings so I can tell what my movie is going to look like. This is my zombie screenplay. It’s going to be epic … if I can actually finish it. I have no idea what we should do for our final project.”

“Me neither. But I can’t fail this class.”

“This is so weird. I mean, the last time we had class together was Mrs. Campbell’s social studies, in sixth grade.”

“I know, right? My brain is exploding right now.” I grabbed one of her Sharpies and drew a pentagram on the toe of my sneaker.

Pippa was trying to sling an enormous camera bag over her shoulder. “I hate carrying all this stuff around. But it’s my baby, you know?”

“I’ll carry it for you,” I said, stepping on her foot. Luckily, she was wearing these heavy-duty combat boots. “Hey, do you think I could get a good grade in this class? Or is it like … for experts?”

“I’m no expert. Believe me,” she said, holding the door.

I winced in the burst of sunlight. “You think I could pass?”

“Have you actually shot a film before?” she asked.

“Um. No,” I said.

“I used to make little stop-motion films with my grandpa’s old-school Bolex. That camera is practically indestructible. People strapped them on planes during World War II and recorded the bombs as they dropped.”

I kept thinking how it felt so easy, talking to Pippa. It was like we’d never stopping talking. Everybody was running to their next class, making so much noise I could barely hear myself think. I wanted to hit the mute button on the world.

“Aren’t you supposed to be studying music?” she asked. “I mean, you got into that special school and everything.”

I flinched. “It’s not that special.”

When she said “special,” it sounded like a school for people with mental problems. Then again, I had problems she didn’t know about.

I took out the Sharpie and wrote a string of digits on her hand. “I’m at my dad’s place now. This is the number, in case you want to talk about film stuff. Is your phone the same?”

“You probably don’t even remember it.”

“Hell yes I do.”

“Prove it.”

I recited the numbers. Perfectly.

“Wow, Trent. That was kind of impressive. I better give you my cell. Don’t call the house, okay? My mom’s been kind of weird lately.”

“Yeah? She used to be so cool.”

“My mom?”

“Yeah. What’s wrong with Mama Dukes?” I asked.

Pippa looked away. “She’s just … ”

“It’s cool. Didn’t mean to get up in your business.” I stuck out my arm for her number.

The Sharpie kept dying, so she pressed extra hard. “Sorry,” she said, as if it were her fault. “This pen is untrustworthy.”

I scanned the hallway. “What are you going to do now?”

“Go to my next class, I guess. God, that sounds lame.”

“Sure you don’t want to go exploring?” I asked, walking backward toward the auditorium doors.

“Maybe next time. There’s a quiz on Technology of the Future that I’m destined to fail.”

“In the future, you mean?”

She laughed. “Something like that.”

“Okay. Catch you later.” I lunged down the sidewalk, probably scaring everyone trying to get stoned in the parking lot.

I didn’t feel like going to class. Not after my amazing conversation with Pippa. School was almost tolerable once everybody headed back to their pre-assigned rooms like good little robots. I spent the rest of the afternoon power-napping in the Yeti. I kept the windows rolled down so I didn’t suffocate to death. That is, until I was rudely awakened.

“What’s the problem here?”

A face—sunburned and buzzcut—hovered above me. The campus security dude was talking about the dangers of sleeping in a car. Obviously, this was the most exciting moment of his entire week.

“Dentist appointment,” I muttered. I almost ran the guy over, backing out of the lot. Not that it would’ve been a total tragedy.

The security dude was mega pissed now, scribbling on his memo pad (my license plate, no doubt). He circled the lot in his creaky little golf cart. What a freaking joke. How was he supposed to protect us from terrorists? He didn’t even carry a gun.

Nothing to do now except drive back to the Rez. It took forever to get there from school. My dad was probably hanging around the house, like usual. Just thinking about him made my stomach burn. Then I realized I’d had nothing to eat all day, not counting the Gummi Bears that I’d “borrowed” from some random girl this morning. She only gave me the yellow ones.

As I contemplated my fast food options (McRib is back!), my cell phone buzzed inside the glove box. I slowed for a red light, then reached over and dug it out.

Yo. I usually don’t do mass mailings like this but … I’ve been working on some sick new beats.
If you haven’t downloaded my tracks online,
you’ve been sleeping hard …

Nothing like a mass mailing (in this case, for Michelle’s lame-ass DJ set at Churchill’s on Sunday) to make you feel special. Why did she bother inviting me—along with three hundred of her closest friends? We weren’t friends. So what did that make us?

I needed to find out.

The Rez was home. Too bad it didn’t feel like it.

When I’d left Mom’s house, I didn’t expect to miss things like clean laundry and a regular feeding schedule. I just wanted to get away from her. Now I was starting to regret it. Sometimes I wanted to jump in an airboat and take off (as far as possible).

A couple days after I moved out here, I was watching the boats out on the water. Dad said it was for a funeral. He didn’t go into much explanation.

“What happens next?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Your body goes back to the earth.”

“And then what? Do you believe in heaven and all that?”

“You move on to the spirit world.”

“Even if you do bad stuff?”

“We move on. The animals move on. That’s the way it goes.”

So I guess Dad didn’t believe in hell.

One time back in Kendall, I stayed awake all night, playing the Xbox. I was so freaking exhausted I basically passed out. I would’ve stayed in that semi-comatose state, but Dad woke me up. He said it was dangerous, falling asleep at dusk. Your spirit might leave your body and never return.

“Bullshit.” I’d tugged the blanket over my head, but couldn’t fall back to sleep.