The Right Kind of Wrong (2 page)

Roderick sighs but flips to page six. He reads and flips back to the front page. He scoots the proposal across the table to me. "It's an interesting theory. One that might make a great novel or action film, but there's not an ‘underground identity fraud ring’ on campus. I'm not sure why Kyle had us set up this meeting in the first place."

Fantastic. I look like an idiot.
 

"Because he thought it was a good idea." I swipe the proposal off Roderick's desk, give him a half-assed thank you and walk out of his office before he can witness any more of my humiliation. I was so sure he'd think I was onto something. It was probably the only chance I had to show him what I could do with a lead like this. I guess this means I'll just have to dig deeper, try harder.
Get Kyle to back me up more.

I don't feel like rummaging through the Archives room to find the articles Kyle requested but after three hours, I'm so engrossed in the articles I'm going through, when I look at my phone it's already six forty-five.
 

I shove another folder of articles in a cardboard box and close the lid, but a shiver crawls up my spine and along my skin. It's the same sensation I had in Dr. Brandish's class. I look up and a figure stands in the doorway.
 

I gasp, slapping my hand to my mouth. But I know that figure, with his lanky, laid back slouch and stupid camera attached to his hand.
 

Vince waves at me and I groan. "I still have fifteen minutes before I have to deal with you. You couldn't wait that long to annoy me?"
 

"Yeah, that's exactly why I came. To annoy you. I see you haven't lost any of your narcissism."

I laugh. "That's funny coming from you. Aren't you the same person who was so sure you could pass someone else's work off as your own? Oh, right, I forgot, you're Vince Gage. You're above the rules."

He sighs. "You're never gonna let this go, are you?"

My mouth hangs open. "You almost ruined my entire future! You want me to just forgive and forget?"

His grip on the band of his camera tightens so hard his knuckles turn white. A pink tone creeps into his cheeks. "I don't suppose it ever crossed your mind to take some of the blame? Especially since you're the one that let things get as far as they did. But this project? It could be the big break I— I mean... we. The big break we need."
 

I squint at him. He has a point. Winning the competition could change my life. Not only would Roderick believe I have what it takes to bring on fresh story ideas, he'd beg me to stay on staff. "Whatever. Just follow me. I have to find something before we can leave."

He points inside the archive room. "In there? It doesn't look big enough."

"It's not that bad once you're in. Hurry up, before anyone sees you."

We slide between the narrow shelving—boxes filled to the brim with papers like they desperately want out. I move at a snail's pace. Knocking over one box is like setting this place on fire. My whole night would be gone, cleaning it up.
 

Vince's elbow connects with my ribs. "Hurry up, will you?"

"Serious—" I'm falling. I guess, tripping is more accurate. I didn't see the box and now I'm paying the price. My knees hit the carpet.
 

"Ouch.. Watch where you're going.” I say from the ground. “There isn't enough room to be racing through here." His voice comes out choked, "Sorry. Claustrophobic."

We move through the rest of the stacks without issue and the room opens up toward the back. A desk stands in the middle of the clearing.
 

I sit down at the desk, trying to figure out which box I want to go through next. I pick through the box with little attention. Vince's presence is distracting and I'm self-conscious with him here. I look up and catch his gaze. "What are you staring at?"

He pulls my arm up and turns it over. I recoil in surprise. "What the hell are you doing?"

"When did you get a tattoo? You didn't have that when we were in Jenkins' class."

"None of your business."
 

"Seriously? You're going to put something permanent in plain sight and expect people not to ask you about it?"

"Most people aren't as nosy as you."
 

Sharing any personal information with Vince seems wrong. It means letting him see a part of me I don't share with anyone.

But in a way, I want him to know.
 

"I got it last year after my grandfather died." I trace over the raised outline of a swirling infinity sign.
 

Vince nods but doesn't say anything. Should I say something else? Neither of us speak and I regret telling him about the tattoo. He shifts and stares at the stack of articles on the corner of the desk.

"What's that top article about?"

The headline reads, "
Wounded Soldier Comes Home.
" A washed out photo of a man, painted with defeat, his legs missing, arms gone accompany the headline.
 

I hand it to Vince. The next article is similar.
 

"Looks like this is the World War II stack. Why are you curious?"

"My father built World War II battle scene replicas. I helped him mold, paint and glue the pieces together. Always been kind of interested." His voice is laced with tenderness. It's the first time Vince has shared anything personal.

 
Why now? It almost makes me want to reciprocate. "Did he ever build Sherman tanks?"

"Of course. They were classic tanks for World War II. Why?"

"Oh, it's just, my grandpa was in that war."

"That's cool. Maybe we should do the project on the World War II then?"
 

It's not a terrible idea. "Yeah, maybe—" I stop when he starts shaking his head.

"Nah. It's too predictable. And easy. Everyone does a World War II project at some point," he says.

"I haven't."

His lips form a pitiful smile, "Okay, well
almost
everyone."

"Fine, we'll do something else then."

"Just hold on a minute—" He closes his eyes again and sways with some internal rhythm I'm not privy to.
 

God, he's so weird.
 

His eyelids pop open. "I lied. This could be the perfect topic. What if we presented this as a documentary? You can be in charge of the interviews, and I'll be in charge of the filming, editing and production."

Where did that come from? "I thought you didn't care about this project."

He grins. "I don't. But I
do
like making documentaries."

"Oh, well in that case, absolutely not."
 

"Come on, give me a chance."

"I think being in the same room as you without stabbing you is already your second chance. Why should I give you another one?"
 

He stands up and offers his hand. "Come with me. I want to show you something."
 

"I don't think so."

He sighs but his lips turn upward in a smile. "What's your stance on popcorn?"

"I'm pro popcorn. Why?"

"Then you'll definitely want to follow me." He pulls me up from the desk, but I shake my hand away. His face falls into a frown.
 

"You're trying to bribe me with popcorn?"

He shrugs. "If that's what it's going to take."

He is trying so hard it's almost laughable. "Ugh, fine. This better be worth it, Vince."

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

"Where're we going?" Vince and I cut through the parking lot of
The Bee
.
 

"You'll see."
 

"This isn't funny, Vince.” I follow him across the train tracks and through an alley that is entirely too dark for my liking. “I don't want you to murder and me and cut me up in little bits."

His laughter cuts through the silence. "You've been watching too many true crime shows."
 

"Well, you're leading me down all these dark alleys. What am I supposed to think?"
 

"Don't worry, we're almost there."

As we round the corner, I see a large detached garage with no cars inside. Oh shit. I was right. He's going to saran wrap me and then stab me in the heart like that guy on HBO.

A huge canvas stretches across the back wall of the garage. Dozens of couches, chairs and seats fill the space. A rickety old popcorn machine sits in one corner. The glass is tinged yellow and several of the light bulbs at the top are missing. A makeshift movie theater in a garage? "What the—"
 

Vince gestures around us. "Welcome to Monroe Theater. This is where my buddy and I screen all of our documentaries."

"And people actually come to watch them?" I blurt out. "I just meant, there are people who want to watch movies in a garage like this?"
 

"If you're into filmmaking, then yes, you're willing to go wherever the films are showing. Plus, my movies are worth it. In fact, that's why I brought you here. You're a lucky girl. You're going to get an advanced screening of my new documentary."
 

He walks over to the popcorn machine and plugs it in. It springs to life. The yellow and red lights cast a glow against the ceiling, which is now a patchwork of tangerine and fire. A sharp wheezing noise comes from inside the machine as Vince pulls a canister from a shelf and pours golden liquid into the metal bowl.
 

He moves to his film projector and then looks at me, pointing to the row of chairs. "Take a seat. I prefer the egg chair."
 

I walk over to the row of chairs, finding the one that looks most like an egg. I drop into it, and the fabric molds to my body. It
is
pretty comfortable. The garage is quiet until the kernels start to pop. It takes another minute before the smell catches up; buttery aroma fills the room. I had no idea Vince was into this stuff. I mean, he always carries his stupid video camera around, but I didn't know he actually made movies.

Vince scurries around the garage, plugging in little things here and there until he seems satisfied. He pulls a bowl from the cabinet above the popcorn machine and scoops out the fluffy kernels. He dims the lights and flops down on the florescent green beanbag next to me. And then all at once, I'm anxious. What if I hate it? Worse—what if I actually like it? His voice slices through my fears.

"Here we go. Get ready to be impressed."

I snort and hold out my hand. "You didn't even offer me popcorn and a beverage. What kind of movie theatre is this?"

He hands me the bowl and puts his finger to his lips. "Shh. It's about to start."
 

The picture on the screen starts off pixelated and shaky, but once the lens focuses, a larger-than-life-sized Vince appears on the screen. “My name is Vince Gage and I think it's time to save our humanity. I'm not talking about the Green Revolution or PETA. I'm talking about the kind of humanity that starts in your community. There are over 633,782 homeless individuals in the world. With the dissolution of the Homelessness Prevention and Rapid Re-housing Program, we're going to see that number increase. Today, I’d like you to get to know a few of Sacramento's homeless men and women.”

The picture fades to black but is quickly replaced by a silhouetted woman in a chair.

Vince begins the interview. "How do you feel when you wake up at the Woodbridge Shelter?"

"I feel grateful." Her voice is so gritty it hurts my throat.
 

"Why are you grateful, Sandy?"

"Because I shouldn't be alive right now."

"Why?" Vince's voice on camera is different from the voice he uses with me. It's soft and sensitive, inquisitive and caring. In person, it's everything
but
those things.
 

Sandy coughs, deep and raspy. All it takes is a pause in her dialogue and I'm hooked. She has me at the edge of my seat and I want to know everything about her. "I burnt down my house. Didn't want no cops finding out what I was doing."

"What were you doing that you wanted to hide?"

"Meth."

"What happened after you set your house on fire?"

"There was an explosion. Couple people died."

"Anyone you knew?"

"My baby."

There's a quiet moment. I'm not sure if Vince knew that was coming. "Then what happened. " His voice shakes with uncertainty.
 

"I went to prison for a couple years. Just got out. That's why I ain't got a house or job."

"Is there anything else you'd like to say?"

The screen flashes with photographs of a baby, a towheaded little girl, a teenager and finally, a beautiful young woman. The camera pans away from Vince and onto a woman. Dirty blonde hair, greasy and matted, hangs in clumped strands around her face. Her eye sockets and cheekbones are sunk in and her face is full of pockmarks. There's a resemblance to the pretty, young woman in the pictures, but that girl is long gone. A broken, damaged woman sits in her place.

Sandy rocks back and forth, her cries turning into wailing sobs. Her body shakes and the tears stream down her cheeks. "I miss my baby. I didn't mean to hurt her. I didn't want to hurt her. Please believe me. I loved her. I wasn't right in the head. Wasn't right. And now, now I got nothing. I got no one."

An arm reaches out, taking her hand. Vince's soft voice whispers, "It's okay, Sandy. Thank you for sharing your story."

The rest of the documentary follows several homeless people, each getting a turn in the spotlight, each of their stories equally appalling. I find myself enthralled with the way their words etch themselves into my brain and I hold onto the edges of my chair as the film moves through the participants. With every minute that passes, I try to push down the realization that Vince is more talented than I want to admit.

The credits roll and the garage is lit only by light from the popcorn machine. I turn away so Vince can't see my glassy eyes.
 

He flicks on the lights. "What did you think?"
 

I can't find the words to describe the respect I have discovered for his ability, not without giving him an unneeded ego boost. "It was horrifying... and beautiful. I had no idea you could do something like that. It was really good."