“Cool, I’ll just —”
“Would you come with me?” Holly asks suddenly. “And then maybe, I know this great café nearby. We could get something to eat?” She looks at me hopefully. “I mean, you probably have things to do, but . . .”
“No! I mean, I don’t. I’m free.” I smile back, pulling my scarf tighter and thanking the god of coincidence for sending me a possible friend. “I’d like that.”
4
Apparently the international office doesn’t subscribe to my standards of what constitutes a proper education, because by the end of the week, I find myself sitting halfway back in a cavernous lecture hall while our professor addresses us on the challenging topic that is screenwriting for mainstream movies.
“By now, you’ll all have had time to look over our next script.” He’s relaxed and charming, and far too tan. I’m immediately suspicious. Real professors should have spent their lives buried in dark, dusty libraries, researching papers and striving for expert status. They shouldn’t have time to develop a healthy, outdoorsy glow, let alone advanced social skills. “So let’s hear what you think.”
I look around. The half of the room that is actually paying attention and not checking their cell phones, doodling notes, or chatting softly to the person nearby are looking through a sheaf of papers. I tentatively raise my hand.
“Ah, an eager critic.” He bares his gleaming teeth at me.
“No, actually, I don’t have the pages,” I hurry to explain. “I just arrived on exchange.”
“Well.” He pauses to assess me before gesturing dramatically. “Can anyone help out our British friend here?”
The students nearby reluctantly make a show of shuffling their pages. It doesn’t help that my neatly pressed skirt and short-sleeved shirt make me look like a tax auditor stranded among their beach-party ranks, but eventually a boy sitting a few empty seats away leans over and hands me the script.
“Thank you,” I whisper, grateful for rescue.
“No problem, I had a spare set.” He has dark eyes and cropped dark hair, slouching low in his seat wearing disheveled black jeans and a fitted navy T-shirt with a cartoon robot printed across the front. “You’re from England, right? What brings you over here?”
I look distractedly back to the front of the class, torn. Professor Lowell is still talking, something about presentation and formatting, and I don’t want to miss it. “England, yes,” I say quickly. “I’m just here for the rest of the term.”
“Cool.” He grins a boyish half smile, and I’m reminded again that shining white teeth seem to be a basic constitutional right over here. “You picked a great class. Lowell really knows his stuff.”
“He seems to.” I try to follow what the great professor is jotting on the whiteboard.
“He worked at Fox for a while in the nineties, development,” he continues enthusiastically. “Rumor has it he was the one who bought Speed and —”
“Look,” I stop him apologetically, “I really appreciate your help, but this is all new to me, and I don’t want to get behind . . .”
“Sure.” He studies me for a moment and then leans away, leaving me to despair over my lack of social skills and quickly skim-read this script I’m supposed to be so well acquainted with.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve reread the script, made copious notes, and now I’m sitting, bemused at the outpouring of praise that’s coming from the class. Surely we haven’t been reading the same thing?
“. . . And the characterization was great.” A thin emo boy sweeps back his slice of fringe and finishes his critique, which turned out to be light on any actual criticism. I’m itching to add to the discussion, but something holds me back. After all, I only watch films for an escape, some entertainment. I don’t know anything about this topic, and while Lowell may have asked for our instinctive reactions, I always think opinions need to be backed up with research and facts. Otherwise, what use are they?
“And I really liked the part where he confesses his feelings,” a girl with funky, cropped red hair adds, her expression wistful. “It was so romantic.”
I can’t help but give a little snort of laughter. Quickly, I try to disguise it with a cough, but it’s too late. Lowell swings around from his place at the front table and fixes his stare on me.
“Our Brit!” he exclaims. “Care to add anything?”
I pause, looking around cautiously.
“Come on, now, don’t be scared,” Lowell prompts. “We’ll go easy on you.”
“Well,” I begin, flicking back to the beginning of my notes, “I don’t really agree.”
“With who?”
“With anyone.” I give an awkward shrug, feeling curious eyes on me. “It just didn’t work for me. Take the scene you were just talking about.” I nod at the redhead. “It wasn’t believable at all. His lines were far too polished.”
Lowell gives a chuckle, and the dark-haired boy turns back to me.
“But you’re totally missing the point,” he objects, restlessly tapping his pen against the side of his seat. “If he’s been waiting for years to tell her how he feels, then it would be polished, right? He’s been rehearsing his words in his head forever.”
“No, I don’t think it would work like that,” I say, my confidence building. “If anything, it would make them more scattered — I mean, nothing ever comes out the way we plan, does it? And if she’s supposed to mean so much to him, then having the scene play so perfectly just sort of dilutes the emotional impact. We don’t get to see any of his fear or anxiety.”
I remember sitting dumbly on the bed as Sebastian told me it was over. There had been so much I wanted to tell him, but I hadn’t been able to say a word. I just sat there, picking at the fraying edge of the bedspread as my relationship slowly unraveled.
“Interesting point.” Lowell nods. “So —”
“And that scene shouldn’t even be so early in the story,” I continue, trying to banish all thoughts of Sebastian. “It’s the emotional climax of the whole piece, but it comes so soon that we don’t care enough about the characters yet.”
“But it’s not a love story.” Emo boy sighs. “The romance isn’t the main theme. And isn’t it better that the script is being different, not having the weepy scene