Only in the Movies (17 page)

She turned and fled up the aisle, like someone running from a fire.

I berated and criticized myself all the way home. I had been selfish, thinking of myself rather than Vanni. I had given in to an overwhelming desire to tell her my feelings, had wanted to confess them ever since I realized the mistake I had made in believing I loved Alba. But this was Vanni’s big day, the publication of her book of poems, and what I had done? Ruined it, like a spoiled infant breaking some other kid’s favourite toy. No wonder she had run off in tears.

When I got home I went straight to my room, disgusted
with myself. I tried to take my mind off things by listening to music, watching videos on my computer. Later, Mom called me down for dinner, but I told her I wasn’t hungry. “We’re having your favourite,” she yelled from the bottom of the stairs. Dad called up to me an hour later, asking if I wanted to watch a hockey game with him. “No thanks,” I hollered back.

Much later, Mom tried again. This time she tapped on my door. “There’s a good movie on,” she said. “What’s-his-name is in it. That actor.”

When I didn’t respond, she added, “You know, the one you like.”

“No thanks, Mom.”

After she left I mumbled, “I’ll just stay here and make a mess of the rest of my life.”

“H
ERE YA GO,”
Dad grunted as he heaved two strapped bundles of cedar shingles onto the scaffold beside my feet.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I’ll be around front.”

Dad was building a boathouse for an old customer, on the shore of the Creed River, and we were sheathing the walls with wooden shingles to match the house and garage on the property. I had taken the afternoon off, glad to be away from school, a place that had become full of uncertainties lately.

Using my tin snips, I cut the strap binding the shingles together and stuffed a half-dozen into the side pocket of my nail bag. It was slow, meticulous work, but I liked it. There was a rhythm to it: fit the shingle, hold it in place, nail it to the wall with the pneumatic power stapler—
whap-whap!
Every few minutes the air compressor would kick in, rattle
away for a bit, then cut out with a sharp hiss. There was a light breeze off the river, and the cedar gave off a fragrance that always reminded me of summer.

I soon lost myself in the work, and thoughts of my broken career plans slipped into my mind. I hadn’t heard anything from Pelletier about my appeal, and I had concluded that no news was bad news and the door was finally closed. I had to accept that I was going to have to readjust my goals. I tried not to feel sorry for myself. Lots of people had dreams about the future—interesting jobs where they could make a name for themselves or pile up a fortune or do what they loved—and lots of people came up short and had to settle for second or third or tenth choice. I was lucky, I knew. I had a backup, and the proof was written on my father’s van. But that didn’t make me feel any better.

Was I feeling sorry for myself? Maybe, but I knew I would never be content unless I could write the things I wanted to write—release the ideas that were building up inside me like water behind a dam and let them flow onto the page and maybe one day onto the screen.

I reached into my belt for another shingle, tried it for a fit, trimmed the edge with my utility knife, slapped it into place—
whap-whap!
—and reached for another. The row of shingles, pale golden and aromatic, slowly rose up the wall, and with it my frustration. Why should I give up? To hell with the York School for the Arts!
Whap-whap!
If I couldn’t get the university program I wanted, I would find a movie company somewhere and sign on as … as anything that would keep me close to the action. I aligned another shingle with the blue chalkline.
Whap-whap!
I could be a gofer, a stagehand, a camera-lens polisher, a lighting man. I would
make sandwiches, hold scripts, take out the garbage if I had to. Once my foot was in the door, I’d somehow persuade the producers and directors to read my stuff. And someday I’d come back to York and show all those teachers that I’d made it without them.
Whap-whap!

I felt a surge of confidence. Yes, if the university door was closed, I’d push open another.
Whap-whap!

“Ow!”

“Jake? What’s up?” my father yelled as I watched a bright red line run down the pale face of the new shingles.

“You’d better come over here,” I answered. “I just stapled my hand to the wall.”

I
OPENED MY LOCKER DOOR
, grabbed my brown bag from the top shelf, clamped it under my arm and closed the locker. Moving quickly, I left the school, crossing the playing field toward the river, and didn’t slow down until I was well into the trees. I still felt guilty about hurting Vanni that day in the empty theatre, and I wanted to avoid her.

Spring was moving in. Along the bank of the river the branches on the bushes were dotted with plump green buds. Birds, all singing and calling at once, zipped overhead and squabbled in the trees, while squirrels rushed up and down the trunks, their claws rustling on the bark, as if they had forgotten something.

I wandered along the path, glad to be alone, and eventually found myself at the bridge—“our bridge,” I had once told Alba. I laughed at myself, picked my way down the
bank and sat down on a smooth, dry log in a patch of sun on the shore of the river. I looked up at the bridge.

Alba was the apex of the love triangle that had changed and not changed. I was still in love with someone who could never love me back.

I dug awkwardly into the brown bag with my good hand. My mother had constructed a sandwich of pink meat slathered in ketchup and mustard and covered in slices of dill pickle. She had given me Dad’s lunch by mistake—he was a fan of the Technicolor school of sandwich making. Out of duty I took a bite, but then spat into the river and rewrapped the sandwich, settling for the apple that came with it.

I watched the water flowing over the gravel bottom, where small fish drifted and darted like tiny shadows, and Vanni crept into my mind. I knew I would have to be content with her friendship. I was lucky to have it. I should stop what Vanni herself would call whinging. But I also knew I would always feel an ache when I remembered that there could never be more.

I tossed my apple core into the stream.

“Hi, Jake.”

I turned. “Alba!” She was standing at the bridge. “On your way home?” I stammered, surprised to see her.

“Yeah. I skipped off early today. Got room on that log for me?”

“Er, sure,” I replied.

Alba shucked off her backpack and sat down beside me, very close. “What happened to you?” she asked, taking my bandaged hand in both of hers.

“A little mishap at work.”

She held onto me. Our shoulders touched. I could smell her perfume and, under it, a hint of lip gloss.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.

I didn’t reply.

“You know, I never went back with Chad,” she told me.

“Yeah, I heard.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Neither could she, I guess. We sat listening to the birds and squirrels.

“You used to have feelings for me,” she said after a few minutes, her words like an accusation.

“Yes, I did.”

“Maybe we—”

“The thing is, I’m over you now.”

Alba dropped my hand. “You make me sound like a case of the measles.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Just joking,” she said unconvincingly. She tried to smile, then heaved a theatrical sigh. “Two lonely people,” she said. “What a shame. Oh, well. ‘
Tomorrow is another day
.’ ”

“‘
Gone with the Wind
, right?”

Alba nodded.

“ ‘
We’ll always have Paris
,’” I said to lighten the mood.

“
Casablanca
?”

“Right.”

“Who says it, Ingrid Bergman or Humphrey Bogart?”

“Bogey. ‘
Here’s looking at you, kid
.’”

“Huh?”

“Just talking to myself.”

“You should watch that, Jake. It isn’t normal.”

“Getting ready for exams?” I asked to change the subject. “They’ll be on us before we know it.”

“Yes. I drew up a study schedule last night. But I think I’m okay. My average will be an A or better.”

“Really? What about the BP grade? Won’t it pull you down?”

“It was changed. Saul told me today. They reconsidered. I got an A.”

“Oh. That’s … great.”

Alba got up and retrieved her backpack. “I guess I’ll be going. See you tomorrow, Jake.”

“Okay,” I mumbled toward her back as she walked across the bridge.

Panofsky had said that she, Chad and I had received the same grade. I had an F. Alba’s grade had been raised to an A. Did that mean … ?

I snatched up my lunch bag and took off down the path, my feet crunching on the gravel as I ran. I burst out of the trees and sprinted across the newly mown grass of the playing field. As I rounded the corner of the theatre building, my feet squirted out from under me and I went flying, sliding across the lawn on top of my lunch bag and coming to rest with my mouth full of grass clippings. Cursing and spitting, I got to my feet and brushed off the bits of green as I walked quickly into the academic building, leaving the bag behind me.