Regretting You(107)

The camera switches to old Peter now, in his green chair. “What was I supposed to do?” He’s so angry he’s rising out of his seat, but he’s too old to come to a full stand. “I couldn’t just walk up to her in that shirt! Leaving was my only choice!”

He falls back into his chair. He shakes his head, obviously regretting a choice that had a profound impact on the rest of his life.

“Peter?”

Peter looks up to the right of the camera, at whoever belongs to the off-set voice.

“Can you tell us what happened to Mary?”

Peter winces, his eyes somehow finding a way to pull in even more wrinkles.

“What happened to Mary, Peter?”

Peter half stands again, angry, throwing an arm out. “She married Dan Stanley! That’s what happened!” He falls into his seat again, sadness consuming him. “They met that night . . . at the theater. The night I was supposed to take her out in my blue shirt. They fell in love. Ended up having three kids and some goats. Or sheep. Heck, I can’t remember. They had a lot of ’em, though. I used to have to drive by their farm on my way to work every day, and them darned animals looked so . . . healthy. Like Dan Stanley took real good care of ’em. Just like he took good care of Mary, even though she was supposed to be mine.”

Peter reaches over to an end table next to his chair. He grabs a Kleenex. Blows his nose. “Now here I am.” He waves his hand around the room as if he has nothing to show from his life. “Alone.” He wipes his nose again, looking into the camera. It zooms in on his face. There’s a long, awkward pause. Then Peter says, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m done.”

The screen goes black again.

The next scene opens on Dr. Bloombilingtington, her eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“What do you hope people gain from this documentary?” the off-set voice asks her.

She looks into the camera. “What I hope for . . . the only thing I hope for . . . is that everyone watching this comes together in the banning of this atrocious color. Not only does orange ruin lives, but the word doesn’t even rhyme with anything. People try to rhyme words with orange, but . . . there’s no perfect rhyme. There just isn’t.” The camera zooms in on her face. Her voice is a serious whisper. “There never will be.”

The screen goes black.

New words flash across the screen in every color but orange. They say, If you or someone you know has ever seen the color orange or spoken the word orange out loud, you could be a sufferer of chromophobia. Please contact a psychiatrist for an official diagnosis. If you would like to donate to or be a part of our campaign efforts in the banning of this color from our language and our world, please email us at [email protected].

The screen goes black.

The credits begin to roll, but there are only three of them, since me, Miller, and his gramps played every role.

Miller held my hand through the whole thing. His palm is sweating. I know the entire video is only five minutes long, but it felt longer. It certainly took a lot longer to make.

The room is quiet. I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad sign. I look over at Jonah, but he’s still staring at the television.

Lexie and Efren are staring at the floor.

My mother is the first to speak. “That was . . .” She looks to Jonah for help, but he’s still staring at the TV. She continues talking. “That was . . . unexpected. The quality was great. And the acting. I mean . . . I don’t know. You asked for honesty, so . . . I don’t get it. Maybe I’m too old.”

Lexie shakes her head. “No, it’s not about age, because I am so confused right now.”

“It’s a mockumentary,” Miller says defensively. “They’re supposed to make fun of documentaries. They’re funny.”

Efren nods. “I laughed.”

“No, you didn’t,” Miller says. He walks over to the light and flips it on.

I’m still waiting for Jonah to say something. He finally looks away from the television, bringing his eyes to the two of us. He just stares for a silent moment.

But then . . . he starts to clap.

It’s slow at first, but the clap picks up speed as he stands. He starts to laugh, and I can sense Miller finally begin to ease up with Jonah’s reaction. “That was brilliant!” Jonah says. He puts his hands on his hips and stares back at the television. “I mean . . . the quality. The acting.” He looks back at us. “Who played Peter?”

“That’s my grandpa,” Miller says.

“So good,” Jonah says. “I thought it was fantastic. I think you two might have a shot with this one.”

“Are you just being nice?” my mom asks Jonah. “I can’t tell.”

“No. I mean, I think we all went into it thinking it was going to be something a lot more serious. Maybe something more personal. But when I realized it was a mockumentary, I was speechless at how well you pulled it off. You nailed it. Both of you.”

Miller and I both sigh with relief. We worked so hard on it. And I know it’s silly, but that’s the point.

I’m not offended that no one else understood it. We really only cared what Jonah thought, because his name is going on it as the sponsoring teacher.

Miller scoops me up into a hug. I can feel the relief emanating from him as he sighs against my neck. “I’m so glad that’s over,” he says. “I thought he was going to hate it.”