Love, Hate & Other Filters(8)

“Hey, Violet.”

“I’m walking Maya to first period. Unless, of course, you want to abscond with her?”

My head jerks back up. My mortification is complete.

“Sure,” Phil says. But he stumbles to correct himself, “I mean, no. I gotta get to class, too.”

I shut my locker, ready to escape. I turn to Violet. “Let’s go. See ya, Phil.” We start to walk away.

“So maybe tonight?” Phil calls after me.

I turn my head to look back at him. “I’m working at the bookstore until seven—”

“I’ll swing by then.”

A meet-cute with the suitable Indian boy. The hot football player at my locker. I feel queasy. I was joking with myself earlier, but now I’m wondering how it’s possible that I’ve stepped into the most predictable teen rom-com ever. How is this my real life?

But I go with it. My mind plays a slow-motion close-up of Phil walking down the hall. An improbable gust of wind ruffles his just-long-enough, perfectly mussed chestnut hair. Low-key lighting casts intriguing shadows in the hall, and my filmic version of Phil turns to look at me, his twinkling green eyes catching mine.

Sure, it’s all my imagination.

Except the last part.

He really did turn to look.

The sun rises over the motel parking lot.

He stands in the middle of the small, spare room in his underwear. Despite a recent shower, beads of sweat form above his lip and on his newly shaven head. He wipes his face with the threadbare motel towel and pulls on a pair of faded jeans and an army-green T-shirt. The shirt is loose on his wiry frame. A pair of black leather boots stand at attention by the side of the bed. The young man strides over to the dirty window and lifts it the full six inches it will rise. Bending down, he takes three quick breaths of the tar-infused air.

Outside, a garbage truck pulls into the lot. It groans and screeches with its task, mechanically swallowing the contents of a foul-smelling dumpster. Neither the sound nor the stench registers. For a moment he is only conscious of the trees in the distance, across the highway, their green tops swaying.





Violet drops me off at my house. I run to my room to change and frantically reapply my makeup before heading off to the bookstore. I leave a note for my parents: Back late, studying with Violet after work. Will grab dinner with her.

It’s a lie. And it’s not my first one, either.

Twenty minutes later I’m parking my mom’s conspicuous Mercedes in front of the Idle Hour.

For my parents, their matching Benzes signal the success of their practice or having made it in America. For me, the cars simply shout, “Hey, look at me.” I don’t want the attention, but I don’t have a choice.

Not wanting attention is part of why I love working at the bookstore. That, and opening up boxes of new books, their pages crisp, spines unbroken. My parents insist it’s unnecessary. They actually remind me that they provide me with whatever I want. What they don’t say out loud, what they mean, is that time working can be time spent on other activities that they prefer, like homework and learning to cook.

I want to make my own money to spend or save as I wish. It’s mostly spend, though, and honestly, mostly spent here. While I get a discount from the couple who owns the place, Richard and Anna, massive chunks of my paychecks still go toward the Idle Hour’s books on cinematography and the history of old Hollywood and the studio system and biographies of famous directors and actors. At least the DVDs are free.

Granted, nobody wanted them in the first place, but I pleaded with Richard and Anna to spare their celluloid (well, digitized) lives. It was how we met. I convinced them to open a DVD library in the corner of the store, like a public service preserving our cinematic history. They not only agreed, they offered me a part-time job. Since then, basically, it’s only been a public service to me because they let me borrow as many movies as I want.

The store is nearly empty tonight, so I can browse a bit before sitting at the register. Alone in the stacks, I run my fingers across gleaming paperbacks and matte hardcovers. I lose myself in the titles. It’s meditative, and it clears my mind, although being at the register also allows me to check out a bit and let my imagination wander. Before I know it, I’m in the film section, naturally. My eyes settle on a book I’d spotted earlier: Hoop Dreams. I pull it off the shelf and start thumbing through it.

“Anything interesting?”

I look up. Phil is heading toward me. He has this walk that is somehow languid and confident at the same time. Like a slow-moving river that doesn’t need to show its strength because it’s a known fact.

When he gets closer, I notice the tiniest speck of shaving cream in the little nook where his jaw meets his ear. Then he smiles, and all I can see is that dimple again.

I’m cotton-mouthed, so I clear my throat. “It’s a book about two high school athletes, actually. It was a documentary first, in the 90s. Then they expanded on it for the book.” I give him a hopeful look but stare into a blank face. I snap the book shut and point at the title. “Hoop Dreams?”

“A basketball movie?”

“It’s not just about basketball. It’s about family relationships and survival. And the world crushing your dreams.”

“So it’s a comedy,” Phil says.

I laugh. “It’s really great. You should watch it sometime. If you can bring yourself to watch a movie about a lesser sport.”