You've Reached Sam(74)

I narrow my eyes. “Who on earth wants to meet me?”

There’s a man with a paisley tie standing near the corner of the tent, holding a glass of white wine.

“This is Professor Guilford,” Tristan introduces us. “He’s one of the board members who chose my film. He’s also a professor here.”

“Great to finally meet you, Julie.” He offers me his hand.

“And you as well,” I say politely. “But how do you know who I am?”

He laughs. “You’re Professor Clarke’s daughter, aren’t you?” he asks.

“She talks a great deal about you. Tells me you’re a talented writer.”

“She’s the best!” Tristan chimes in.

“I’m alright,” I say, somewhat embarrassed.

“You know, modesty is the sign of a true writer,” says Professor Guilford.

“Oh, she’s the most modest person I know,” Tristan adds.

I nudge his arm. “Tristan.”

“Tristan says you’re a senior. Do you know where you’re heading to college yet?”

I’m reminded of my rejection letter, and suddenly wish I could disappear from the conversation. “Oh, I haven’t decided yet,” I manage to say casually. “But Central Washington is still an option for me.” I don’t tell him it’s my only option at the moment.

“Oh really?”

“Really? ” Tristan repeats.

“It’s affordable. And my mom’s here.” That’s really all I can think of.

“Fantastic.” Professor Guilford beams. “So I might have you as a student. I understand you like creative writing. Have you thought about writing for film and television?”

“No, I haven’t. But that does sound really interesting,” I say.

“I offer a screenwriting course every few years. It just so happens the next one will be in the fall.”

“Oh?”

“It’s typically reserved for upperclassmen,” he says with a smirk. “But I’ve made exceptions before.”

“Oh my god—that would be incredible,” I say, almost with a gasp. “I never knew classes like that existed. What else do you teach?”

Tristan leaves us to chat for a bit. We have an incredible conversation about some of the projects his students are working on. Apparently, many of them intern in writers’ rooms at major television studios over the summers, through his connections with industry members. I always thought opportunities like that were reserved for the sons and daughters of famous producers. It makes me feel hopeful about school. Maybe I could do it, too.

Maybe I don’t need Reed after all. At the end of the conversation, Professor Guilford invites me to lunch with my mom in the next few weeks to talk about other creative opportunities. After we exchange emails, I go find Tristan to tell him everything.

“Tristan—I’m so glad you introduced us!” I say, still smiling.

“Yeah, isn’t he the best?” Tristan says, handing me a glass of sparkling cider. “I’m so happy you might go to school here. We could still hang out.

That is, if you’re not too cool to hang around, you know, high schoolers.

Maybe we can work on a project together.”

“That’s such a great idea. We should!”

“I bet you’d be an amazing writer for films,” he says.

“I hope you’re right,” I say.

The rest of the night is wonderful. I meet Tristan’s other friends who worked on the documentary with him, and impress them with my knowledge of Mark Lanegan and the Screaming Trees. We eat chocolate-covered strawberries, and put our names into the raffle. Tristan wins six tickets to the local cinema. One of his friends wins a fancy camera. They all crowd around him enviously, taking turns admiring it. Then one of them whispers something.

“Did you see him? I can’t believe he’s here, man.”

Heads dart back and forth. But I can’t tell who they’re looking at. Then Tristan whispers, “He nodded at me after the film. Think he knew I was the director.”

“What! And you didn’t go up and say anything?”

“I heard he hates being approached,” says Tristan.

I stick my head into their secret huddle. “Who are you guys talking about?”

Everyone looks at me. Tristan points his chin to my right. “Over there.

The one with the glasses.”

I turn around, looking. “The tinted ones?” It’s the man I sat beside during Tristan’s film. “Oh, I talked to him earlier. He was really nice.”

Tristan’s eyes widen. “What do you mean you talked to him?”

“I sat next to him at your screening,” I say. “We chatted before it started. It wasn’t a big deal or anything. I mostly ignored him.”

“Julie … tell me you know who that is?”

“Clearly I don’t, Tristan.”

“That’s Marcus Graham,” Tristan whispers tensely. “He’s one of the former managers of the band. He’s old friends with Mark Lanegan and the Connor brothers. He’s a big part of their success. He’s sort of famous.”

“And he’s leaving! ” his friend shouts.