Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(93)

“Freeing? Like we should all go out and take whatever we want? Steal stuff? Kill people?”

“No, that’s not the point at all.” She shakes her head. “It’s more like, if our time here is limited — which it is, only we don’t know by how much — then why would you let other people tell you what you should and shouldn’t be doing? Make your own choices, and who cares if you fall flat on your face? ’Cause if you don’t, it’s an insult to people like Maggie Stillman, who never had the chance to make those choices.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “That’s true, I guess. Makes sense.”

She tilts her head, considering me. “You know, most people get annoyed when I go off on my philosophical ramblings. But you don’t seem bothered or creeped out or anything.”

I shrug. “No. I mean, it’s a little gloomy, for sure. But interesting. And important.”

“All right, so,” Nessa says, sitting up, “since we’re on the topic of making choices — and death and all that — why don’t you tell me why you decided to kill your movie?”

“I was hoping we might just avoid that topic altogether.” I look around at the cemetery. The long stretch of lawn. The trees sprouting their leaves. The flowers that have started to bloom. “I’m having such a good time. I don’t want to ruin it.”

“All right, then.” Nessa smiles. “You can tell me how you ended up nearly naked inside a dumpster at the back of the mall instead.”

“Okay, so, about the movie . . .”

Nessa cracks up. For some reason, she just makes me feel comfortable. And so I go on to tell her all the gory details. About everything. First about the trip to the mall and getting spackled with bird crap. Then about how the movie thing pretty much blew up in our faces. I skip the part about the dog-butt picture because it’s an unnecessary detail that really has nothing to do with the film. But everything else — with Evelyn, and Leyna, and the camera, and Uncle Doug — I lay it all out for her.

When I’m done, Nessa stares at me shaking her head. “And after all of that, you’re just giving up?” she says.

“Giving up? That’s like . . . that’s like saying the people who got into the lifeboats on the Titanic were giving up. At some point, you’ve got to know when to jump ship.”

“No. Sorry.” Nessa crosses her arms. “It’s nothing like that. This isn’t a disaster, Sean. It’s just a hiccup.”

“Uhhh, the film festival is in less than a week and I have no camera, no budget, no leading actors, a drama teacher who’d like to take over my movie, and a stoned-out-of-his-gourd uncle who thinks every animal wants to bite off his penis. Whatever you want to call it — a hiccup, a disaster, a screwed-up mess — I’ve run out of options.”

“That’s one perspective on things. Would you like to hear how I see it?”

“Sure.” I laugh. “I don’t know how else you can see things. But sure.”

“Okay.” Nessa stands and brushes off her pants. “Here’s my take. You know that saying, ‘If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself’?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Well, you’re the exact opposite of that.”

“Huh?”

“Think about it. You let everyone make choices for you. Your friends. This Evelyn girl. Your uncle. Your drama teacher. They all bulldoze their way over you and you just stand there and take it. You’re just like Rogart — well, Rogart before I got my hands on him, anyway. You’re too passive, Sean.”

“That’s not true,” I say, a sourness blooming in the pit of my stomach.

“It is true. You know it is. But it doesn’t have to be. You don’t have let people drag you around like a rag doll. Come on. Get up.” She grabs my hands and pulls me up, dragging me over to the headstone.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to let people drag me around.”

“Ha, ha,” Nessa says. “Be serious for a minute.” She points at Maggie Stillman’s name. “Someday that’ll be your name on a gravestone: Sean Jebediah Hance.”

“Jebediah?”

“Lucky guess,” Nessa teases. “But this is where we all end up, mister. Now, are you going to be the guy in the cemetery who lived his life the way he wanted to live it, or the way other people wanted him to live it?”

I stare at the grave, transfixed. “I get what you’re saying. And sure, I’d rather be the first guy. You know, the one who lived for himself. I just . . . I don’t understand how it pertains to the movie.”

Nessa takes my hands. Her fingers are incredibly soft and smooth. “Today it’s the movie. Tomorrow it’s what college you go to. After that it’s what job you’re willing to settle for. Where you live. Who you get married to. It spirals out. Thing after thing after thing.”

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I mean, there’s so many things. Where am I supposed to get another leading lady who can shoot the entire script in a week?”

Nessa smiles. “Maybe she’s standing right in front of you, Sean. I mean, seriously, you’re not going to find anyone who knows the screenplay better than the person who helped write it.”