More Than Good Enough(10)

Now I had to do a group project? I’d thought this was supposed to be an easy class. My life depended on it. God, this was going to suck so bad.

“Where’s my documentary fan?” He waved at me. Yeah, just pile on the humiliation. “I need you guys to team up in pairs. You’re going to work together and film Life Portraits—documentaries of each other’s family life.”

A groan washed over the classroom.

“What if my family life is boring?” I asked.

“Your partner’s job is to make it not boring,” he said. “There will be a screening of your films at the end of the semester, in the auditorium.”

Great.

“No ‘talking head’ interviews like you see on TV,” he went on. “You must use the vocabulary of shots that we’ve discussed in class. Wide Angle, Close up, Reverse … ”

“All of them?”

Mr. Bones stared. That’s the problem with teachers. They aren’t fluent in sarcasm.

“Yes, all of them,” he said. “But not at the same time.”

Okay. Maybe I was wrong.

Pippa was the first to grab the sign-up sheet. I got stuck in line behind the front-row girls. They kept arguing about switching partners. It was totally annoying. When I grabbed the sign-up sheet, there were no spaces left.

My eyes moved across the page. At the top was Pippa’s signature in capital letters, and next to it, she’d written my name.





four



As I pushed my way back through the auditorium, a bunch of theater girls shoved themselves in front of me. For some unknown reason, they were carrying one of the legless CPR dummies from health class. Even worse: they were singing “Happy Birthday” to it.

Pippa was sitting alone on the stage. I headed for the stairs and tripped halfway up. (Who’s dumb enough to fall up stairs? That’s how uncoordinated I am.) Meanwhile, the theater girls were laughing like a public service announcement: We’re having more fun than you.

“Oh, my god, Trent,” Pippa said. “This is crazy. I was reading the morning announcements and when I saw your name, I was like, whoa. Since when do you go to Palm Hammock?”

Maybe I could’ve said something about her purple-streaked hair. It looked so amazing, like a punk rock fairy queen. I could’ve mentioned the way she strutted in those crazy boots, so tall and straight, while the other girls slouched around looking insecure. I could’ve asked if she still believed in monsters like the Wendigo.

I could’ve said a lot of things.

What did I say?

“I got sent to the principal’s office.”

“For what? A dress code violation?” she asked.

“Nah. I usually just come to school naked.”

Why the hell did I say that? Once somebody mentions the word “naked,” it’s kind of impossible to hit the ignore button in your head. Now I was imagining my former BFF in the buff. The mental picture was beyond my control.

“That’s probably not going to win you any fans,” she told me.

“Don’t be a hater.” I leaned in close and whispered, “My fans are legion.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Popular. I didn’t know you had fans.”

“Well, there’s a lot you don’t know. About me, I mean.” I hooked my thumb around Pippa’s.

One, two, three, four. I declare a thumb war.

“Are you kidding?” she said. “I know all your dirty secrets.”

“Yeah, well. Now I’ve got new ones. Even secreter secrets. And dirtier, too.”

God, that didn’t come out right.

I pointed at the avalanche of papers on the stage next to her. “Is this for class?” On each page was a box with stick people floating inside it. Next to the boxes, she’d written things like Close-up of zombie teeth.

“They’re storyboards,” she said. “I make lots of drawings so I can tell what my movie is going to look like. This is my zombie screenplay. It’s going to be epic … if I can actually finish it. I have no idea what we should do for our final project.”

“Me neither. But I can’t fail this class.”

“This is so weird. I mean, the last time we had class together was Mrs. Campbell’s social studies, in sixth grade.”

“I know, right? My brain is exploding right now.” I grabbed one of her Sharpies and drew a pentagram on the toe of my sneaker.

Pippa was trying to sling an enormous camera bag over her shoulder. “I hate carrying all this stuff around. But it’s my baby, you know?”

“I’ll carry it for you,” I said, stepping on her foot. Luckily, she was wearing these heavy-duty combat boots. “Hey, do you think I could get a good grade in this class? Or is it like … for experts?”

“I’m no expert. Believe me,” she said, holding the door.

I winced in the burst of sunlight. “You think I could pass?”

“Have you actually shot a film before?” she asked.

“Um. No,” I said.

“I used to make little stop-motion films with my grandpa’s old-school Bolex. That camera is practically indestructible. People strapped them on planes during World War II and recorded the bombs as they dropped.”

I kept thinking how it felt so easy, talking to Pippa. It was like we’d never stopping talking. Everybody was running to their next class, making so much noise I could barely hear myself think. I wanted to hit the mute button on the world.