More Than Good Enough(48)

“Too late now.”

As the credits hovered over the screen, everybody burst into applause. I clapped, too. I didn’t stop until my palms tingled.

“You’re next,” Pippa whispered.

“So you’ve got psychic powers now?”

“Not really,” she said, “but I can recite the alphabet. O comes after M.”

This was it. The entire school was about to see her mom’s house. When I’d gone over to shoot the project, I’d told Pippa to wait outside. She had no clue what I filmed. It had taken the rest of the semester to edit it.

While Pippa sat on the front porch, I’d been in the living room, talking to her mom. I filmed her in extreme close-up. You couldn’t see the Glad bags behind the couch. Or all the piles of magazines about Better Homes.

“My daughter thinks it’s Halloween year-round,” said her mom-on-screen.

Pippa sank down in her chair.

“She wears the strangest things. But even with all the Goth makeup … is that what you call it? Goth? Or is that not hip anymore?”

Behind us, a girl snorted.

“Whatever,” said Mrs. McCormick. “I still think she’s the prettiest girl in the world.”

Pippa turned and looked at her mom. A real mom.

My film cut to a series of shots, a bunch of stills from Pippa’s family albums. They dissolved from elementary school pictures all the way up to the present, fast-forwarding through time.

“You know, Pippa was beautiful as a baby,” her mom’s voiceover told us. “And she’s even more beautiful now. I don’t say it often enough, but I’m so proud of her. Sometimes I forget that she’s not little anymore. I just wish that I could hold onto her forever.”

In the auditorium, Pippa’s mom was wiping her face. It was hard to see, but I could tell that she was crying.

“My daughter has grown into her own person,” the voiceover went on. “That’s because she takes after me.”

The auditorium exploded with giggles. Pippa’s mom was actually funny. Who knew?

“You can stop filming now.” She blocked the lens with her hand. “Is that thing still recording? Where’s the off button?”

“It doesn’t have one,” my voice mumbled off camera.

After an awkward moment of silence, the film was back in focus. Pippa’s mom was still talking in the background, but she wasn’t on screen anymore. All you could see in the frame was their parrot, Holmes, his lizardy feet and prehistoric stare.

“I’m trying to teach him a few words … ” My voice boomed across the auditorium. It was always strange, listening to myself outside my head. Did I really sound that lame?

Holmes melted away, replaced by a montage of Pippa’s room and everything in it. Her collection of vintage cameras. All her Tim Burton movie posters, curled like treasure maps on the floor. I even filmed the Crayola scribble on her bedpost, the letters that spelled her name.

My film was edited like a mixtape, sampling DJ-style and pasting moments in time. When I thought about it, this was an awesome way to make a “portrait.” Not one point of view, but many. It was all about telling the truth.

Maybe there was more than one.

After the screening, the whole class got together in the art room. Mr. Bones passed around a star-shaped balloon and told us to sign it. He said we should practice our autographs just in case we became famous. Usually I’d laugh at that sort of BS. Did he really think we would graduate and morph into Hollywood directors?

Mr. Bones was high-fiving a bunch of seniors, telling them “Good job, guys” and all that crap. When he came to me, I expected him to say the same pre-recorded lines.

“Real nice editing, Trent,” he said. “Did you use any ND filters?”

“No. Was I supposed to?”

He smiled. My mom would’ve gone off about the silver in his molars and how the metal leaks into your bloodstream. “Are you going to keep making films outside of class?” he asked.

“Well, Pippa started this zombie screenplay,” I told him. “But now we’re thinking of doing a music video.”

“Something a little less violent?”

“Oh, there’s going to be violence,” I said, and he smiled again. “Maybe even ultra-violence.”

“Viddy well then,” he said, like Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange.

Pippa grabbed a tray of paint and started mixing the colors. It was nothing but ultra violet for that girl.

“What is this? Finger-painting?” I stole a couple of her brushes and did a little drum solo on the table.

“I’m going to sign it with your blood.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said, squeezing a tube of Hooker Green. (What was Hooker Green, anyway?)

She passed the balloon to me. It was soaked with signatures in all different shades. There was hardly any room left. I found a spot near the top and signed my initials like we used to do in elementary school, back when we sculpted ashtrays out of clay.

“Your film was pretty awesome,” she told me.

“For real?” I kept tapping my paintbrush on the table.

“It was more than awesome. Seriously. You made my house look normal.”

“Your house is normal.”

“Actually, you made it look beautiful.”