17 days. We
graduate in 17 days. I know because I count, I’ve been counting and will
continue to count until that number drops to zero. In 17 days, I’ll never have
to see this shuddering fever dream that we call high school again, in 17 days
I’ll never have to deal with the collusion of muck and mud that is the constant
in and out, over and over social vice, applied with a casual cruelty every
moment of every day. In 17 days, all I’ll have is summer before I can finally
leave this patch of scorched earth, trapped in it every day since birth, but
thank Christ not till death, because in 17 days the next step of my life is
leaving America behind and going to university in Scotland, because where
better to escape to than the land of Robert the Bruce, William Wallace, and
Bonnie Prince Charlie. In 17 days, all the years of humiliation and heartbreak,
all the times we had to get our friends taken to the hospital so they wouldn’t
slit their wrists, all the girls who turned me down, all the guys who
threatened me, everyone who called me weird, laughed at me, wouldn’t even look
at me, told me I was going to shoot up the school because I was such a fuck up,
they’ll all be trapped in a past I’ll never have to return to. 17 days.
Walking
through the main hallway first thing in the morning is always such an
experience, everyone sitting around just... waiting, talking, gossiping,
laughing, making out, arguing, playing the guitar, forming their own brands of
cool, but me, my eyes are on the ground, I don’t want a part of their cool, I’m
better than that, or so I think as I wrap my trench coat tight around myself,
oblivious to my self-satirical absurdity and pretension. I need to tell myself
I’m weird, and I need to be weird, to justify the decade or so of universal
hatred that has attached itself to me. I see my history teacher and he smiles
at me, says hi, and I say hi back. I guess it’s nice to know my teachers like
me at least.
And don’t
get me wrong, I’m not totally alone. I have my group, be as it may that we are
forced together more through shared loneliness than any sort of real common
cause. We don’t hang out in the hallway, we have a place all to our own, the
green screen room, with an attached editing booth. We’re not supposed to be
there outside of class time, but the film teacher has resigned himself to the
fact that we’re not leaving anytime soon, after all, we’ve nowhere else to go.
I push open
the door to the room, and apparently I’m late because everyone is here already,
give or take. The windows in this place are blacked out, casting the room into
a perpetual state of evening. The expensive film equipment tossed about gives
the place a cyberpunk sort of aura, straight out of Gibson, with the addition
of all our angst and pimples.
“Milo. Ever
get a chance to read that story I emailed you?”
“Not yet
man, I’ve been busy?”
“With what?”
“I don’t
know, school?”
“Right.”
Terrence -
smart as all hell, with a drive to match. He doesn’t come from money, but that
only seems to fuel him on, over his impossible drive to success, even if it’s
quite clear, if given a real choice he’d be a writer before a lawyer, but life
doesn’t grant choices. I know he’ll make it on the money front because he wants
it, and he works hard enough that he can guarantee anything he wants. Except
for love, that is, but he’s thoroughly convinced everyone, particularly
himself, that love is the one thing he doesn’t want.
“Hey man.”
“Phillip.”
“Did you get
a chance to talk to Erika?”
“I told you
man, not interested. Also you know she’s in the next room, right? She can
probably hear you.”
“Fuck.”
Phillip -
quiet and shy, but that doesn’t make him anything approaching a decent person.
He’s scrawny, pale, the Hollywood trope of a nerd, straight out of John Hughes.
He’s depressed. I mean, we all are, that’s kind of the point, but he wears it
like a badge of honour, always wanting the rest of us to pat him on the back
and tell him it will be okay. If it’s not strikingly obvious, he’s not exactly
my favorite person.
“Hey Erika.”
“Philip.”
“You don’t
look so great - everything okay?”
“I... I
don’t know. Something’s up with Dahlia.”
Erika -
she’s pretty and bubbly, but that doesn’t make her happy, in fact it almost
makes her the opposite, always managing to draw the wrong kind of intention
from the wrong kind of people, namely Philip, her avowed nerdiness on top of
the cool girl demeanor making her manic pixie dream girl incarnate. For all the
shit I give her, she’s my best friend in the world and I wouldn’t still be
breathing without her.
“Hey Milo,
can you come look at this?”
“Look at
what Heath?”
“This error
I’m getting - I don’t know what the hell it means.”
“What were
you trying to do?”
“Knock OSX
off and install Mint.”
“You know
this is school property, right?”
Heath - our
unofficial leader, blessed with this title as much for his domineering stature
as any particular function of personality. He probably has a slightly higher
opinion of himself than warranted. He’s basically used this last semester of
senior year to blow off any and all work. He doesn’t go to class, let alone
turn in his homework. He’s Mormon, and that means after this, he’s going on a
mission to Mexico, which I suppose is his excuse to not do anything. As the
rest of us, he believes just surviving, just getting out, will save his soul.
“Morning
man, you want to see the new cut?”
“Yeah, sure
Joel. Are we going to be done by the deadline?”
“You mean by
five minutes before Mr. Vincetti comes in here asking where the hell our film
is?”
“Something
like that.”
“In that
case I’ll tentatively say yes.”
“Good
enough.”
Joel - he
wants to be a director, and if he doesn’t make it at that he’ll be a bum,
because movies are pretty much the only thing he’s thought about for the last
four years, and, if film school goes according to plan, the only thing he’ll
eat, sleep, and breathe for the next four, and all the years after that. For me
filmmaking, more the writing and producing side, is a hobby and an elective
credit, but I appreciate getting to work with someone so driven and passionate.
“Hey. Uh...”
“Hey.”
“I’m having
a lan party on Friday... You interested?”
“Yeah man,
that’d be cool.”
Jonathan - I
didn’t actually know we were talking. For years we were really good friends. He
got me through some of my worst days. If I’m being wholly honest, I’d be dead
if he hadn’t been there for me sophomore year. But then he started dating
Dahlia, my ex, and I’m not sure from where the tension arose, but arise it did.
Jonathan is without a doubt one of the smartest people I know, but just as
Terrence seems to be willing his way to success, Jonathan is trying just as
hard to do absolutely nothing with his life.
“Milo.”
“Dahlia.”
And then she kisses Jonathan, holding out the act, seemingly for my benefit.
Dahlia - my
ex. My only ex, a relationship so catastrophic, so nihilistically fatalist,
that it can hardly be called a relationship at all. During our few months
together we never kissed, and when she broke things off, I did my damndest to
ruin her life. The fact that we can be in a room together without killing each
other is testament to her restraint. She’s another future law student.
The bell
rings, and I start to leave, though not before trying yet again to get Heath to
see reason.
“You coming
to Stat?”
“Nah man. I
don’t think Ms. Sawyer even knows what I look like at this point.”
“That’s your
own fault, you know.”
“Whatever
man.”
On the way
to class I see her - the prettiest girl I’ve ever met, outside of movies and
pornography. I don’t know the first thing about her, not her name, her grade,
anything. We ride the same bus, and I can tell you her mom always drops her off
and picks her up from the stop, driving an olive green Toyota Prius, and she’s
always listening to music. This is all I know. I suppose I could talk to her,
but then the mystery would be gone, and she’d be just another girl. Now,
though, she’s a mystery, an enigma, a beautiful thing in my life to consider,
to hold just out of reach, one of Gatsby’s green lights. I try to tell myself
that when I get to university there will be tons of women like her, with exotic
accents to boot. I try to tell myself I’ll somehow end up with one of them and
everything will be okay, though I know it never will.
After Stat
is English, with Terrence. As we’re waiting for the teacher to start the class
- she’s retiring this year and that 17 holds for her as much as for us -
Terrence tells me something I don’t really want to hear.
“You know
Erika asked me out?”
“Uh... what
did you say.”
“I said
no... I guess I’m just not... I don’t really have time for dating.”
“I don’t
know man, I think you should give it a shot.”
“It’s not
worth it. I can date in college.”
“Sure man,
whatever.”
I then
proceed to zone out for the duration of the lecture - English comes pretty
naturally to me, and I’m sure to let the teacher know how little of a shit I
need to give to get straight A’s. Sometimes she’ll ask the class a question
and, met with blank stares, I’ll let a silence hang in the air for a good
thirty seconds, before opening with a deep sigh, then launching into a
convoluted answer that answers her question, along with three she hasn’t yet
asked. Everyone needs a hobby.
Next,
history. I love history, stories old and new, the whole human parabola laid
bare before us, inscribed in ever shifting, ever changing, ever revised tomes
of analysis, facts twisted and shaped and remade in the name of the present
zeitgeist. Today, though, is exam prep, and honestly, I could not possibly give
less of a shit. The teacher is letting us work in pairs or small groups, and I
have the class with Erika, which provides us an opportunity to talk.
“So.
Dahlia.” I begin the conversation because one of us has to.
“Dahlia.”
“Yes?”
“Well. You
know how we used to be, like, really good friends?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess
you’ve probably noticed for the last few months we haven’t been... been...”
“Even
looking at each other?”
“Yeah, that.
So I finally confronted her, asked her what was up?”
“You mean
you didn’t know?”
“Not really.
I mean, I thought it was something to do with Jonathan but I didn’t really...”
“Go ahead.”
“I just
didn’t know what. So I asked her. She wouldn’t even talk to me.”
“What do you
mean?”
“She just
gave me this death glare and left the room.”
“I don’t
know. I can’t tell what’s up with that girl... I mean, ever since we dated...”
“Oh come on,
you’re not the center of the fucking universe.”
“I know but,
I mean, the way I treated her.”
“Jesus
Christ. This wasn’t supposed to be about you.”
“Fucking
hell. Sorry.”
“Yeah. Yeah,
I know, you’re just trying to help.”
“What do you
want me to say then?”
“I don’t
know. I just want Dahlia to be my friend again.”
“I’m
probably the last person to talk to about that one. Have you asked Jonathan?”
“He’s a total dick, and you know that.”
“He’s a total dick, and you know that.”
“Have you
considered that maybe that attitude is why his girlfriend hates you?”
“Fuck off.”
“Whatever.
Do you want to maybe actually try to study for the final now?”
“Fuck that.”
And so it
goes. Another history class wasted. Every day, I know I have fewer and fewer
history classes to waste, up until I start university and can focus on history
full time, preferably with fewer mandatory study periods for me to sleep
through. And potentially less bullshit teen angst.
Lunch is
just another opportunity to hang out in the green screen room - I haven’t been
anywhere near the cafeteria since the middle of Freshman year, and I’d prefer
to keep it that way.
On the way
back to the room, Erika splits off to talk to someone, and I run into Phillip.
I always dread our little chats.
“Hey Milo.”
“Phillip.”
“Look, about
Erika.”
“I told you
man, she’s not fucking interested.”
“I know. I
get it... I just...”
Oh no. Oh
shit. Time for another Philip monologue on how he’s uniquely alone, uniquely
cut off by the world as a whole, as a direct result of him being just such a
nice guy.
“It’s just
that... I met someone this weekend, and we had coffee and... she’s going to be
going to my college... and I don’t know. I just wanted to make sure everything
is cool with Erika. I mean, I just wanted to make sure she gets that I’m over
her, and I just want to be friends.”
This is
about the polar opposite of what I was expecting, but it makes me happy.
Phillip deserves a little luck after all the constant rejection. I guess I’d
been selling him short, prejudging the conversation off my own internal bias.
Well, this is certainly a useful way of cutting down on the constant maelstrom
of drama, self loathing, and suicide attempts that seem to be a constant part
of our little circle of personality disorders, Philip falling in love, I mean.
As soon as I
get to the room, I walk into the editing booth, see Joel there scanning through
the timeline of our film, looking for the little fuck ups that always seem to
bring down projects like this. This year we’d decided to go and do something
ambitious, make a full length film with high school students as the cast, using
the minimal equipment available to us, and the little money I made from working
as a janitor, and now, after months of fighting and stressing and thinking the
damned thing was doomed, there it sat in editing, right in front of me, just
ready for us to call final cut and export the thing. The culmination of the
life long dreams of two men, our film, our twisting, arching story of teenage
love and suicide, of the tragedy and angst and passion and drive and quiet
rebellion that had made up our own lives for years. Everyone had watched us
with eager anticipation of our great fall, but yet here we stood, proud.
“Well, man,
this is it. We made a movie.”
“Yeah Milo.
It’s... damn.”
“I was
pretty sure for a while there it wasn’t going to happen.”
“We got it
though.”
“By the luck of the devil.”
“By the luck of the devil.”
“So what do
you think- you going to try to keep making films in Scotland?” I think for a
moment.
“Nah man, I
think this scratched my itch. I’ve lived that dream. I think I’ll write a book
next.”
“Well, good
luck with that, I guess.”
“Yeah, well,
I’m sure this is just the start for you.”
“I hope so.”
I stare at the screen for a while.
“I still
can’t believe we actually did it.”
Jonathan
walks into the room.
“You guys
finish?”
“More or
less, I’m going to run through it a few more times, but, yeah, I think so.”
Joel looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. I take Jonathan aside.
“Hey man,
are we cool?”
“What do you
mean?”
“I don’t
know, it’s just seemed like, lately, with you and Dahlia...”
“You don’t
own her, just because you dated sophomore year.”
“I know man
it’s just, I don’t know. It feels weird for me. You know how long I was into her
before we actually went out.”
“Yeah, I
know man.”
“I’m glad to
see you two happy together, though.”
“Thanks.
It... it feels pretty good. To share... to share everything with someone like
this.” I smile at him. He walks out, and I see Dahlia standing there. I shut
the door to the editing room, and I sit down next to Joel as he hits play.
The final
title card comes up, Over the Horizon. It’s a little sappy, a little
sentimental, but that’s the point, I think. Because despite the sentimentality,
it’s raw, a brutality of emotion. It may not be the best film ever made, sure,
but it’s an honest one, and that’s really the most I could’ve hoped for. I get
up, head to take a piss.
As I step
out into the green screen room, I look around, see Phillip talking to Erika.
“...and you
know what, I just feel happy, really, truly happy, and I think this is the
first time in my life I can honestly say that...”
Dahlia and
Jonathan are holding each other close, and outwardly I grimace, but inside I
feel a warmth, a quiet happiness. I hear a snatch of muttered dedication from
Dahlia.
“...I’m
really glad I have you...”
Terrence and
Heath are talking and both look happy. Heath puts his hand on Terence's
shoulder-
“...I know
we aren’t handling this whole senior year thing the same way, but, in the end,
what really matters is we make it through, past that, well, we’ll figure it
out...”
I walk
through the hallway, see all the people talking, laughing, just being, and
despite it all, my feigned resentment, my forced separation, I find a certain
love for this place, for its honesty despite the posturing, for it’s fervent
desire to just be, in spite of itself.
Standing at
the urinal, I notice the guy standing beside me, and it occurs to me briefly
that I went to preschool with him, back in another life. I think about saying
something, but I remember the great unwritten rule of men’s bathrooms. I go to
the sink, wash my hands, lose track of myself, lost deep in my thoughts,
turning my hands over and over in the warm water, thinking about the future,
about the life I’m soon to have, wandering through the streets of an ancient
city, meeting people from all over the world, finally deciding just what the
hell it is that I want to be in this life.
I leave the
bathroom and I see, standing by herself, looking out the huge, two storey,
floor to ceiling windows, at the plains rising to the mountains that tower all
above this place, her, the green light, the girl whose car I know but not her
name. I think to myself about all the years and months and days and hours and
seconds that have built into this moment, all the struggle and fighting,
everything I’ve been through, everything I’ve done, and I take a few steps
towards her, then I consider all the rejections and how everyone says just keep
trying, and I take a few more, I think of everyone who always called me a
weirdo and a loser, and now I’m a couple feet away from her. I open my mouth
and...
I hear a
crack like thunder and I see blood erupt out the side of her head as she falls to
the ground, the moment stretched out towards oblivion in slow motion, and I
turn to see a girl with an AR-15, and I
vaguely think I remember her from Physics as I take off running, got to move,
got to make it, I hear more cracks and I am consumed by a fear of awesome
power, got to make it to the room, the citadel, it’s saved me from everything
else and by god it will save me now, screams all around me, people running,
backpacks cast aside, my shoes skid across the polished tile floors, and I rip
the door to the room open, and I look over the faces before me and I realize
they don’t yet realize what’s going on, but I soon tell them and then they
start to scream, and we lock the door and we all find places to hide, and I
find myself in the editing room, hid under a desk, next to Erika, Jonathan and
Dahlia across from us, them holding each other close, and I look to Erika and
give her the biggest hug I can, then I simply say
“Thank you.”
I remember
we have a second door.
I get up,
start to run, but the door pushes open with an impossible force, and I see
Philip break for the opening, but he’s cut down, just standing then not,
healthy then covered in blood. Life and death without pretension. The shooter
comes towards me and I stare for an impossible second, the time it takes
Terrence and Heath to sneak out behind her, and break into a dead run, as I
throw myself back into the editing booth.
I try to
hold the door closed, but I cannot. As I see that AR-15 come through the frame
of the door, I look to Erika and in her eyes I see death, and I try to run for
her, even as the echoing cracks announce her fall, then the gun turns towards
Dahlia, and I decide it’s time to do something, because what else can we do but
something, and in that split second I see Jonathan decide the same, and we both
rush the shooter, and Jonathan is on the ground bleeding and screaming, then he
stops screaming, and somehow Dahlia makes it out the room behind us, and I look
to the girl with the gun, and I open my mouth and I scr
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