The blond boy moves as if to stand up, but does not stand up.
The girl punches the mulleted boy in the thigh.
“Jesus,” he says, rubbing his thigh.
“Did I hurt you?” says the girl. “I didn’t mean to really hurt you. I’m sorry.” She leans toward the mulleted boy and tumbles off the window seat, onto her shoulder.
Both boys go to her. The mulleted one gets to her first, holds out his hand. She takes it. The blond boy rushes offscreen.
CUT.
One week later.
Fixed overhead shot of the freckled girl in evening gloves sitting on a couch beside the mulleted boy, who wears a strange-looking CureSleeve.
The boy is mumbling something.
“Blah blah blah!” the girl says, and leaps off the couch. “If you believe me, then prove it. Let me see yours. Take it out of that sleeve thing and let me hold it.”
“No,” says the boy.
“Go to hell, then,” says the girl, and, just as the bright-blond boy from the previous scene steps inside the frame from the right, the girl roundhouses leftward until she’s offscreen.
CUT.
Eighteen minutes later.
Fixed overhead shot of the big-eyed, freckled girl in evening gloves sitting in a window seat, eating a sandwich. The mulleted boy approaches her. “Hello,” he says. The girl stares down at her sandwich and chews.
A second boy appears behind the mulleted boy, waiting, it seems, to be acknowledged.
Seconds pass.
The second boy huffs some air from his nose, loudly, looks at the ceiling—his gaze is fixed, he is extremely walleyed.
“Lisette,” says the mulleted boy to the girl.
The walleyed boy huffs more air from his nose.
The girl, Lisette, remains unresponsive, chews.
“Dude, you gotta meet me after session seven,” the walleyed boy says to the back of the mulleted boy. “Screwball’s doing the best new thing. You pull on his whiskers a little and he yawns, and if you do it three or four times in a row, then when you stop he makes a sound like ah-cha-cha cha-cha and blinks his eyes really hard!”
“Lisette,” the mulleted boy repeats. “Please don’t be mad at me. Everything is terrible. My mother’s got cancer.”
Lisette swallows a bite of sandwich and says, “You’re so full of it. That’s the oldest, dumbest lie.”
“I wouldn’t lie about this,” says the mulleted boy. “The doctors say she only has three to five weeks.”
Lisette, in a mocking, whiny-toddler voice, says, “I wouldn’t lie about this.”
Sniffling sounds come from the walleyed boy. His shoulders are trembling.
“You just want me to feel bad,” Lisette continues. “You just want attention.”
“No,” says the mulleted boy. “I do want your attention, but—”
Lisette leans to the side, to see around the mulleted boy. To the walleyed boy, she says, “Why are you crying? Stop crying.”
“She’s dying,” the walleyed boy says to Lisette. “His mom’s gonna die.”
“She’s not,” says Lisette.
The mulleted boy pivots, punches the walleyed boy in the face, turns back to Lisette.
Lisette’s mouth is open. Lisette looks surprised.
The bright-blond boy from the previous clip appears at the bottom of the frame, tentatively approaches.
“It’s okay,” the walleyed boy says to the back of the mulleted boy. “I knew you were a hitter. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Again, the mulleted boy pivots, and again he strikes the walleyed boy in the face.
The walleyed boy falls, clutching his face.
The mulleted boy turns back to Lisette.
“Good one,” she says, “but I still don’t believe you.”
Two men—one in a black labcoat, one in a white labcoat—rush into the frame. The man in the white labcoat kneels beside the walleyed boy. The man in the black labcoat embraces the mulleted boy, lifts him off his feet. As the boy kicks at air and shouts, “Lisette!” and “Please!” and “Wait!” the man adjusts his grasp and carries him offscreen.
Lisette runs offscreen in the same direction.
The bright-blond boy follows her.
CUT.
Forty-seven minutes later.
Fixed overhead shot of Lisette sitting cross-legged on the leftmost cushion of a five-cushion couch, looking down at her lap. The bright-blond boy appears at the bottom of the frame. A cure is lying prone on his shoulder. He sits on the couch’s rightmost cushion, says, “Hi.”
“Stay away from me,” the girl says. “Stop staring. Go away.”
“I wanted to tell you that you can hold Zappy,” says the boy.
“I don’t want to,” she says.
“It’s really friendly,” says the boy.
“I don’t care,” she says.
“I love you,” says the boy.
“That’s stupid,” she says.
“Why’s it stupid?” says the boy.
“Wipe the oozey jizz from your pinkeyes, Dicksuck!” a yawny-voiced boy, offscreen, remarks. “She’s in love with Suspendersed. Everyone knows it.”
“Shut up,” the girl says, and covers her face.
The bright-blond boy removes the cure from his shoulder, lays it down supine in his palm, moves across the sofa to the cushion beside the one on which Lisette is sitting. He strokes the cure, one-fingered, on the belly. “Look,” he says, “at how cute it is. It’s really cute.” Lisette doesn’t respond. The boy strokes the cure for a few more seconds, then returns to the cushion he’d previously sat on. “You’re so cute, little Zappy. You really are,” he says, and keeps stroking the cure. “It’s almost as cute as you, Lisette. Really. It’s true. It really is.” He looks up at Lisette. Her face is still hidden. He looks back at the cure, continually stroking it. It starts to painsing. “You’re almost as cute as Lisette, aren’t you? Man, wow. And you sing so pretty.”