On the landing of the stairs is a bundle of paper. And anyone in this city would be able to recognize it as a script. But very few people would be able to recognize it as a script for Undercover. The new script that he tried to talk to me about. That he was excited about.
It’s tossed on the ground like garbage, and I suddenly can’t breathe. No. This can’t be happening.
I pick up the script, and even though I don’t want to believe it, it’s true. This is Peter’s script. His name is right there. Peter Holleman. And he threw it away. Just like I threw him away. Like I threw us away.
I slide down the wall of the landing, because I can’t stand up anymore.
And I cry.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Keep turning pages to read the sequel, FOR US.
Copyright © 2019 Penny Wylder
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.
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1
Amber
Past
I watch the trees flying by outside the car, the fingers of my left hand pressed against the skin of my left wrist. My heartbeat is there. Steady, constant, alive. I push against the sudden wave of anger that's in my chest. The only thing that's good about it is that it speeds up my heart rate, but otherwise, this anger is exhausting. I feel like I've been angry for as long as I can remember, and it's just not fair.
I'm not angry at being alive. Of course I'm not. But everything about this sucks. It fucking sucks. The last year of surgery and recovery feels like a waste of time. Not just a waste, but stolen time. I had so many plans, I was so close to realizing those plans and enjoying my success, and instead, it’s been drug cocktails and car rides to and from doctors’ offices. And every step of this reminds me of Peter. Peter who stabbed me in the back and saved my life. And even though he saved my life, I still hate him. Because I have nothing now. I'm going to all these interviews without a portfolio. No show. No proof of my talent except the plans I had.
Anyone can plan something. It only matters if you follow through.
"You okay, honey?" my mom asks.
I don't take my eyes off the road. "I'm fine."
She sighs, but I pretend not to notice. I guess I've been saying that a lot lately. We both know I'm not. And even though it's their fault that I have to stay on the east coast I'm not mad at them. They're just trying to take care of me and keep me alive. So it makes sense that they want me to be within driving distance of home.
It's not lost on me that I'm lucky enough to be within driving distance of New York City, but my heart is in Los Angeles. That's where people in film go for their start, and I'm not there. I'm here. In a car. With my mom. On my way to the city for an interview at NYU.
This is so stupid. Any other person going to interview at NYU would be fucking ecstatic. This is a dream for so many people, but I'm pissed because I'm interviewing in the wrong city.
We crest a hill, and I can see the city skyline. That’s something that New York has going for it, the skyline will always be more beautiful than Los Angeles’s. Too bad skylines don’t mean shit when it comes to film school. I wonder what Peter would say to that.
I shut down that thought as soon as it appears. Peter isn’t here. He’s not going to be here, even though we talked about going to the same city, working it out. We both destroyed that option. Dammit Peter. Why did you have to do this? If you had just waited a single day, we could have figured this out together. He could have been by my side during all the surgeries, and my parents wouldn’t be keeping me on the east coast because I wouldn’t be alone. Peter would be with me.
He tried to talk to me after, but I wasn’t ready. I was too mad. I’m still mad, but now I wish I had talked to him. I’m too young to have these regrets, but life doesn’t always play out exactly the way we hope, does it?
I flip my mind over to the interview. There are things that I need to highlight about my experiences in school, especially since I’ve been out for a year. I can’t forget anything, so I’ve been reviewing whenever I can.
My roles in every position of theater and film. I’ve done it all. So even though I want to direct, I have experience in all the other aspects, which is beneficial for directing. I took on a lot of responsibility, both within the drama club and other school activities. Most importantly, I’m still passionate about what I want to do, and my health will not be an obstacle or hold me back from being competitive in the program.
This interview has to go well. Even though I’m pissed about not being in Los Angeles, if I had to choose a school on this coast, it would be N.Y.U. It’s one of the schools that people pay attention to when you say that you studied there. If I have to change my dream, this is an acceptable alternative. I’ll go to the other interviews, but this is the one I want.
I wrap my head around that idea and visualize the interview. Visualize being accepted and moving to the city. Visualize my goals materializing down this path. It helps. A little.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and for a brief second my heart rate picks up, and my gut tells me it’s Peter. That he found out about my interview and he’s texting to congratulate me. But no, it’s my friend Laura, wishing me luck. I push aside the disappointment to examine later. Peter already cost me so much, I’m not going to let thoughts of him torpedo this too.
No, I can’t think about him right now. Not ever.
Our car slows down as we hit some traffic on the way into the city. Glancing at the clock, I’ve still got two hours until the interview. Plenty of time.
“You ready?” my mom asks.
I shrug. “I think so? I’ve gone over everything I have to say so many times in my head that if I forget it now it’s my own fault.”
“You’re going to be great,” she says with perfect confidence.
“I hope so.”
My mom clears her throat. “I know that this isn’t really what you wanted, and I’m sorry—”
“I know, Mom. I’m not mad at you. I get why this is the best option.”
I hate the pity and sympathy in her voice. “But that doesn’t make it easier.”
“No,” I say. “It doesn’t.”
We ride in silence for a few minutes. “Is there anything you want to do in the city while we’re here?”
I look over at her. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” she says with a small smile, “your dad and I knew that you were kind of bummed out, so we agreed that we could make a trip out of it.”
“You mean we get to stay after the interview?”
She nods. “All weekend. I thought that we could maybe see a show, do some sightseeing.”