Sophomore Switch (21 page)

After spending three days locked in the editing suite with Ryan, I break. Squinting at a screen all day making minute changes to scene length and order may be the way to earn an amazing mark on our final project, but it’s not the route to mental health, happiness, and that sense of carefree California well-being I’m determined to maintain. I insisted on taking Thursday off, to have one whole day of “me time.” One blissful, glorious, stress-free —

There’s a light tap at the front door. I roll out of bed, pull on my fluffy robe, and cautiously crack it open.

“Ryan?” I step backward, surprised.

“Umm, hey.” He takes in my clothing. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Oh, no.” I pull the robe tighter. “Come in.” He slowly edges into the apartment. “Morgan’s out,” I reassure him, and watch his whole body uncoil.

“Cool.” He nods, jamming his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans.

“So . . .” I perch on the edge of the sofa and wait.

“Oh, right.” Ryan smiles sheepishly at me. “You weren’t answering your cell. I was thinking of heading down to L.A., just taking some time to drive and hang out. Do you want to come along?”

“I thought we were having a little time-out.”

“Right, from editing.” Ryan slowly frowns. “Did you mean —?”

“No!” I jump up. I’d planned out my whole day, but I need to be more spontaneous. Scheduling my spare time is just another manifestation of those control-freak tendencies I’m trying so hard to shake. “L.A. sounds great. Just give me a minute to get dressed.”

“I’ll be in the car.”

Ryan is horrified to discover I’ve yet to experience a road trip.

“But you’ve been here more than two months already. They’re like a mandatory national experience!” he exclaims as we speed down the freeway. It’s another clear, sunny day, and he’s rolled all the windows down, the breeze whipping my hair into a terrible tangle. I don’t care. There’s something exhilarating about the speed, the movement, the fast song currently blasting from the stereo — as if this is really a part of my life, instead of just a vacation moment.

“I haven’t had any reason to go anywhere,” I shout as the drum kicks up a notch for the pulsing rock chorus.
“And back in England, well, we just take the train if something’s more than a couple of hours away.”

Ryan shakes his head. “I guess it’s up to me to educate you. Oh wait.” Wrenching the wheel violently, he suddenly spins us into another lane. I squeal and grip the seat as we speed down an exit ramp. “Sorry!” he says breathlessly. “But I figured you needed an authentic diner stop as part of your American visit.”

“I also need to stay alive!”

“C’mon.” Ryan laughs. “You’ll forgive me when you taste their cheeseburgers.”

He’s in a better mood. Whatever weight has been dragging him down these past weeks seems to have lifted.

We only drive another few miles before pulling into a car park in front of an old-style diner, like the ones I’ve seen on postcards. It’s long and low, with a flashing neon sign announcing “Angie’s” and peeling paintwork. I hop out of the car.

“Oh, I wish I had my camera. I keep missing all the best things.”

“Got it covered.” Ryan waves his mobile phone at me and pushes me over to the sign. I stand self-consciously. “You can do better than that!” he urges. I begin to pose, awkwardly at first, but soon I manage to fight my way out of my own head and find myself mugging for the camera — blowing kisses and jumping around.

“I look ridiculous.” I giggle, leaning over to see the snaps.

“That’s the point.” Ryan grins, pushing open the
heavy diner double doors. Immediately, I’m transported into a 1950s tableau, complete with long counter and faded-looking waitress in a pink uniform.

“Wow!” I grin. “It’s so . . .”

“Touristy and kitschy,” Ryan finishes, leading me to a corner booth upholstered in red leather. “But they do awesome disco fries.”

“What are they?” I slide into my seat and look around, enrapt.

“You’ll see.” Ryan rummages in his battered gray wallet for quarters. “Now, if this is the Americana scene, we need the right soundtrack. . . .” He punches a few numbers on the mini-jukebox next to us, and after a moment, familiar chords begin to play.

“‘Dancing in the Dark.’” I smile slowly. “I love this song.”

“The English rose likes Springsteen?” Ryan looks surprised. “Hmm. I didn’t see that coming.”

“What, it wasn’t in your character outline?” I tease, only half kidding, as the waitress comes to take our orders, dark roots showing through her platinum perm. “I’ll have one of the famous cheeseburgers. And a chocolate malt whip shake.” To hell with healthy.

After Ryan orders, he takes a sugar packet, thwacking it against the edge of the table in time with the song.

“You do that a lot,” I note. His restless energy doesn’t drive me insane the way it did a month ago, but it’s interesting the way he can never simply sit still. “And that scene thing . . .”

“Huh?” Ryan pauses.

I slouch down in the booth, regarding him thoughtfully. The knowledge that I only have two more weeks here makes me feel a little reckless. “Just the way you said we needed a soundtrack. Do you do that too — see things as scenes, like they’re on film? I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” I add. “I’m just curious.”

“What is this, Analyze Ryan Day?” He laughs, but I can see his eyes get hard. I shake my head.

“Relax. It’s not as if I’m any better, with my penchant for schedules and order,” I joke, trying to relieve the tension. He sits back, making room for the vast plate of chips that is placed between us, smothered in gravy and cheese. “So these are the disco fries,” I say lightly. “My sister would be lecturing me about cholesterol by now.”

Ryan takes a fry and eats it slowly. “I don’t mean to see the world like that. I guess I just get too deep in film, in narrative, you know?” He looks at me for a second before continuing, “Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in director mode, always looking for the right angle or line, even when it’s real life and not a movie.”

“Real life is never that simple,” I agree. “There’s no story arc for one thing or third-act dramatic climax.” I scoop up a glob of melting cheese. “And as for resolution . . .” I meet his eyes again. “As if we’d be so lucky.”

“Right.” He smiles, relieved. “I guess it’s my way of trying to get a little control over everything.”

“Like me and my timetables.” I nod. “The only reason I do it is because there’s so much I can’t even begin
to control. If you just stop and think about how much of your life is totally out of your hands, it’s incredible.” My voice begins to rise. “I’m not even talking about things like global warming or famine or politics, just normal everyday things. Whether or not your examiner is in a good mood when they mark your paper, or if your application gets filed underneath the person they choose.” My eyes are wide. “Ninety percent of your entire existence occurs through luck or accident. Just think about that!”

“Pretty scary,” Ryan agrees. He has a slight smirk of amusement on his lips, and I realize I must have got carried away.

“Sorry,” I say, deflating a little. “But I get it: wanting to be the one in charge of the scene.”

He shrugs. “But it doesn’t work that way, right? You can’t write everyone’s part for them.”

He looks sad for a moment, and I remember what Lexi and Morgan said in the salon. “We can do it today,” I suggest with a smile. “Pick the soundtrack, stage the scenes. Cut from the car park to the diner interior to . . .”

“Santa Monica boardwalk,” Ryan finishes for me. He nods slowly. “‘Emily’s Big Adventure.’”

“You make me sound like an animated pig.”

“Don’t complain, or I’ll make it so you don’t get home,” he warns me with a dark grin.

“And then who would do last-minute rewrites? Face it, you need me.”

We spend the rest of the day creating that perfect fun montage you find halfway through every romantic-comedy film.
Tourist photographs at the Walk of Fame; people-watching on Sunset Boulevard; arcade games and candy floss on the boardwalk. Ryan even insists we rent Rollerblades, for that quintessential California experience, and although I can tell he’s still watching us through that director’s filter in his mind, I’m having so much fun that I don’t really care.

“So this is what life is really like for you people.” I take tiny gliding steps forward, arms outstretched to keep my balance. I’m covered in an array of crash pads, but I still don’t feel particularly stable as we edge down the wide pedestrian path. “Sun and sand, all day every day.”

Ryan gives me one of his twisted half-grins, skating circles around me with irritating ease. He’s filming me on his digital camera, and I dread to think what I look like. “Not exactly. It’s the same living here as anywhere else. Except with better scenery.”

“That’s not true.” I gingerly pick up speed. The boardwalk traffic is thinning as the evening breeze begins to cool, and I feel a rush in my blood that has nothing to do with the skating. “People are so laid-back here — it’s like you have Prozac in the water system!”

“You’re not doing too bad.” He pushes me carefully out of the way as another girl hurtles past — as trussed up in protective clothing as I am but clearly out of control. I feel marginally better about my own Rollerblading prowess. “You haven’t checked the time all afternoon.”

“Yay me!” I mimic the California-girl squeal.

He laughs. “Don’t go changing too much; they won’t recognize you when you get home!”

I miss my footing and begin to fall.

“Whoa!” Ryan grabs my elbow and drags me upright. I cling to him for a minute, trying to get my balance back. “You OK?”

I nod, suddenly breathless. I’m not sure if it’s Ryan’s body pressed against mine or the sudden thought of home, but I feel a sharp clutch beneath my rib cage. “I’m . . . I’m fine.” I straighten my legs, he releases me slowly, and we skate on.

The sense of giddy sickness lasts through an old John Hughes screening and the drive back to Santa Barbara. I curl up, sleepy in the passenger seat, while Ryan hums along with the sweet chimes of an indie-rock song on the stereo. My body is tired but relaxed, with a potent soft buzz of endorphins.

“You’ve gone quiet.”

I look up to find we’re back at the apartment, waiting in the dark car park. “Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about . . . home,” I lie. “I can’t believe I’ll be going back soon.”

“Just when I was getting used to you.”

I ignore the wistful pang in my chest and quickly pull my jacket on. “You’ll find someone else to keep you on the shooting schedule. Anyway, thanks for today. I had fun.” I open the car door, but he turns off the engine.

“Wait, I’ll walk you up. It’s late.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

I fill the space between us with project talk all the way into the lobby and up to my corridor. Edits and pacing are
safe ground: details that won’t belie anything other than professional interest in his opinion. Still, I swallow nervously as we reach my room. The whole day has been one long facade of a date, even though I know it’s not real.

“So, I had fun,” I say again, stupidly. Ryan looks as awkward as I feel, shifting from one foot to the other in the empty hallway. I unlock the door and push it open to find an empty flat. Morgan is still out. “Oh, do you want that book I mentioned?”

“Sure.”

I flick the lights on and he follows me in. “It’s here somewhere. . . .” Browsing the stack on the bookshelf, I find the title — a critical look at comedy conventions. “It’s not due back for another week.”