Geek Charming (30 page)

By the time the party rolled around on Friday, I had made Dylan so human—so vulnerable—that once people saw this, even the biggest Dylan hater would turn into a Dylan lover. I’m not the kind of guy to use the word
genius
lightly, but sometimes that’s the only one that works. Even though the documentary focused primarily on Dylan, I think I had managed to tell a universal story that hit on everything audiences like to see—love, greed, ambition, popularity, heartbreak, betrayal. All stuff that Shakespeare wrote about in his plays.

Not only did I hope the USC admissions committee would like the documentary as much as Mom did, but I was hoping it would help get Dylan back on solid ground in terms of her social status. Although I’m all for a character getting payback in order for the audience to feel satisfied (one of the first things Quentin talked about when he spoke to the Film Society), I couldn’t help feeling bad for her and the way that everyone had been treating her since she and Asher broke up. Instead of falling all over her, they were just tolerating her. Sort of like how on the news you saw people being nice to ex-presidents as if they’d get arrested if they weren’t.

 

It wasn’t a huge bash—more of a small get-together of twelve or so of the A-minus/B-plus crowd as well as me, Steven, and Ari. According to Dylan, the party was her way of telling the world that even though Asher had dumped her for Amy Loubalu, she was a survivor. She may have survived the breakup, but judging from how no one was paying attention to her at the party, she might not survive the fallout of no longer being the girlfriend of the most popular guy in school. I had always thought that Dylan was just as popular as Asher, but judging from the way that people were now treating her, that didn’t seem to be the case. Not only was she no longer royalty, but some of them didn’t even try to hide their yawns when she went on about the top thirty reasons why her life was already better since the breakup. To be honest, number fourteen—“I now get to wear the color green whenever I want because I had stopped wearing it because Asher didn’t like it”—felt like it was stretching it a bit.

“Well, should we screen it now?” Dylan asked. I was sitting next to her on the couch feeling nauseous from all the sushi I had just scarfed down. It was one of the foods on the “Things That I Never Got to Eat When I Was Going Out with Asher Because He Didn’t Like Them” menu that she had served, some of the others being egg salad (which no one was interested in) and beet salad (ditto). “I’m afraid if we wait until after everyone starts in on the black-and-whites, they’ll go into a sugar coma and fall asleep.”

“That’s a good point,” I said. I could feel my stomach start to jump.

“Want to do a little breathing first?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Okay, and breathe in,” she instructed.

We both took a deep breath in.

“And out,” she said as we started to exhale.

“Excellent! And again,” she said.

I still hadn’t replaced my inhaler, and every time I said I was going to, Dylan convinced me to go one more day without it. The breathing really helped. Who knew? Maybe one day I’d be off the inhaler forever.

After we were done with the breathing, she turned to me. “How’s that?”

I gave her a thumbs-up.

She gave me a hug. “I’m so proud of you!” she squealed. “I
knew
you didn’t really need that thing.”

“Maybe I outgrew my asthma,” I said as I stood up.

“Maybe you never even
had
it. Maybe it was all just stress-related,” she replied.

“Okay, everyone—it’s time!” she yelled, clapping her hands and running around the living room. “Everyone in the family room so we can screen my—I mean, Josh’s—movie!” When no one moved, she put her fingers in her mouth and gave an ear-shattering whistle. “Let’s move it, people!” she bellowed.

Soon enough everyone was settled in the family room, with Dylan standing in front of the big-screen television. She cleared her throat. “Okay, so before we start, I just want to say that as many of you know, when Josh first brought up the idea of doing a movie about me, I wasn’t all that interested—”

Lola rolled her eyes. “It’s not a movie just about
you
—it’s a documentary about the inner workings of the in crowd of Castle Heights, which means it’s about
all
of us, right, Josh?”

“Ah . . . yeah, well, kind of,” I stuttered as I scratched at my neck.

“Yeah, but seeing that
I’m
, like, the central figure in the movie, that kind of makes me the star. Right, Josh?”

I scratched at my neck some more before giving a combination shrug/nod that I hoped would make each girl feel that I was in agreement with her. I could already tell I was going to hate the politics of filmmaking.

“So as I was saying,” Dylan continued, “when Josh first started filming, I was a little worried that this was just some warped way for him to take out his frustration because he wasn’t popular.” She smiled at me. “But over the last month, not only have I gotten to see that Josh is so
not
warped in any way—unlike, you know,
some
people who shall remain nameless who go out with a girl for two years and then dump her three weeks before a major social event—but he’s also not a geek even though he may have looked like one before I gave him a makeover. In fact, not only is he so
not
a geek, but he’s probably the nicest person I’ve ever met and I feel incredibly honored to be the star of his first movie”—with this, Lola rolled her eyes again—“in what I know will be a supersuccessful career with tons of hit movies and television shows. And with that, I’d like to introduce my dear friend Josh Rosen.”

As everyone started to clap, I gave my neck one more good scratch before making my way up to where she was standing. Looking out at the group of kids who, a little more than a month ago, didn’t even know my name and were now giving me what looked to be genuine smiles, I started to relax. Sure, the first eleven years and one month of my school career had been tough, but hey, it happens. As far as I was concerned, all that was water under the bridge. Finally I felt a part of something other than the Film Society and the Russian Club, and I had to say, it felt amazing.

“Thanks, Dylan,” I said. I looked out at the crowd and remembered to stand up straight. “I’m really excited that you’re all here for the world premiere of
The View from the Top of Castle Heights.
Not only was it a very rewarding experience creatively, but I also got the opportunity to make some great new friends. I don’t want to say any more, because I’d rather let the documentary speak for itself, but I just want to thank all of you for being so generous with the access you gave me and Steven and Ari into your lives. And, uh, with that, I hope you enjoy
The View from the Top of Castle Heights
.”

I started to sit down, but then stopped and faced the crowd. “Oh, and there’ll be a brief question-and-answer period after the film. Thanks,” I said, with a slight bow.

Once Steven killed the lights, I waited until I saw a FILM BY JOSH ROSEN appear on the screen before making my way to the kitchen. From every interview I had read, no director who was really good ever stayed for a screening of the film. Instead they went to some bar and knocked back a couple of shots of Jack Daniel’s or stood outside and chain-smoked and paced until it was time to come back for the Q&A. Part of being a director was pretending you didn’t care what the audience thought, even if you did. Because I didn’t smoke or drink, I figured I could calm my nerves with food but still be close enough to be able to hear the laughs and sounds of amazement from the audience.

I was in the process of putting together an Everything-but-the-Kitchen-Sink Special when I heard the scream.

“Josh, GET IN HERE!
NOW
!” I heard Dylan yell.

There was something about the tone of her voice that made me think she wasn’t calling me in to tell me how brilliant I was.

As I walked into the family room, on-screen was Dylan sitting on The Ramp one day during lunch. She was sitting in between Hannah and Lola, with their arms folded, the three of them looking down at the rest of the cafeteria like they were the judges for
Project Runway: Castle Heights
. “Um, hello, but could that girl’s outfit
be
more hi-I-live-in-Seattle-and-therefore-I-have-no-fashion-sense?” Dylan was saying on film.

I could hear a nervous giggle from somewhere in the room, but otherwise it was quiet. Except for the sound of my very loud gulp.

“Asher and I pretty much
have
to date,” she said to the camera in the next scene as a sea of kids parted to give her room to walk. “It’s not like I could be dating someone like, I don’t know,
you
or him,” she said, pointing to someone offscreen, which, from the look of distaste on her face, meant that it was probably Steven. “That would be like . . . a giraffe ending up with a tiger or something. It’s just not physically possible, you know?”

As I watched the screen, my mouth fell open so wide I actually
could
have fit the kitchen sink in it.

I had grabbed the wrong DVD before I left the house that night.

Instead of bringing the version that showed Dylan as a multilayered, three-dimensional character, I had picked up the one Steven had put together.

As Dylan liked to say . . .
Oh. My. God.

I immediately ran over to the DVD player.

“No, leave it,” she ordered. She sounded so mad I almost expected her head to go around in circles like Linda Blair’s in
The Exorcist.

“I know a lot of kids do things like volunteer at nursing homes or stuff like that,” she was saying on-screen, “but I feel like I can do a lot more good just by being around kids my own age and showing them what’s new in fashion, you know?”

Not the type of footage that was going to have Oprah’s people banging down Dylan’s front door to have her on the show for an episode about “Inspirational Teenage Role Models.”

“Dylan, I can explain—” I stammered.

There was a shot of Lola and Hannah being cooed over by two gay guys at a little French bakery on Westwood Boulevard. “I have gay friends, too,” said Dylan on-screen, “but not naming names or anything, I feel like
some
people rely on them for attention. Especially if they feel like they’re being overshadowed by their best friend.”

At that line, Lola and Hannah gasped in stereo on the couch.

“Catfight,” someone called out.

“Now you can turn it off,” Dylan said quietly.

Someone turned the lights on. “Dylan, I can explain—” I began as I felt every eye in the room staring at me.

If I had really wanted to show Dylan in a sympathetic, vulnerable light, I should have had my camera with me, because the look on her face at that moment was heart-breaking. Instead of looking like the beautiful, put-together popular girl who had intimidated hundreds of less popular kids in the halls of Castle Heights, she looked like her fifth-grade self in that picture that was in her dad’s office. The glasses and braces were gone, but the emotional gawkiness was there.

She looked like I had felt all these years up until I had met her.

“So this is what you think of me?” she asked softly. Even from across the room I could see the tears that were brewing in her blue eyes.

“No! What happened was—”

“You know, maybe I’m not Shari Chase or Debra Wellington”—two girls in school who were always organizing do-good events such as food drives for Feed the Homeless of War-Torn Countries and Take an Elderly Neighbor to School Day—“and maybe I like to go shopping and maybe I know a lot about nail polish, but that doesn’t mean I’m a bad person—”

“Of course not,” I agreed. “You’re not a bad person at all. You’re a
great
person—”

“I mean, would a bad person help someone who she considered a
friend
change their look?” she asked, her voice rising.

“Please—just let me explain—”

“And would a bad person give that quote-unquote friend tips on how to talk to the girl he had a crush on?” she asked, the tears now falling down her face.

“I’m telling you, it’s all just a misunderstanding—”

“And would a bad person let someone follow them around with a camera for weeks, and sing Neil Diamond songs with them in the car, and make sure that they didn’t go to sleep without calling or texting to say good night?” she said as her nose started running.

“No,” I said quietly.

“I didn’t think so,” she said, wiping her face with her sleeve. Gone was the perfectly put-together girl from that day in front of the fountain. “You know, I’m thinking this might be a good time for you to leave.”

“But if you just give me a minute to explain—”

“A
really
good time,” she shouted.

It was so quiet I’m sure you could hear my stress-induced wheezing all the way across the room. Everyone was staring at the floor. Finally Steven spoke up.

“Dylan, I’m the one you should be—”

She held up her hand. “And I want you and him,” she said, pointing at Ari, “to leave, too.”

I pointed at the DVD player. “I’ll just take that DVD back—”

She grabbed it out of the machine and threw it at me.

“Thanks,” I said, picking it up off the floor. I pointed at the machine. “If I could just get the sleeve for it—”

The laser beams of hate she was shooting through her eyes would have been enough to scare the biggest action hero away. “On second thought, I don’t really need it,” I mumbled. As the three of us made our way toward the hall, Steven stopped and grabbed a handful of popcorn.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

He shrugged. “Humiliation makes me hungry,” he whispered defensively.

“
Everything
makes you hungry,” whispered Ari.

“So sue me,” Steven whispered back.

Once we were on the front steps, I heard the click of the dead bolt on the door behind us. I plopped down and put my head in my hands. “I can’t believe this,” I moaned.