Playing Keira (6 page)

A line from one of the reviews my mother keeps in a scrapbook ticker-tapes across my mind:
The real breakout star of
Five at Six
is the sharp-tongued yet funny and sweet Justine, whose early rebellion gives you a sign of things to come
.

Things to come
. Gah.

“The intrusion will be a problem,” I say. Grasping. “I’m supposed to be getting my school act together, remember?”

“It’ll just be for a month or two.”

“Why is it so important to you?” I’m curious to hear what she’ll actually admit.

Mom thinks for a moment, her expression warm but a little pained, and I’m glad for the pained part.

“I guess I still believe in it. The original idea of it. From the very beginning, it seemed like such an honor.”

That sounds sincere but I know there’s more. After the last time, her custom birthday cake business got a nice bump from the exposure. Now she’s branched out into cupcakes and what she calls “food art,” which mostly means bananas on sticks with candy faces, and she could use the free advertising. Then there’s the thing she won’t mention:

It made us all kind of famous for a while.

“You’ll feel better after the whole idea settles in,” says Mom now. I can see she’s hiding a flash of excitement behind the concern. “I have to get started on a T. rex with red frosting.”

I go upstairs to my room and open my laptop, unable to shake that dark-shadow feeling.

The original idea of it
.

My hands, which seem to be much more motivated than the rest of me, open a Web browser and type the address I know so well but refuse to bookmark.

Here it comes, loading into place: the website for the
Five At
movies. I used to go on here a lot, watching video clips of the films or interviews with Lance and Leslie. Every time I went back, I’d expect to see something new. Like it might tell me secrets I didn’t already know about myself. When I realized it never would, I stopped. But now I’m here again, and it’s like the site has been waiting for me all this time, that home page with the familiar logos of the first two films. Dangling them.
You know you want to
.

Five at Six
. The word
six
is carefully designed to look like some kid’s doodle, colored faux-sloppy with red crayon. In the
Five at Eleven
logo, the word eleven is written in chunky block letters with alternating polka dots and stripes.

Then there’s the tagline:

The award-winning documentary film series that’s captured hearts and minds everywhere
.

As corny and cringeworthy as ever. But I click on the
Five at Six
logo, which brings up a page of information about that movie, and start to read.

Five six-year-olds, all assigned to the same table in their kindergarten classroom in a college town in New York’s Hudson Valley
. . .

For the record, that’s bullshit. I remember us getting moved to that table together right before the cameras came in. After they’d interviewed a hundred kids in a converted janitor’s closet, then twenty-five, then twelve, before finally finding five in one class who they liked best. Five of us, with the right shapes to fit together and make some bigger picture.

Who are they? What do they care about? What are their hopes and plans, and what are their families’ hopes and plans for them? What can five kids and their families, their school and community, tell us about our times? Filmmakers Lance and Leslie Rodgers create a brilliant portrait of these children and their world, and ultimately our world . . . and begin what will become a most amazing journey for all of us
.

The “most amazing journey” thing always makes me want to laugh, or barf, or
larf
. Maybe Lance and Leslie think it’s amazing. First, their humble credit-card-funded documentary was the toast of the film festival circuit and hit theaters in several big cities. After it ended up on cable TV and won a bunch of little statues, they announced their idea—and the big funding to go with it—to do a follow-up documentary every five years until we were twenty-one.

They never asked us to commit for three more films. They just assumed we would. So far, they’ve assumed right.

On the page titled “The Kids,” there’s a picture of each of us at six years old, paired with one from when we were eleven. At six, I have shoulder-length, straight light brown hair with a barrette to keep it off my face. I’m looking at something above the camera with an arched eyebrow, a slightly slanted expression of
Are you freaking kidding me?

The photo next to it shows me with a short pixie cut, my hair brown-black then, my mouth open in the process of saying something, because in the second movie I was always saying something. Of the five of us, I’m the one who’d visibly changed the most. People thought that at eleven I’d dyed my hair and wow, that is so rad and how did her parents feel? Truth is, it just got darker naturally. But I didn’t correct them.

I try to imagine what the new picture will be. My hair is once again shoulder-length. Sometimes I use a single barrette to keep it off my face. So it’s possible that I could just look like a larger version of my kindergarten self.

Shudder
.

I’ve had five years, since they shot
Five at Eleven
, to get ready for this. After what happened that time around, I was sure the amazing journey had screeched to a halt, sparks flying, brakes burning.

This is not a soap opera, folks. This is my life.

And it is absolutely, positively as unamazing as you can get.

T
he next morning, my sister, Olivia, drops me off at school on her way to class. She’s a freshman at the college now but has discovered that zipping through her old haunts is a quickie feel-good fix. Like, she may still be living at home and failing two classes and been through three boyfriends already, but at least she’s not in high school anymore.

“I’m stopping by Dad’s house tonight. I really can’t break the news yet?” she asks as I get out of the car. It’s my father’s handed-down Saab station wagon, which has turned out to be a surprisingly awesome set of wheels, even if it does have a forever-stink of moldy bagels and spilled coffee. She calls it Sob or, alternately, S.O.B., depending on whether or not it starts on a cold morning.

“I know it’s torture for you, but no, you really can’t.”

We’ve decided not to tell Dad about Lance and Leslie until we can all be together to talk about it. Olivia makes a pouty face and starts to drive away, then screeches to a stop. I hear the
whirr
of the passenger side window lowering and see Olivia’s oversize black sunglasses peeking out.

“Hey, Justine?” she yells.

“Yeah?”

“You can just say no if you want to!”

Despite the big round shades covering her eyes, Olivia is able to deliver a glance loaded with meaning, and then she speeds off.

You can just say no
. Is that true?

My cell phone chimes with another text message—I’ve gotten about a dozen so far this morning and that’s an alarming statistical spike—and I head inside to check them. Once I step into the main entrance lobby, I look up at the rushing current of students moving past me. Most of them are doing something unusual in my direction: smiling, or flicking their eyes sideways, or actually saying hi.

I know a lot of people. Some of them I hang out with and consider friends. Fortunately, it’s been five years since
Five at Eleven
and most kids have forgotten that my face was ever on a movie poster. There’s no reason for anybody to dislike me—at least I hope that’s the case—but I’m nothing special. I just sort of
exist
at this school.

All that’s about to change, because when I glance down at the first message, I see it’s from a girl in my homeroom and it says,
SO excited about the movie!

Oh, crap. Word is out. And I know, instantly, how that word got a jet-powered blastoff on its speedy journey through the cell phones and social networks of our student body.

I’m going to kill him.

“Why, Felix?
Why?
”

“Oh, come on. You know you love it.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

We’re in line for lunch in the cafeteria, where at least all the staring is concentrated in one place at one time. By now, there isn’t a single being at this school—not the kids nobody talks to, not even the French teacher who won’t let you address her in English—who doesn’t know. All morning, people have been asking me questions I can’t answer.

When do they start filming? Is everyone else doing it too?

My standard response is to shrug, while in my mind, I’m curled up at the back of a closet with the door closed, pleading
go away go away go away
.

Felix, though, grins at them, all teeth and confidence. His face is so bright and open, his enthusiasm so uncomplicated, that for a second, I see the world he sees. It’s not a bad world. I’m sure it would be a lovely place to visit.

“Haven’t you been waiting for this?” he says to me as he grabs a bowl of pudding. “I mean, I’ve got plans! If I can get two new videos online by the time they come . . .” His eyes light up. “Actually, they could shoot me
shooting
the videos!”

Felix is a first-generation American
, says the
Five at Six
website.
The son of immigrants from the Dominican Republic, he’s already navigating a tricky multicultural, bilingual landscape. Will his parents’ American dream for him happen?

When I worry about how well I know this stuff, I think of Felix. If I have it memorized, you can bet your ass he has it framed on the wall. (Well, that’s not quite fair. I’ve been in Felix’s room. He does have it framed on the wall.) Judging from his daily photo blog and the video clips he posts of himself performing original songs on his electronic keyboard, Felix would like nothing better than cameras following him 24/7.

We reach the cash register and when we’re both done paying, I start to follow him toward our usual table. “Oh,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me. “I’m having a screening party on Saturday. To watch
Six
and
Eleven
. You have to be there.”

I frown hard at him. “Do you have any idea how narcissistic that is?”

Felix’s smile drops, but only a little. “I thought it would help people get used to the idea of the cameras being around.”

He’s not watching where he’s going and when he turns forward again, he almost walks right into another kid.

Oh. Not another kid.

Nate Hunter.

How do I sum up Nate Hunter? Let’s just say that if I merely exist around here, Nate blazes, through hallways and classrooms and the swimming pool. He blinds and dazzles, if you’re into that sort of thing.

Nathaniel is about as “homegrown” as you can get; he lives with his mother, who is young and single, and his grandparents, the owners of a long-established local farm
.

Felix and Nate stare at each other, frozen by some invisible force field between them. If I could snap a picture, it would be a study of opposites: Nate is blond and green-eyed, pale and lanky, his hair short and even vertical in places, while Felix is dark and small and shaggy-headed. This kind of moment with Nate happens sometimes, when Felix is distracted and not on his guard. Usually, I grab Felix and snap him out of it, but right now we’ve both got these damn trays in our hands. It’s extra awkward today, given the news about the film. All I can do is stand there and watch, and wince.

Felix tries to like everyone and be the universal buddy, but I know if there’s one person he would want to make disappear from the planet, it’s the guy who was once like a brother to him.

Nate looks away from Felix, then quickly around the room as if searching for someone, anyone, else. His gaze lands on me for a split second, then jumps off as quickly as possible. That’s all I rate.

I remember what Leslie said, that Nate actually
called
them to see if there would be a third film. Well, of course he did. He’s got the best story out of the five of us. His will be the most dramatic “Then” and “Now” footage, and all I can feel is angry. For what he did to my best friend, and what he did to himself.

Nate continues to search the cafeteria beyond Felix, then, apparently finding what he was looking for, moves away.

“Come on,” I say, walking in front of Felix. I snag our table and he follows, still a bit dazed. We eat in silence for about a minute, both trying very hard not to look over to Nate’s table, which is filled with other swim team guys and their assorted female counterparts.

“Hey, Justine,” says a voice, and I glance up to see Ian standing there with his tray, my face reflected in his thick-framed so-uncool-they’re-cool glasses. He tosses his head to flick back a lock of curly black hair. “Do you have room?”

There’s just Felix and me at the table, so
duh
we have room. But I just nod and slide down the bench to make space for him.

Felix shoots me a look, one eyebrow raised, and in return I pop my eyes at him so he gets the hint. “Oops,” he says to me, too dramatically, “I forgot napkins. Be right back.” He gets up and walks toward the napkins, but stops on his way to chat with two guys at another table.

Ian sits and shakes up his bottle of juice, which is something that always drove me crazy (
I like the froth
, he’d say), then slides his straw wrapper down to an accordion. Those hands. I remind myself that those hands used to stroke my hair, rub my shoulders, hold my face right before he kissed me. I do this because clearly, I’m a masochist.

“How do you feel about this movie thing?” Ian asks, and the fact that he’s the first person to care, the first person to consider that maybe the news is strange and difficult, pierces me a little.

“I’m not sure,” I reply, the closest thing to the truth I’ve got at the moment.

Ian smiles, takes a bite of his hamburger, then considers while he chews. “I can totally understand how it would be weird. But I’ve got to tell you, I thought the first two movies were awesome.”

We’d never talked about the films. I kept waiting for him to ask about them, but he never did. I took that to mean he wasn’t interested and I sort of loved that.