Ruby Unscripted (13 page)

“I thought everyone was gone.” I can't see the guy in the projection area.

“Not yet. Your aunt said I could work on this till you close up.”

“How do you know she's my aunt?”

“Do you mind? The lights?”

“Oh, okay.” I find the switch by the door.

“Thanks,” he says.

The screen shows a still and silent forest, then explodes soundlessly to the red fabric of a woman's dress. The title
Souvenirs
flashes like a neon sign coming on as the woman runs silently through the forest, and then the image freezes on the wall-sized screen.

“What does that look like in the left-hand corner?”

At first I don't see anything. Then I notice what appears to be a boy's face from behind one of the trees. When I say so, I hear a long, exasperated sigh.

“Guess I'll have to reshoot or cut him out.”

“Why?”

“A film with a Peeping Tom in the woods wasn't what I was going for. And I thought I was done with this.” He makes a frustrated sound.

“Only someone really looking will see it. And maybe it foreshadows something else in the story. Or it's like the boy is a ghost or, I don't know, something . . .”

Silence.

“Or you can reshoot or cut it,” I say quickly.

And then he walks up beside me, looking at the face in the trees with interest, and I'm stunned to realize it's that guy. The cute one I saw coming from the kitchen on Premiere Night. The yard and moving guy. Kaden something.

“Might just work,” he says, still staring. He stands there for several minutes as if he's forgotten I'm even there. Then he goes to the lights and flips them back on. “Your aunt and uncle talk a lot about you. As do your mom and stepdad.”

“And what do they say about me?” I smile as I say this.

“A lot. They're great people though. You're lucky to have a family like that.”

What do I say to that? “Yeah, I guess.”

“So what's your experience?”

“Experience?”

“Film?” he says as if I should know what he meant.

“Uh, not much. I took a screenwriting workshop once.” I'm actually sputtering as I talk.
Get it together, Ruby.

“And what have you done with it?”

“I worked on a few screenplays, then I got distracted when some friends wanted to start a band.”

“How'd that work out?”

I laugh, but he still waits for an answer with all seriousness.

“Since none of us was very advanced on any instrument, and we weren't very musical . . . let's just say I moved on to pottery after that.”

“You're not very consistent, are you?”

I stand up, and the theater seat folds back loudly. “I just haven't found my niche yet.”

“Sometimes you have to work hard and have it find you.” He doesn't say this in a very kind or understanding way. I don't know that I like this guy.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Try sticking with one thing. I bet you've bounced around in sports and arts for years—maybe you're even adequate in a lot of things, but I bet you haven't truly applied yourself to be excellent at anything.” He moves back toward the projection area and carries out a large case.

Crossing my arms at my chest, I clear my throat. After the mean girl incident today, I'm not going to cower to this guy. “I bet you heard that from my relatives.”

He stops and opens the case, turning back toward me. He speaks slowly but with little emotion. “I bet you don't often have people tell you things you don't want to hear.”

I hate people like this. Superior, condescending.

“That's not necessarily true. You don't even know me. People have influence on others. We can inspire or demoralize. Maybe you need your sense of superiority to keep people away.”

He crunches his eyebrows together as if to argue. “Hmm. I hope not . . . You aren't the first to insinuate such a thing.” He starts mumbling while he packs up his computer and the projector. “Maybe that's what Claire was talking about.”

“Claire?”

“My cousin. I gotta go.”

And just like that, he slings a laptop bag over his shoulder and picks up a case and leaves the room.

I've finally met the infamous Kaden. And I hate him.

chapter twelve

I have nothing to wear to school.

As in, nothing.

A massive pile of laundry that I've dumped on the floor all needs to be rewashed. Everything smells like cardboard boxes or plastic bags. What's worse, nothing looks cute or like a style I'd wear at my new school anyway. What is my style now? AllAmerican girl—what is that? And no thank you.

I slump on the floor beside the pile, lifting up a yellow shirt and khaki capris, then a red jacket and a blue dress. Nothing looks good.

My style gravitates around my mood. Some days I wear jeans and a T-shirt or sweatshirt, other days a fun dress with bold accessories and bright shoes, another day maybe all black with heavier makeup. Changing styles is what I'm known for at home. My friend Jeffers would see my outfit du jour and name my mood:
Hello, Energetic. Hello, Happy. Whoa, it's Rebellious. Oh,
come here—Miss Melancholy needs a hug.

“We need to leave in ten minutes,” Mom calls from outside my door.

I drop the clothes in frustration as I hear her footsteps hurry down the stairs. With moving and everything, Mom hasn't had time to take me shopping. At home, Carson and I would go to the mall a lot. I could easily get him to take me, and sometimes he'd ask me to go with him. He's a jeans and T-shirt kind of guy, but Carson is very particular about those jeans and shirts and shoes. His friends tease that he's the best-dressed mountain man the wildlife have ever seen. Girls like how he dresses as well.

I wonder what he's been up to. He probably has one of his friends going to the mall with him since I'm not there. Thinking about Carson and the fact that we still haven't connected only increases my aggravated mood—though he left me a lame voice mail—“Hey, don't be mad. I'll visit soon. Sorry though. Bye.”

I dig frantically through the clothes, then stop. Why am I doing this? I can't wear these smelly clothes anyway. The closet doesn't offer anything better. My hanging clothes are my adventurous styles, and I'm not ready to stand out like that at school just yet. I hurry out of my room in my pajama bottoms and a T-shirt.

“Mom!” I call down the stairs. “I can't go to school. I have nothing to wear!”

“What? I can't hear you!”

I run down the stairs, the wood floor cold beneath my bare feet.

“I can't go to that school.”

“Why not?” she asks as she gets a bowl from the cabinet.

“I just can't.”

“Why?'

Mom has no idea that the girls carry purses and backpacks that cost more than my entire outfit or a month's check working at the Underground. That I'm suddenly the poor kid, when at home people asked me where my clothes came from. Suddenly our family is lower class, unintelligent, not at all unique. Even Mom being a magazine writer isn't as interesting in an area teeming with Pulitzer prize winners, movie people, politicians, and everything else imaginable.

“Just forget it.” I head back toward the stairs.

“You have to tell me if you want me to understand.”

But I don't want to tell her. It'll only make her feel bad. We can't spend all our money so I can compete fashionably with the kids at school.

“I can't find anything to wear,” I say and turn away so she doesn't see the tears welling up in my eyes.

“I have your jeans in the dryer if that helps.” She quickly pulls out brown sugar, milk, and rice milk and sets them on the counter.

Yeah, my American Eagle jeans. They were cool back home but are like Wal-Mart to these kids. But it's better than what I have, which is nothing. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

I know Mom's annoyed that I don't say thank you, but how can I? I mean, really?

“I really don't want to go to school.”

“Ruby. Why?”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Strangely, I don't know
how
to talk about it. I don't even know why I'm suddenly so upset.

“Okay.” She stands at the counter with that confused look she gets when she's trying to figure out how to help me but can't. “Well, if you don't want to talk about it, then why don't you go to school again today. If you absolutely hate it, we'll have to discuss that. And why don't you pray about it?”

“Pray about it?” I say this in my best you've-got-to-be-kidding-me tone. What planet is she on?

But then, this is what I once would've believed. It sort of
is
what I believe. Pray for things that are hard, that make you unhappy, that you don't know what to do about. So why do I feel so contrary now? Maybe because it sounds completely stupid to pray for the fact that I hate school because I'm no longer special or popular or whatever it is that I was in Cottonwood and am not in Marin.

“Sweetie, God can . . .”

But that's all I hear. I nod and look at Mom, but I simply can't process this right now.

“'Kay,” I say when she's done. “I'd better hurry and get ready.”

She stares at me a moment longer with a strange look. I can't decide if it's worry, disappointment, or sadness. I leave quickly and find a shirt and jacket that are acceptable and get my jeans from the dryer. They're warm as I slide them on. Then I put my books in my crappy book bag that I loved only two months ago.

Why is everything so hard?

Frankie sends me a text between first and second period.

FRANKIE:
What's wrong with you today?

ME:
How do you know something is wrong?

FRANKIE:
I have my ways.

ME:
Your ways?

FRANKIE:
Never doubt the power of Frankie.

FRANKIE:
You walked by the cafeteria with such a sour look for Little Mary Sunshine.

ME:
I couldn't find anything to wear.

FRANKIE:
Yeah, I noticed.

FRANKIE:
JK, JK. Thought I'd say that before you took me
seriously.

ME:
Thanks.

FRANKIE:
So our poor girl doesn't have any clothes?

ME:
You were nice for three seconds.

FRANKIE:
Oh come on now. Want something from me?

ME:
Uh, no thanks.

FRANKIE:
Girl, I meant from my sister. She just left for college and put a pile of clothes aside to give away.

I'm not sure how to respond.

FRANKIE:
Some are brand-new. She's about your size. I'll bring you some stuff this afternoon.

“So that was pretty cool.”

I'm in world history, and a girl I don't recognize sits on the desk in front of me.

“Uh, what was pretty cool?”

“You.”

The girl is one of those redheads with the perfect fair skin and such natural light in the red of her hair that you want to touch it.

“At the Underground. With Hillary.”

And then I remember. The redhead's hair was pulled back when I saw her with the other mean girls. She was the one who wouldn't follow Hillary and her gang.

“Oh, that.” What else can I say?

“So you're new here?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm London.” She reaches out her hand and laughs with the ease of a model, brushing her hair back from her face with manicured fingers.

“I'm Ruby.”

“Yes, I know. You're at the top of Hillary's hate list. But don't worry, it's a long list, and someone will most likely replace you by the end of the day. Might have already. I haven't talked to her all weekend.”

“So you two are . . . friends?”

“Not really. Our parents are friends. You know how that can be.”

She's wearing a loose gray dress with a thick black belt around her thin waist. I can only guess at the brand—Roxy or H&M or . . . Vera Wang. Though I don't really know the very expensive brands of clothing.

“I guess.”

“Maybe we could hang out sometime.”

I try hiding my surprise, but I don't think I succeed, because she laughs again. “Not with those other girls. It's rare that I'm around them. My closest friends are pretty normal.”

“Define ‘normal',” I say, and this makes us both laugh.