The Cutting Room Floor

Woodbury, Minnesota

Copyright Information

The Cutting Room Floor
© 2013 by Dawn Klehr

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

First e-book edition © 2013

E-book ISBN: 9780738739205

Book design by Bob Gaul
Cover design by Kevin R. Brown
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5916995/Mlenny Photography,
15326086/DRB Images, LLC

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For Leo

Acknowledgments

The Cutting Room Floor
cast and crew are the best in the business and I’d like to take a moment to thank them here.

Roll credits:

The writer’s support team: Sara Biren and Tanya Byrne. These two amazing writers have been with me since I started on this crazy journey and I would not be here without them. They were the first people to meet Dez and Riley and supported me every step of the way.

The incredibly talented agent: Jessica Sinsheimer, who believed in this story from the very beginning. Jessica asked the hard questions and did not stop until she got the best out of me. Her fingerprints are all over this book and I couldn’t be happier with the outcome.

The stellar editor: Brian Farrey-Latz, who made this book shine. Extra thanks to Sandy Sullivan, Alisha Bjorklund, Mallory Hayes, and the entire team at Flux for all of your hard work!

The family: My husband, Lance, who immediately jumped on board when I told him I was going to write books and gave me the time, support, and love I needed to keep going. My son, Leo, who inspires me every day—his love of stories and fantasy makes me want to be a better writer. My mom, who is my biggest fan and continues to teach me lessons in patience—without which, I would’ve given up long ago. My sister Sara, who read all my early work and said she didn’t just “like” it, she “loved” it. Way to build the confidence, sis. My sisters Julie and Libby, who are my cheerleaders and comic relief. My in-laws, Jim and Adrienne, who are never shy with their excitement and encouragement. I also have mountains of support from my brother-in-laws, nieces, nephews, and friends. Love you guys!

And finally, heartfelt gratitude goes out to the organizations that have helped me in so many ways: SCBWI, the Loft, and the MNYA writers: Liz, Ryann, Sara, Kari, Jonathan, Kitty, and Nikki. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Fade to black…

In feature films the director is God;
in documentary films God is the director.

—Alfred Hitchcock

TITLE SEQUENCE

If my life were a movie, this would be the opening scene: a guy and his friend at the mall food court waiting for their dates to get back from the bathroom. I’m the guy, seventeen, somewhat troubled, sitting at a wobbly table with a plate of soggy nachos. This is my natural habitat. My natural, depressing, stifling, lame, pathetic habitat.

The title sequence would start out like a typical high school story, but then reveal that something’s amiss. There’d be a tight shot, or piece of dialogue, or something that would make the viewer uncomfortable. Something to give them that prickly feeling. The kind that you feel deep in your gut.

Yeah, my life is
that
kind of story.

If I were Quentin Tarantino, I’d open the scene with all the players in my troubled life. We’d wear shades and walk down the streets of the Heights in slow motion, a gritty song playing in the background, just like in
Reservoir Dogs.
But I think my soundtrack would start with Chris Isaak’s “Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing.”

Or I could rip off the Coen Brothers. Start with a monologue where I wax poetic about life while showing scenes of my hometown, like in
No Country for Old Men
. I’d cut from shots of our old part of town with its decrepit buildings, vacant houses, and cars resting on cement blocks to the new area where homes sit on perfectly manicured yards and families ride to soccer practice in shiny SUVs
.
The haves and have-nots in our fourth-ring Twin Cities suburb. I’d throw in the clichéd Minnesota accent for good measure, since it worked so well in
Fargo
.

You betcha!

Or, if I were M. Night Shyamalan, I’d set up my opening scene in a creepy location—like the empty film editing suite in school—with eerie music playing in the background. But unlike in
The Sixth Sense
or
Signs
, there wouldn’t be a supernatural element.
I
would be the cause of all the trouble. I’d call it
Desmond Brandt
, since it’s
my
story. No. No, wait. It’d have to be about the girl. It’s always about the girl. Yes, I’d call it
Riley Frost,
since it’s her story too.

Most importantly, I’d have to show my character’s re-deeming qualities right away. Show that despite my narcissism, I really do care about others. That I
do
have a heart. This is critical, especially when they discover that
I
, like Chris Isaak, did a very bad thing.

Well, fuck Tarantino, and the Coens, and M. Night. And Kubrick, and Spielberg, and Coppola for that matter. No one—except film freaks like me—even cares who they are anyway. This is
my
show. Here goes.

Opening scene: Take one.

DEZ

Jonah shoots me a warning glare when the girls leave to go to the bathroom, which, by the way, is really annoying. I’ll never understand the whole pissing-in-a-pair thing. I ignore him and pick at the heaping pile of wilted nachos—a waste of my favorite food court meal, but I’ve lost my appetite.

Spending a Saturday night on a double date at the Heights Mall is about as pitiful as it gets. The once-happening place has become a no man’s land. Over the past few years, almost half of the stores have gone out of business. Even the food court options have been whittled down to Big Burgers, Taco Bell, and a small snack shop. You can almost see the tumbleweeds blowing by.

If this were a movie, we’d be at a homecoming dance or a football game or a romantic autumn hayride. But this year’s homecoming was canceled, our football team sucks, and after a teacher was killed in our high school last month, the town is pretty much keeping to a nine p.m. curfew.

“Desmond,” Jonah says, pulling away my plate of processed cheese sauce. “If you don’t stop being a complete douche, I’m going to kill you.”

“Please do.” I bang my head on the table and ignore his empty threats. “Put me out of my misery.”

“That’s great, Dez,” he says on the verge of what I’d call a whine. “Real nice. I just needed you to be my wingman for one night, that’s all I asked. Just one night. When have I ever asked you for anything?”

And here comes the guilt trip. I deserve it. Jonah has never really asked me for anything. No, he’s more of a giver. Always been that way, even when we were kids.

FLASHBACK SEQUENCE
INT. ELECTRONICS STORE—DAY

A 10-year-old JONAH and DESMOND browse the racks of video games.

JONAH
You need to get this game, Dez.
I got it for my birthday and it’s sweet.

DEZ
(rubs fingers together)
Can’t. No dinero.

JONAH reaches in his pocket and pulls out a wad of crumpled bills.

JONAH
Well, I do. I have lots of dinero.

DEZ
No. No way. That’s your birthday money.

JONAH
So? It’s no fun to play Mario Brothers by yourself. You need it too. Then we can play against each other.

JONAH makes a goofy face at his friend, grabs the game, and heads to the check-out counter. DEZ chases after him …

END FLASHBACK

PRESENT DAY
INT. THE HEIGHTS MALL—EVENING
DEZ smiles at the memory.

Yeah, Jonah’s always been that way.

Big surprise, I kept that game—and beat Jonah at it every time we played. The least I can do for the guy is help him look good in front of his date. But I just can’t get into it.

“If you don’t put that phone away, I swear to God,” Jonah says.

“Yours is out.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t been glued to it all night like you have.”

He’s right, yet I can’t exactly tell him what I’ve been doing on my phone and why I need it tonight. Instead, I keep my transgressions to myself. Trouble is, they’re piling up like the unwanted bills Mom used to keep in the kitchen drawer—notices that meant our lights or telephone would soon be shut off. I worry what will happen to me when I can no longer close the drawer on my sins. I have no choice but to keep them hidden.

Jonah would never understand anyway. He’s one of the good guys.

Sorry sap. He’s totally flipped over his date. She’s from the other side of the river, a town about twenty minutes from here. She had to lie to her parents about coming out to the Heights. After all the shit that went down last month, our little town is not exactly the place you’d want to send your daughters.

It goes both ways. People from the Heights generally don’t care for people on the east side of the river—where the suburbs tend to be bigger, wealthier, and closer to the Twin Cities. And though her town isn’t what you’d call sophisticated by any means, it’s definitely (as Mom would say)
highfalutin’
compared to the Heights.

Jonah met Ms. High Society at a youth group thing last weekend. Her name is Sage or Cinnamon or some spice. I can’t remember. I’m supposed to keep the Spice Girl’s friend, what’s-her-face, company while Jonah makes his move. But I’ve totally neglected my duties. I’m such a dick.