The Cutting Room Floor (6 page)

It sounds perfect, but we both know she can’t afford to take a day off.

“No, it’s okay. It’s just a stupid dream.”
Or my subconscious telling me my best friend might be involved in a murder.

Last night, I watched the video over and over again, trying to piece together what happened. The fact that Libby and this mystery guy were in Ms. Dunn’s classroom the same day she was murdered is more than suspicious. I can’t get it out of my head. Maybe this guy had it out for Ms. Dunn … maybe Libby knows what happened.

I never believed the police story—that it was a random act of violence—in the first place. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve watched too many films, but I think Ms. Dunn had to know the killer. I’ve always has this eerie feeling that I can’t explain. And now I feel like I owe it to her to follow this lead.

“
Well, this might cheer you up,” Mom says, holding out an opened envelope. “Sorry. I just had to look.”

Once I see the Tisch logo on the envelope, I wake right up. Inside is an invitation. Mom hugs me. We knew it was coming, but now it’s official—I’m going to New York in a few months for my artistic review.

Since I hardly slept last night, I’m running on fumes the rest of the day. At least the news of the Tisch invite creates a welcome distraction. I wave the invitation at Libby when she gets to my locker. I’m still reeling from what I saw in the editing suite yesterday, but I have to give her the benefit of the doubt—there has to be a perfectly logical reason for why she was in Ms. Dunn’s classroom that day. I just need to find out what it was. I can’t let my overactive imagination take over.

“Congratulations.” Libby hugs me and I stiffen.

Just play it cool. Libby is your friend.

“It’s nothing yet, just an invite to audition,” I say.

“It’s the beginning of good things, Rye. Plus, I hear New York girls are really hot.”

Girls, right.
“Well, I don’t think that’s even an option for me anymore. I’m done with all that.”

“Done with all what?” she asks.

“Done with girls.”

I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Even before Emma. I’ve been thinking about it since last year, back when I was crushing on Ms. Dunn and Dez busted me for it.

You’re only going to get hurt, Rye,
he said, after a few other choice words.

I didn’t have to wait for that heartbreak, but then Emma came along and everything changed. I was exactly where I belonged and I thought everything would be okay. At least I was willing to take that chance.

Yeah, we saw how that worked out.

I guess Emma leaving me was the sign I needed to finally make the decision. I’m officially taking girls off the menu. It’s a brilliant thought and makes perfect sense. I wonder why it took me so long.

Maybe Dez was right. Maybe “the gay thing” was all a phase.

Or maybe it’s like that Kinsey scale. That tool to measure
how
gay or straight you are. Homer—what we call our film teacher because he eats a lot of donuts and looks like Homer Simpson—brought it up one day last year when we were giving our reviews of
Brokeback Mountain
. We spent the entire class arguing about whether or not the characters were straight, bi, or gay. This, of course, was before the Tori Rollers were running the school. When teachers like Ms. Dunn and Homer still had some power. Needless to say,
Brokeback Mountain
is no longer in the curriculum.

As we were all arguing, Homer tried to explain that most people are not totally gay or totally straight or even totally bi. And that your place on the Kinsey scale can change. It’s super complicated, but I think that’s what’s happening to me. Maybe I’m moving closer to the
straight
end of the scale. Or … maybe I just want
to.

“What, you’re going for older women now?” Libby asks, completely clueless.

“No, I’m done with females.” It feels good to say it, like I’m taking charge instead of handing over my heart to get stomped on over and over again.

“Come on. You’re going to let a little breakup destroy you?”

“No, not destroy. I’m finally going to take control.”

“So we’re back to
boys
again, really?” she asks. “You’re giving me whiplash, Rye. You said you’d finally figured all this out.”

I thought I had. I thought I’d finally realized where I belonged. Things felt so easy with Emma. Natural. And now I’m back to square one again. But after what I saw in the editing suite, none of this seems that important. A woman is dead. And her killer might be—in fact, probably is—still here.

I pray it has nothing to do with Libby.

Still, I can’t help but think about Libby’s rocky relationship with Ms. Dunn over the past year. I also can’t help comparing every guy’s voice I hear today to the voice on the video.

“Forget I said anything,” I tell Libby. I had no idea she would get in such a huff. “Let’s just keep this new development between us, ’kay?”

“Well, that’s rich.” She shakes her head.

“What?”

“You were so close to coming out, really coming out. But now that you’re going back
in
the closet, you want to keep it a secret?”

“Why are you being so judgy?” I snap. “You’re not perfect, ya know? I’m sure you have some secrets of your own.”

That’s an understatement—but now is not the time to ask.

“I’m not trying to be judgy, Riley, but … ”

Libby stops because we smell her. You always smell her first, that sickly sweet and expensive designer perfume that fills the air wherever she goes.

Tori.

She swings around the corner, her usual peppy self. She’s obviously heard everything.

“Telling secrets?” she asks.

“Like you haven’t been eavesdropping,” Libby says.

“I only heard the part about Riley’s sex life.” Tori laughs. “It must be really convenient to go back and forth, Riley. Dumped by a boy, no big deal, try a girl. Dumped by a girl, and now it’s back to boys. Just face it—
everyone
thinks you’re repulsive.”

Libby tenses and I grab her arm to calm her.

Tori pats my back, turns on her heel, and bounces away down the hall.

The air suddenly warms at least twenty degrees. I exhale, realizing I’d been holding my breath.

“I wish you wouldn’t take her shit,” Libby says.

“What would you have me do?” Though I’d love to get in Tori’s face and dish it right back, the truth is I’m scared. Anytime anyone messes with the Devlin family, something bad happens. Look at Ms. Dunn.

“I have an idea.” Libby rubs her hands together. “I think it’s time for some payback. How does Friday look for you?”

DEZ

INT. THE HALLWAY LEADING TO
THE FILM CLASSROOM—AFTERNOON

Two guys, WILL THOMAS, short and slick high school drug dealer, and MARCUS FLYNN, handsome and built with ice blue eyes, huddle together a few doors from the film room. They talk in whispers but nothing is clear.

ZOOM IN:

CLOSE UP:
The boys’ hands. They each conceal something as they make an exchange.

I hate the fact that I had no choice about Marcus joining the film crew. He’s a total pig, but with his access to all of his dad’s equipment and props, I couldn’t say no. And today, here he is with the school’s biggest freak. Like you can’t tell he’s buying shit. It’s so obvious.

He must be getting his weekend stash.

It’s finally Friday, and my patience is running thin. It’s been a hellish week watching Rye suffer—especially with Tori on her case. I’m hoping today’s filming will help take her mind off everything.

I walk up to Marcus and glare. “Dude, you know that shit is not allowed during production.”

Marcus laughs. “Is the old man at home wearing off on you, Desmond?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, man.” Will holds up his hands and slithers away.

“Look, I don’t care what you do on your own time,” I say. “But if you want to be on the crew, it stays out.”

“Relax. It’s not for me anyway.”

“I don’t care who it’s for, just keep it out while we’re working on my film.”

Marcus nods and stares at me with his wicked eyes. Then, under his breath, he says, “You should be thanking me.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking about his dad’s donations or his business with Will or what. I don’t want to know. The dude is creepy and I just want to keep my distance.

Inside the film classroom, I take a seat. Riley plops in the chair next to mine and we wait for the others to join us. We used to make movies and work on projects during Film Studies. But now that the school is broke, the class has become a glorified movie-watching session. We have to save the real filmmaking for our club after school—the club without any funding. In addition to Marcus’ donations, we resort to using my Sony video camera. Lucas, another senior and film diehard, uses the school leftovers and some of his own equipment for a pieced-together editing system, and Homer joins us when he can, but it’s all on a volunteer basis.

Our skinny team of ragtag filmmakers consists of:

Director/Writer/Producer: Yours Truly
Editor: Lucas
Actors: Riley and Jonah
Key Grip: Caleb
Grips: Stella and Marcus

Thankfully, we also have a handful of production assistants and extras to jump in when we need them. In last year’s film, we needed a ton of actors, so I stepped in. Riley and I played a couple who were totally into each other. It was the best three months of my life.

This year, our story is badass—a seven-minute short about an outcast girl’s journey to popularity. She wins
the
boy by getting revenge on everyone who stands in her way. It’s gritty, raw, and a bit twisted, with alternate dimensions of reality.

“Hanging in there?” I lean into Rye and squeeze her knee. I feel a little spark at the contact and wonder if she feels it too.

She nods and smiles. This time it doesn’t look forced.

See, everything is going to be okay.

I can tell that Rye even spruced herself up for the shoot. Her hair falls over her shoulders like she’s just brushed it and her shirt is crisp and different from the one she had on earlier. Usually, by this time of day, her clothes are crumpled and her hair is wrapped up in some kind of knot on her head that’s held together by whatever she can find: pens and pencils, chopsticks, tiny paintbrushes. One time she actually had a fork shoved in there.

“Should we go over your scene since Jonah isn’t here yet?” I ask her.

Though I’d prefer to be the actor in this piece, I don’t want to give up directorial control. So I picked the least threatening person to be Riley’s love interest: Jonah.

It’s still hard to watch.

“Yes, please,” Riley says, jumping up at my offer. “I can use all the help I can get.”

We take our places.

“Ready, Rye?”

“Excuse me?” she says, hands on hips.

I always forget that she likes to be in character even while rehearsing. She’s a little method that way.

“Sorry,
Ashley
,” I say using her character’s name. “All set?”

She gives me a thumbs-up and we’re ready to pretend.

We go through the scene where reality meets fantasy: A distracted Ashley falls while getting out of her desk, spilling her books on the floor. Tim stops to help her up. I follow her through the bit, playing Tim as he starts to notice this beautiful, shy girl. My job is to watch her, help her with her books, and fall for her.

I do.

And it’s not an act.

When we get to the part on the floor, where I put my arm around her and help her up, my hand rests on the small of her back—the exact place where her shirt was riding up the other day—and I’m instantly turned on. The one area where I have no control? My own body. I shift my legs so that Rye can’t see just how happy I am to be doing this scene with her.

Then Homer joins us.

That takes care of the problem at once.

Homer’s carrying a box. His face is ashen, like he just saw a ghost. He sets the box down and waves me and Rye over.

“I just cleaned out some of Rach—I mean, Ms. Dunn’s things from her classroom upstairs. We need the space. I know you both were close to her. Would you like any of this?”

I shake my head. I don’t need a memento.

“I’d like to look,” Riley says.

“Take it all, Riley.” Homer sighs.

“No, just let me look. I don’t want all of it.”