happened, the inevitable would just disappear. But I wasn’t about to back down. Yeah, I admit my dead-dad-daredevil storyline cut a little too close to Connie’s real-life tragedy. But all that was off-camera, since I didn’t have the budget or know-how to record the actual motorcycle stunt anyway.
Really, the stunt-boy character was more me than him, or at least a mash-up of the two of us. Besides, acting out the part would be good for Connie, therapeutic. He’d already agreed in theory. I wrote this part for him, to help him, and he knew it.
“Just study your lines. You don’t need to act. You just need to be. ”
“But who’s going to do the other part, the girl?”
“Leave that up to me. This thing’s in the can by sundown.”
He wasn’t really listening. Something else seemed to be on his mind. He shot a glance back toward his second-story bedroom window.
“You locked the front door, Connie, I promise.”
“No, it’s not that,” he said. “More like—déjà vu. Like we did this before.”
“It’s just performance jitters,” I assured him, and off we went.
A T P ORT City Academy, morning bells clanged at 8:20 every day. Televised announcements went live at 8:25. On every monitor in every homeroom beamed the sweet, sweet smile of Savannah Lark, our in-house anchor girl.
Five minutes after Morning Broadcast started, ten minutes late for class, I showed up to Geek Central, the Media Lab. It was windowless, dimmed for taping, the only lights cast on Savannah at the news desk. She read from the monitor, luring volunteers for the Fundraising Committee’s annual bake-off.
Mr. Yesterly, our media teacher, stood by the camera with his bulging earphones cockeyed on his head. He aimed two fingers at the kid cuing the pre-recorded tapes at the control deck. Sadly, the tape that ran alongside the sports highlights was a completely unrelated clip of volunteer seniors scooping poop at the Humane Society.
“ Crap— tape three ,” Mr. Yesterly whispered hoarsely. “Tape three .”
The control deck kid panicked. His fingers went all spidery, but he couldn’t manage to actually press a button. So I slid in, tagged stop , loaded the proper clip. Just like that.
Paige Davis, the five-foot junior videographer, was tiptoe on a stool as usual. She looked away from the viewfinder long enough to frown at me from under the rim of her baseball cap. She snapped a grape-sized gum bubble, then looked away.
Like Yesterly’s screw up was my fault, somehow.
In a way I could see Paige’s point. After all, I was the news director, the one who was supposed to be sitting in the empty canvas chair beside her. I earned my title fair and square. Problem was, if you were director, you were supposed to show up for the gig fifteen minutes early , minimum. Not five minutes late.
The daily news report was over after the newest installment of Vice Principal Skagg’s thirty-second PSA series. This time it was Skagg’s “friendly reminder” about time management and how it’s a shame nobody wears wristwatches anymore.
After that, Savannah Lark signed off with a flip of her bangs.
Golden tresses, sharp arched eyebrows, and ripe pink lips that spoke every word of news like retelling a mind-blowing dream she had the night before. Girls like her could make smart guys do dumbass things.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I’m your typical sad sack, out of my league, pining after the homecoming queen. But Savannah wasn’t that. She was on the modern dance team instead of the cheerleading squad, and she sewed her own clothes—fabrics culled from secondhand drapes and upholstery. I even heard a rumor she read books, for entertainment.
Plus she had a legit talent agent who landed her a national zit cream commercial when she was only fourteen—and, even crazier, nobody at school made fun of her about it. Last season, she did a walk-on role in Cape Twilight Blues , Joe Malone’s squeeze-of-the-week . Her only line was,
Really, the stunt-boy character was more me than him, or at least a mash-up of the two of us. Besides, acting out the part would be good for Connie, therapeutic. He’d already agreed in theory. I wrote this part for him, to help him, and he knew it.
“Just study your lines. You don’t need to act. You just need to be. ”
“But who’s going to do the other part, the girl?”
“Leave that up to me. This thing’s in the can by sundown.”
He wasn’t really listening. Something else seemed to be on his mind. He shot a glance back toward his second-story bedroom window.
“You locked the front door, Connie, I promise.”
“No, it’s not that,” he said. “More like—déjà vu. Like we did this before.”
“It’s just performance jitters,” I assured him, and off we went.
A T P ORT City Academy, morning bells clanged at 8:20 every day. Televised announcements went live at 8:25. On every monitor in every homeroom beamed the sweet, sweet smile of Savannah Lark, our in-house anchor girl.
Five minutes after Morning Broadcast started, ten minutes late for class, I showed up to Geek Central, the Media Lab. It was windowless, dimmed for taping, the only lights cast on Savannah at the news desk. She read from the monitor, luring volunteers for the Fundraising Committee’s annual bake-off.
Mr. Yesterly, our media teacher, stood by the camera with his bulging earphones cockeyed on his head. He aimed two fingers at the kid cuing the pre-recorded tapes at the control deck. Sadly, the tape that ran alongside the sports highlights was a completely unrelated clip of volunteer seniors scooping poop at the Humane Society.
“ Crap— tape three ,” Mr. Yesterly whispered hoarsely. “Tape three .”
The control deck kid panicked. His fingers went all spidery, but he couldn’t manage to actually press a button. So I slid in, tagged stop , loaded the proper clip. Just like that.
Paige Davis, the five-foot junior videographer, was tiptoe on a stool as usual. She looked away from the viewfinder long enough to frown at me from under the rim of her baseball cap. She snapped a grape-sized gum bubble, then looked away.
Like Yesterly’s screw up was my fault, somehow.
In a way I could see Paige’s point. After all, I was the news director, the one who was supposed to be sitting in the empty canvas chair beside her. I earned my title fair and square. Problem was, if you were director, you were supposed to show up for the gig fifteen minutes early , minimum. Not five minutes late.
The daily news report was over after the newest installment of Vice Principal Skagg’s thirty-second PSA series. This time it was Skagg’s “friendly reminder” about time management and how it’s a shame nobody wears wristwatches anymore.
After that, Savannah Lark signed off with a flip of her bangs.
Golden tresses, sharp arched eyebrows, and ripe pink lips that spoke every word of news like retelling a mind-blowing dream she had the night before. Girls like her could make smart guys do dumbass things.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I’m your typical sad sack, out of my league, pining after the homecoming queen. But Savannah wasn’t that. She was on the modern dance team instead of the cheerleading squad, and she sewed her own clothes—fabrics culled from secondhand drapes and upholstery. I even heard a rumor she read books, for entertainment.
Plus she had a legit talent agent who landed her a national zit cream commercial when she was only fourteen—and, even crazier, nobody at school made fun of her about it. Last season, she did a walk-on role in Cape Twilight Blues , Joe Malone’s squeeze-of-the-week . Her only line was,
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