Only in the Movies Read Free

putting downhis fork and spoon and dabbing tomato sauce from the corners of his mouth, using a paper napkin with pictures of squirrels on it, “I guess you didn’t notice the new inscription on the van.”
    “The new—I don’t think so, Dad.”
    He jumped to his feet, pushing back his chair. “Come on,” he enthused. “I’ll show you.”
    I followed him outside. An icy wind shook the leafless lilac bushes bordering the lawn, and the bare branches of the maple clicked “Ungrateful son! Ungrateful son!” overhead. Standing beside me on the porch, Dad put his arm around my shoulders and pointed to the van and the new words “AND SON,” white against the blue background.
    “I could have waited until you were older,” he bubbled, “but I thought, Why? I’m making you a partner in the business. Part owner, that means.”
    My heart, as they say, sank—into a sticky pool of guilt.
    “Let’s go inside,” I said. “It’s freezing out here.”
    Back at the kitchen table, Mom poured cups of weak coffee for herself and Dad. He was eyeing me expectantly, a broad smile on his open, friendly face, the way he did on Christmas mornings just before Janine and I tore the wrapping off our presents.
    “So what do you think?” he said. “Partner.”
    “That’s great,” I replied, pushing as much eagerness as I could into that insincere word. “Thanks, Dad. Wow, part owner. Is that allowed? At my age, I mean?”
    “It’s my—our—company. We can do whatever we want with it.”
    Mom had her eyes locked on me. She had an irritating way of knowing what I was thinking no matter what wordscame out of my mouth. I stared into her eyes. “Help me,” I said telepathically.
    She blinked, her eyes empty of sympathy. “More pasta, dear?” she said, meaning “You’re on your own this time.”
    I sighed dramatically. I clinked my fork on the edge of my plate. I cleared my throat. “Dad, Mom, there’s something I have to tell you.”
    And I did. I started off badly, messing up the explanation until my father interrupted, saying, “I still don’t get the point about the guy with the sword and the plumed hat.” So I began again. I loved working with Dad, I said, and I wanted to go on doing it. But guidance department teachers had been badgering us all year about our career goals, reminding us that we
had
to “choose a track” at the end of grade ten—only two months away. And ever since I happened on the movie company shooting a scene down by the lake, I had wanted to make movies. So my track had to be university—the arts, not business. I couldn’t quit school after grade twelve and join the company full time.
    Once I had wound down, my father stopped asking questions. He just sat there looking dejected where an hour before he had been buzzing with plans for the future. I looked at my mother.
    “I’m not surprised,” she finally said.
    Dad ignored her remark. “I always hoped you’d continue the family tradition and be a carpenter and cabinetmaker like your father and his father before him and his fa—”
    “Dad, your father owned a gift shop.”
    “Well, true, but he was a builder before that. And—”
    “He was lousy at it, though,” Mom put in diplomatically. “That’s why he bought the store. And he almost went bank—”
    “Okay, okay,” Dad conceded. “So it’s not so much continuing a family tradition as starting one. It amounts to the same thing.”
    I felt like we were ganging up on him. “Dad, remember, I still want to work with you. I just don’t want to make it my only career. If I ever do get into screenwriting and stuff, I’ll probably need a real job anyway.”
    That seemed to reassure him a little. His face brightened. He asked for more coffee.
    “Can you make a decent living at this film thing?” he asked.
    “I don’t know. Probably not.”
    “So, like you said, you can still be ‘and son.’”
    “Exactly, Dad. That’s what I want, too.”
    He forced a smile. “Well, I