Maybe I used to be better at this.
My screenwriting interview at the York University campus is on a Saturday in mid-March. Not everyone lands an interview, which means the members of the Film Department faculty who read my writing portfolio must have liked Happiness is Easy. By interview day I’ve finished a rough draft of The Day Before They Came and have copies on hand for the faculty members in case they want to read it too.
Part of my application involved submitting a short essay on why I want to focus my university studies on screenwriting and when I sit down in front of the two faculty members set to interview me one of them quotes from my essay: “When I’m writing, I’m looking for something. Sometimes it turns out to be something different than what I thought I was searching for. But always it’s the characters that draw me into a story, and I want to write films that make people care about the characters they’re watching.”
The professor asks if there are any specific Canadian filmmakers I can name who have made me care about their characters. I talk about Sarah Polley, Deepa Mehta and Philippe Falardeau, the director of Monsieur Lazhar. Once I’ve started in on Monsieur Lazhar, I don’t know where to stop, I talk about how Monsieur Lazhar’s identity is a lie, but his relationship with his students is completely honest. How they are brought together by separate tragedies and help heal each other. I rave about his favourite student Alice’s stunning speech—her fondness for her school but how it is also the place where her teacher hanged herself. Somewhere along the way I lose myself, lose track of what I’m trying to articulate as the power of the movie washes over me afresh.
The professors don’t seem to mind. They ask me a couple of questions about Happiness is Easy and my feelings about my IFI summer screenwriting class. I try to stay focused as I reply, but my excitement about The Day Before They Came nudges its way into the conversation too.
The entire interview takes less than forty minutes and when I walk out the door I’m coursing with nervous energy. On impulse I drop in to see Jocelyn on the way home. Yanna’s there too, and I feel like celebrating because although it will be weeks before I find out whether I get in, I know I didn’t blow the interview. Jocelyn, Yanna, Ruby, and I have ice cream with chocolate sauce and then I dance around the kitchen with Ruby who sings that I’m going to be a hotshot screenwriter. Yanna grins and says that when I hit the big-time she wants movie premiere tickets so she can meet someone like Jesse Williams or Channing Tatum.
We’re getting ahead of ourselves and I feel a twinge of paranoia that I could be screwing myself out of acceptance into the film program by celebrating too early. York’s film department receives about nine hundred applications to their BFA program each year. They do two hundred interviews and from there whittle down to fifty-five students: forty-five in production and only ten in screenwriting. Numerically the odds are against me. They just are. But they were against me from the beginning and doing okay in the interview means I’m still in the running.
For the next month I throw myself into The Day Before They Came rewrites with a dedication bordering on obsession. I turn into an uptight, self-absorbed fanatic who chews off her nail polish, scribbles down notes everywhere she goes and semi-regularly dreams of a superior race of aliens. The early acceptance I get from Ryerson’s film program helps cut my tension, but it’s only when my York letter arrives in mid-April that I really feel like my old, more-balanced self.
Kérane and Jocelyn get into their first choice schools too. Yanna’s a little disappointed because she’s on a wait list for her top school and might have to accept her second. But that’s still so much more good news than bad, and my friends aren’t the only lucky ones. At the end of April my cousin Jack calls to announce he and Gavin are engaged. They’ve been sharing a Dublin apartment since November and are planning to marry at the end of July. Jack says Uncle Frank had been acting like they were roommates and went as white as a bleached sheet when he found out they were tying the knot.
“Mum promises me he’ll snap out of it before the big day,” Jack says. “Not that he’s saying a word against it. He’s just exceptionally bloody quiet. Anyway, we’re whipping this together in a hurry and the invites haven’t gone out yet, but I wanted to let you and your parents know the wedding day will be July twenty-fifth in Kilkenny. I know it’s short notice, but I hope you’ll be able to make it. Your whole family, but you especially.”
I hope so too; I’m so excited for Jack and Gavin and want to celebrate their happy day. But there’s no getting around the fact that being in Dublin will make running into Darragh inevitable. Before I texted him in January, the thought of a trip back to Ireland would’ve filled my mind with happy possibilities. Now it mainly makes me anxious. Do I still want to see Darragh? Yes. Do I want to want to see him? No.
Back in early March I had a brief bad moment when I ran across a British website photo of a wasted and dishevelled Shel D getting arrested alongside a friend after a club brawl. The incident would’ve really bothered Darragh, I knew. Feeling sympathy for him was a reflex action. But generally I’ve gotten much better at chasing him from my head during the past few months. The last thing I need is something that could make me relapse. On the other hand, I can’t let that keep me from the wedding.
Maybe seeing Darragh could ultimately be a good thing? A chance to redeem myself and put the pathetic text messages I sent him behind me. All I’ll have to do is act like a poster-girl for carefree self-confidence; so far beyond our shared past that he’ll have to wonder if it ever really happened. It’s a comforting idea, but right behind it is a hail of doubts.
My parents immediately begin making arrangements with my aunt and uncle. Because the wedding is in Gavin’s hometown of Kilkenny, us and all of the Dublin folks will be staying overnight at the hotel where they’re holding the ceremony and reception. Loretta approves a two week summer vacation from The Video Vault for me, no problem, and two weeks after his verbal invitation Jack sends me a text that I felt coming a mile away—Darragh’s invited to the wedding along with the rest of the band, who will be playing a few songs. The end of Jack’s message says:
I hope it’s not an issue. But I thought I should warn you.
My heart flips over, and then quickly rights itself again as I type back:
No problem. That’s ancient history.
It’s not the whole truth but not a complete lie. If Darragh brings a date to the wedding it will sting to see him with someone else, but I won’t allow it to crush me. I’ve been crushed by him enough already.
When it comes down to it, the wedding will mean one day of enforced socializing with Darragh and will probably amount to less than twenty minute’s direct contact. If I can’t handle that, I’m in serious trouble.
Before the wedding rolls around, though, there’s prom. Joss, Ker, Yanna, and I decide we’d rather it be the four of us, no dates. So that’s what we do, just us and a bunch of other friends from school at our table—Nevaeh, Daisy, Lin, and her boyfriend Trey, and Trey’s best friend Adrian. I don’t know how or why, but even most of the people that I didn’t like at school seem okay on prom night. Almost everyone I went to high school with feels like a friend and some of the things that happened in Ireland feel so distant that I could nearly believe they must have happened to someone else.
Halfway through the night Matias Varela sidles over to me and we have the first real conversation we’ve had since breaking up. At the end of it he tells me he always thought I was a really cool girl. He doesn’t say it like he’s trying to get back together or make moves on me so I just say thanks and then stride back to Yanna who is pouring a shot’s worth of Daisy’s smuggled vodka into her glass of orange soda. I hug her around the neck and smack my lips into her forehead. Kérane’s up dancing with basketball player Dorran Derro and the looks they’re giving each other tell me they’re only getting started, never mind that they didn’t come to prom together. “Twenty bucks says they leave together tonight,” Joss says from behind us.
“Why would I bet against that when it’s so obvious?” I ask.
Yanna giggles drunkenly and seeing her play Ker’s usual role makes Joss and I laugh like hyenas, me nudging my bare arm against Yanna’s as I collapse into my chair.
Tonight is the way I wish all my years of high school could’ve felt. Tonight I love everyone just a little bit harder than usual.
______
One of The Video Vault full-timers goes on holiday for the first two weeks of July. Lennox and I get to split Jeffrey’s shifts and, miracle of all miracles, during those two weeks Mr. Schuller begins speaking to me like I’m a human being. It’s a rite of passage and Lennox jokes that I should circle the date on my calendar and celebrate its anniversary every year. During that two weeks Lennox and I end up having a ton of shifts together and because his girlfriend, Esme, works just around the corner on Eglinton, they’re forever taking coffee breaks together.
The annoying thing about Lennox having a girlfriend is now that he’s happily with someone he keeps implying that I should pair up with somebody too. The world is sex-obsessed and it’s not that I’m not, but when I think of sex, I think of Darragh. You can be over someone and still not want to have sex with somebody else.
It’s complicated.
My body still craves the kind of physical interaction that a hug from a friend is no equivalent for. It feels lonely, even though emotionally I’m not really.
Sometimes I write Rana notes about my feelings. Sometimes I dream that same dream I had back in Dublin—the two of us dancing in my aunt and uncle’s kitchen in sarongs while Darragh sings on the radio.
Other times I feel a mild attraction for a random guy I’ll pass in the street or a cute customer (usually one who’s too old for me or who is with his girlfriend), but never anything major or that’s in danger of becoming mutual. Not until I’m bagging a copy of a German sci-fi movie called Cargo for a guy wearing a black pinstripe vest over a brown T-shirt and sense a slight shift, the tiniest of ripples.
The same guy was in about a week earlier and bought a copy of Moon from me, which is the reason I remember him. That and the vest.
Since this is the second time I’ve seen him wearing it he’s in danger of becoming Vest Guy in my head, which seems unfair to someone who has the good taste to buy copies of both Cargo and Moon. Because of that, I ask him whether he’s seen Another Earth, the movie where we all have duplicates.
“I loved Another Earth,” he says and it’s only now that we’re speaking that I realize he doesn’t look much older than me. “Such a cool concept that could’ve easily played out as a standard action movie, but instead the writers and director made it into a great character drama.”
“That’s exactly what I loved about it.” I hand the guy his bag. “Did you watch Moon yet?”
The guy looks a bit like the soccer player type I used to be into, only more intellectual. His eyes are green mostly—flecked with amber—and he has pitch black hair that’s almost as thick as my father’s. It flops into his eyes as he says, “I caught it a couple of years ago, but it was good to get another look. Sam Rockwell’s performance is fantastic.”
I nod along and suddenly I can’t help playing with him. “Do you wear that vest every day or do you have a dozen of them in your closest?” A smile shoots onto my lips.
The guy laughs and plows one of his hands into his endless locks. With hair that dense I suspect it could be awhile before his hand finds its way out again. “I have a collection,” he admits. “Why—you don’t like it?” His smile hasn’t faded so I guess he isn’t too insulted.
“No, it’s nice. I just remember you had one on the last time you were in here.” I want to kick myself for sounding as if I’ve been paying extra close attention to him.
“Okay, I’m glad it doesn’t seem too pretentious. I hate that.” His hand has emerged from his hair and he blinks slowly as he adds, “Hey, have you seen Memory One? It’s playing down at the Lightbox.”
“I’ve heard good things about it. Haven’t seen it yet.” It’s sci-fi too. I watched the preview on YouTube last week and it seemed interesting.
“We can go together if you want,” the guy says. “If you don’t already have plans to watch it, that is.”
I don’t have any plans. It’s just that I haven’t been on a date since August or kissed anyone since January (Lennox). I’m almost as rusty as a nail that could give you tetanus.
“Sorry, I should’ve introduced myself first,” the guy continues. “I’m Sahan.”
“Amira.” I smile again. “And sure, we can do that.” It’s time. Actually, with the trip to Dublin just a couple of weeks away, it’s prime time. And Sahan seems like my kind of guy. Maybe increased exposure to him will act like a vaccine against Darragh.
Not that I need one. But that’s how vaccines work—you take them when you’re healthy so that you stay that way.
“Amira,” he repeats. “The name suits you.”
We exchange numbers and arrange a day and time to meet at the theatre box office. I categorically refuse to let myself get nervous about my first date in nearly a year and Sahan leaves his five vests in his closet and wears a short sleeve polo shirt and denim shorts. He looks good but not intimidatingly so. Because we catch a matinee it’s late afternoon when the movie lets out. Afterwards we have coffee at Second Cup and I find out Sahan’s nineteen and just finished his first year as a film production student at Ryerson. He’s sharing a house near the campus with three roommates and stayed in the city for the summer because of his part-time job.
Like me, Sahan is half and half which makes me smile because once again I’ve found myself drawn to a mixed race person without even realizing it. He says he knows more about the Jewish half than Tamil one because his parents split up when he was young and he hasn’t seen his father much since. That gets us talking about our beliefs—in Sahan’s case reincarnation and karma and in mine, refusing to eat anything that ever had a beating heart and human rights with no specific religious isms attached. It’s more of an intellectual conversation than it is any kind of flirtation and if he hadn’t insisted on buying my coffee and paying for the movie I’d be starting to wonder if this was really a date. The subway ride home afterwards feels as platonic as the rest of our afternoon together, but when we’re about to go our separate ways Sahan leans down to kiss me. Then he says, “We should do this again, don’t you think?”
I agree with him and lean in to give him another kiss—open mouthed with only a little tongue, just like his. It’s nice to be able to have that kind of physical contact again, and he’s nice too.
Over the next few days we text back and forth a bit. Unsurprisingly, when we make plans to see each other it’s for another movie date—the early show so that I’ll be able to make my midnight curfew. With my curfew set to be slackened on August twelfth (my eighteenth birthday) my parents might give me a little extra time if I asked, but since I don’t want things to move too quickly, it’s a handy excuse.
What I don’t count on is how Sahan’s stare, in combination with his sense of humour and intelligence, convince my body it wants to remain in his company after our post-movie coffees. When I impulsively point out we still have a couple of hours until I have to be home, Sahan’s fingers twine together under his chin and his hazel eyes lock on mine. “I can make you something to eat back at my place if you want,” he offers.
I know we’re not really talking about food, and that my body wants at least a little of what he’s suggesting, but it’s a bad plan. No matter how much I doubt Sahan’s a date rapist, I hardly know him.
“I can’t do that,” I tell him. “It’s not that I don’t want to hang out with you there, but you’re practically a stranger.”
“You’re right, I wasn’t thinking. But if that’s your only objection, what if I call one of my roommates and she vouches for me? She’s sick at home tonight anyway so it’s not like we’d be in the house alone.”
That research phone call sounds like an awkward idea, but I feel my body begin to give in. What’s the harm in going back to his place for a while if we’re not really going to be alone? “She’s at your house right now?”
Sahan whips out his phone and hits a couple of buttons. “She’s cool,” he assures me. “It won’t be weird.” There’s no time for me to object, but I don’t think I want to anyway. “Hey, Hayley, how you feeling?” he says, his eyes reflecting sympathy as he listens to her answer. “Let me know if I can bring you anything. I’m on my way home right now. But listen, can you do me a quick favour and let my date know she’s safe to come back to the house and all? She’s being smart, being cautious. It’s only our second date so…”
Seconds later Sahan passes me his phone. “Hello?” I say.
“Hi there,” Hayley replies. “Sahan wants me to tell you he’s a good guy and I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. Honest, he’s a sweetie. But I’m going to be here all night if it makes you feel better. I have a head cold that’s kicking my ass.”
“Thanks,” I say shyly. “It’s not that I didn’t trust Sahan, but you know…”
“Believe me, I do. Better safe than sorry.” Hayley coughs into the phone. “See you soon. I’ll be the one camped out on the couch looking like death warmed over.”
Twenty minutes later Sahan and I are climbing out of a cab and zipping into his living room. Hayley lifts her head from the lime green couch and waves hello. Her nostrils are red and there’s a box of tissues on top of the coffee table in front of her.
Sahan troops closer to fuss over her. Trailing him to the couch, I introduce myself. I feel restless in my skin, buzzed from knowing I’m about to do something I haven’t done in a long, long time.
Then we go up to Sahan’s room where the two of us instantly clam up. Sahan’s walls are bare and his bookshelves are stocked to overflow with film textbooks and DVDs. Some other time I might have scrutinized his collection, but that’s not what I’m here for. “You should hang something on the walls,” I say finally, just to break the silence.
“Interior design isn’t my forte. But I think you’re right. It needs something.” Sahan’s standing next to me like a guy who’s being careful not to take up too much room on a city bus. His arms hang flush with his sides and the tension around his mouth makes my jaw feel stiff.
“Where are the vests?” I tease because unless we can loosen up this is going nowhere.
He smiles tightly and opens the wardrobe. Sure enough, five vests hang neatly next to each other like well-mannered quintuplets.
Maybe I used to be better at this. I’m even rustier than I thought. “Can I sit down?” I ask.
“Sure.” Sahan motions to the bed.
I sit down. He sits down. It’s a kind of progress. But by now my body’s impatient and doesn’t wait for Sahan to make the next move. I rest my hand on his thigh and tilt my head towards his to kiss him.
That’s enough to get us both started. About twenty minutes later we’re lying on his bed with our bare chests pressed together, one of Sahan’s hands dipping into the back of my pants, to investigate my thong. He knows how to touch and kiss and tease and I’m feeling good. Alive. I drop my hand down between our bodies and gingerly smooth it over his jeans, investigating him back.
Sahan pulls his head away so he can look me in the eye. “If you want to go down on me I promise I’ll return the favour.” There’s an earnestness in his face that seems at odds with what he just said and I guess in theory there’s nothing wrong with his suggestion, especially considering how fast things have moved so far, but I flinch and look away.
That’s just not going to happen. Not tonight and not anytime soon. I still can’t imagine going down on anyone but Darragh and thinking about him makes my presence in someone else’s bed feel like I’m the punch line to a spectacularly unfunny joke.
“Sorry,” Sahan says. “Can we pretend I didn’t say that? I’m not very good at this. Seriously, that’s not something I would usually suggest. I just thought the way we were getting into—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I have my hands to myself now and so does Sahan. My fists bunch uncomfortably up in front of my chest and I can’t look him in the eyes for more than a second or two at a time. “But I’m really not ready for that.”
“That’s cool,” Sahan says. “We can just hang out here like this.” He drops one of his hands onto the curve of my waist and I wish I could follow his lead and get back to what we were doing but the moment’s gone.
“Maybe I should just go and we can hang out some other time,” I say, sitting up and grabbing for my bra.
Sahan frowns and props himself up on his elbows. “You have another few minutes, right? At least let me make you something to eat like I said I would.” Sahan suggests a milkshake. He says he’s been making them for everyone since he and his roommates bought a blender in May.
I listen to Sahan apologize, a second time, for bringing up blow jobs. He explains that he was with his ex-girlfriend for two and a half years and that he hasn’t been with anyone else since they broke up this past March. “Not that it’s any excuse,” he says. “I just don’t know how these situations typically work. I feel like I don’t know how to be with anyone else.”
That’s something I understand entirely and I say, “I’ve only really been with one person too. I’m still a virgin.” So not even the one person really. “I never do this.”
Sahan’s shoulders perk up at the revelation that neither of us are the kind of people who regularly find themselves in these types of situations. We go downstairs to the kitchen together and I let him make me a peanut butter and jelly milkshake, which tastes better than it sounds. Then he calls me a cab and insists on paying the driver before I get in so I won’t have to. It’s a gentlemanly thing to do, but I wish I’d just gone home early. Then I might still be under the illusion that I’m almost over Darragh Leavy.