DEZ

EXT. THE FROSTS’ FRONT PORCH—NIGHT

The camera moves in tight on RILEY FROST, a beautiful 17-year-old girl with long dark hair. She sits on the porch tucked into a ball. Her arms hug her knees tight.

CUT TO:

CLOSE UP: RILEY
She looks up and her face is red and blotchy. She’s been crying.

I do this a lot—watch my life from the eyes of a director. It’s like I’m watching a movie. Sometimes it’s easier to deal with than the real thing. It doesn’t hurt as much or something. Or maybe I’ve just completely lost it. I’ve heard that’s what happens when you spend too much time behind the camera. There’s a ton of weird stories about the great filmmakers. Take Stanley Kubrick. I guess he used to shoot at visitors on his front lawn when he wanted to be alone. Then there’s Werner Herzog, who’s known for all kinds of crazy. He once cooked and ate his shoe in public after losing a bet. And look at Woody Allen. He married his girlfriend’s twenty-year-old daughter when he was, like, sixty.

So maybe I’m not that bad.

My headlights catch Riley on her front porch as I pull into the driveway, and my face is burning. Riley left school early and missed rehearsal tonight, so I haven’t seen her since this morning.

Our families have lived next door to each other since be-fore we were born. Our moms became best friends after Joan and Ken adopted Riley from Russia. We were both almost two years old and became instant playmates. Our parents always joked that we’d get married someday. I thought they might be right—until I found out about Rye.

She stays frozen in a ball and doesn’t notice me as I pull up, or when I slam the car door, or when I cross my yard to get to hers. She doesn’t see me until I’m practically on top of her.

“Hey.” I nudge my New Balance into her Pumas.

She coughs and blinks real hard—and just like that, the anguish covering her face is wiped clean, replaced with a smile and bright eyes.

“Hey to you.” Her Puma nudges back.

I’m not in Riley’s gym class, but Jonah’s given me the play-by-play of Tori’s abuse. It’s been beyond rough.

“We missed you tonight.” I grab a seat next to her on the porch. The paint is flaking off the wood floor and Riley mindlessly picks at it. I was supposed to paint it for them over the summer, but Joan and Ken decided to wait one more year. They’ve been saying “one more year” since we graduated from junior high.

The heat from our Indian summer has finally broken and a cool breeze is now coming through. Autumn is here. The porch light shines on Riley’s bare arms, little scrawny things sporting goose bumps.

“I’m sorry about rehearsal, Dez,” she says. For a second, I can see what looks to be a flash of regret. “I just wasn’t up for it.”

I unzip my hoodie and wrap it around her shoulders.

She snuggles into the sweatshirt and rests her head on my arm. It’s something she’s done so many times. Still, I have to steady myself when she’s this close, so I play the game What’s NOT hot. I flip through images in my head. What’s not hot?

My mom.

Jonah.

That documentary about how fast food is made.

Riley takes a breath and looks at me. I can see the sadness in her eyes. She’s exposed and vulnerable. My gaze travels down her face to her lips and …

Puppies, not hot.

Grandma Brandt, so not hot.

Snowstorm. Cold. Cold. Cold.

I get my thoughts—and crotch—under control and listen as she goes on.

“It’s bad, Dez. And not only for me. I’m taking Libby down too. That’s the last thing she needs right now.”

“Oh, come on,” I say, feeling my stomach churn. “It can’t be that bad.”

Can it?

In my head, I see Riley and Libby on an execution platform like in that old Clint Eastwood movie Hang ’Em High. I used to watch all the old westerns with my Grandpa. In this one, a bunch of guys are sentenced to death by hanging so the “authority” decides to execute them all at the same time. The camera pans across the men as they stand on the platform, nooses around their necks, while the townspeople gather around salivating for blood. A preacher condemns them for their sins and the crowd breaks out in Bible hymns. Then the lawmen turn a lever and the next thing you see are the men’s dangling feet.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake away the image.

“Oh, it’s that bad,” Riley says. “Didn’t you know? Now that I’ve scared Emma off, Libby’s become my new lezzy lover. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Don’t worry, it’s just the drama of the moment. It’ll all blow over.” I hope.

“I don’t know. Things are so effed up.”

It’s true, things are fucked up around here—just like the Wild West. It all started when Tori’s dad, Mayor Devlin, kicked off his campaign for re-election last spring. During his first term, he was investigated for hiring his friends to city jobs and cashing in on political favors. It was a huge story—the Minneapolis media even covered it. He was never charged with anything, though, and he’s been on a mission to clear his good name ever since.

This year, his campaign has focused on ethics, morals, and family values. He’s been all over town talking about saving this and protecting that. Before all this Devlin business, I don’t remember things being such a big deal. I don’t know, it seemed like people just kept their opinions to themselves. But now everything is up for debate. You can feel the tension in the air.

And that’s not the worst of it. Last month, Ms. Dunn—our humanities teacher and one of the people who started the Devlin investigation—was stabbed to death at school. She was Riley’s favorite teacher, so Rye’s had a double dose of shit to deal with.

Nobody really knows how the murder went down, and I … well, I have more details than I should. Details I’ve tried to erase from my memory. Images that creep into my dreams.

The official word is that Ms. Dunn was killed in the supply room at the end of the day. The janitor found her on his evening rounds. School had been in session less than a week. The newly sharpened pencils hadn’t even had a chance to dull yet. It was a stranger who did it, they say. A random criminal looking for money or shelter or something to steal. They say it was quick and Ms. Dunn probably didn’t even know what hit her.

They lie.

Technically, the investigation is still going on but without a murder weapon or a suspect, it’s slow going. Of course, I got a peek at my stepfather’s report and a look at the crime scene, so I have a bit more information than the average resident in the Heights.

A bunch of the morons at school are convinced it was Carl the Janitor. Poor old guy. There’s no way he had the strength to kill Ms. Dunn in that way, but that didn’t stop the assholes from tormenting him until he quit last week.

Yeah, between the Ms. Dunn murder mystery and the Devlin campaign, the local mob has been out with their torches. It’s basically a free-for-all at school, and with Tori and her family at the helm, the teachers are too afraid to do anything about it. Nobody wants to risk their job or their funding … or their life for that matter. Everyone is scared.

That’s why I’m glad Riley and Emma broke up. There, I said it. Things will be much better for Rye now, even if she doesn’t see it yet.

I squeeze her a little closer. “I’m sorry, babe. Are you okay?”

“C’est la vie.” Riley flips her wrist.

“Yeah, but it still sucks.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t get it.” She sighs. “Only a few people knew about me and Emma—really only you, Jonah, and Libby. Not like you guys would say anything. Why did she make that scene? If she didn’t want to be with me, why couldn’t she dump me in private?”

“I don’t know, Rye.” My stomach clenches. “Maybe she got scared.”

She goes still, holding everything inside. We sit there like that for a while, Riley under the shield of my arm but still so far away.

“Hey, what about you? How was the double date?” She tries to change the subject.

“Not bad,” I say. “I made a young man very happy. I am Wingman,” I say, striking my best superhero pose.

“Oh yeah?” She laughs.

There’s the sound I was waiting for. The sound I needed to hear.

“I was afraid Jonah’s girl would drop him for you at first sight,” she adds. “Not a smart move choosing Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious as your wingman.”

“Guys don’t think about shit like that,” I say. “Why? Is that how you see me—tall, dark, and delicious?” I pull her closer and give her my best smoldering look.

“That’s how everyone sees you.” She punches my arm and breaks my hold on her, reminding me that this flirtation is completely futile. “Well, D.” She stands up, signaling that it’s time to go. “It’s a school night.”

“Okay, Mom.” I take her hint.

“See you in the a.m.”

I give her a two-finger salute.

“Good night, Dez.”

“’Night.”

I head across the lawn, home to my mom and my stepdad, Bernie. They’re curled up on the couch watching Letterman. Or, to be more accurate, they’re going at it in front of Letterman.

God, my eyes. My eyes!

“Hi there, buddy.” Bernie sits up quickly, looking like he just got busted with weed or something. “How was your night?”

“Good, good.” I stare at the TV, trying not to make eye contact. “I’m beat though, going up.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Mom says, smoothing down her hair. “See you in the morning.”

I try to shake away the disturbing image and make a beeline for my room.

Actually, I have to say, Bernie is cool as shit. I was relieved when he and Mom got together—especially after years of all the tools sniffing around her. And since Bernie is a cop, I feel like I can finally let my guard down at home.

Inside my sanctuary, the curtains flap in the breeze from the open window. I see Riley in the gap between them. Just as I thought, she hasn’t gone inside. She’s still sitting on her porch, her shoulders all hunched over. She starts to shake.

I turn away because it gives me physical pain to see her like this. To know it’s my fault. I know I’ve got to stop. I’m just not sure I know how.

I close my window and try not to think of Riley outside.

Instead, I grab one of my many video cameras. My room is a shrine to cinema. I have vintage film reels and old studio lights scattered around. The walls are covered in hundreds of movie tickets and posters of my favorites, like Reservoir Dogs, Fight Club, and The Godfather. Mr. Pink, the Fight Club dudes, and Don Corleone are all staring at me now. They shake their heads in disgust and tell me I’m whipped over a girl I’ll never have.

I ignore them and go to work on the film—the piece we’ll be submitting to the festival next month, the piece that could get me into the film program at Columbia. In the viewfinder, images move across the tiny screen, but nothing registers in my head.

Riley’s still out there.

I put down the camera and grab my notebook. I start to outline the scenes we need to shoot tomorrow, but soon my outline turns to doodles and chicken scratch.

She’s still out there.

I sit on my bed and put my ear buds in, closing my eyes as the music fills my head. The Kings of Leon do nothing to take my mind off Rye.

The Godfather tells me to make her an offer she can’t refuse.

I tell him to shut his mafia-ass up.

I go to turn off the light. It reminds me of the game Riley and I played when we were kids. Rye used to be deathly afraid of the dark, but she was too embarrassed to tell her parents. Even then, she tried to be tough. I, in my infinite ten-year-old wisdom, came up with a plan to help. I told her that she could signal me with her lights when she couldn’t sleep. And when she did, I’d go to my window and stand guard—watch her room—to be sure nothing happened.

Rye would flick her lights when she needed me. Slow, fast, fast, fast. Slow. It was our version of Morse code.

I would answer back with three quick flicks of my light switch. Then I’d go to my window. She’d look out of hers and wave, and finally drift off to sleep knowing everything was safe.

It took her about a month to get over her fears. For me, that meant a month of standing guard at the window and falling asleep in class after my late nights. It was worth every second.

I flick my lights now, seven years later, and go to the window. Riley looks up. She smiles and waves.

After a few minutes she goes inside.

And answers me with her lights.