“It’s like we’re on a secret mission,” Summer says after we duck into the theater.
“I wish our secret mission had popcorn,” I say.
“Me, too, but we can’t go out there again.”
She scans the theater.
“Where do you like to sit?” she says.
“Anywhere.”
“Do you prefer front, middle, or back?”
“I prefer the ceiling.”
She laughs. A few people turn around and look at us.
“That option is off the table for tonight,” she says, “so I choose the middle.”
We shuffle in and sit down. I squirm, looking all around.
“It’s strange to be an audience member,” I say.
“For me, too. Every time I go to the movies, I want to be on the screen.”
“And I want to be behind the projector.”
“We’re freaks,” Summer says.
“We’re theater freaks,” I say. “That’s a little different than regular freaks.”
“Much cooler,” Summer says.
The lights go down, and the trailers start.
Summer leans over and whispers in my ear:
“We should be in rehearsal right now. Not watching a stupid movie.” Panic creeps into her voice. “What if the show gets canceled? What if I never get to do the role?”
“It will be okay,” I say. “I’m sure of it.”
I’m not sure of anything, but I feel like I have to be strong for Summer. It’s funny how that works. Sometimes being around a girl makes you act braver than you really are.
Summer sighs, and I feel her relax into the seat next to me.
The trailers end and Throne of Blood starts.
The first scene is a shot of an ancient castle enveloped in fog. Toshiro Mifune rides up out of the murk and shouts, “Open the gates!”
The title card flashes.
It begins.
Throne of Blood is based on the Scottish play, the one we don’t say out loud because it’s bad luck. In Kurosawa’s version, the Scottish king is a Japanese lord who goes power mad, plotting and scheming to find a way to become Emperor. It’s a story about ambition driving people crazy.
A little like our theater department.
Summer shifts in her seat, and our elbows brush against each other in the dark. I take a deep breath, and my nose fills with her delicious scent.
“What are you wearing?” I whisper.
“You mean my underwear? That’s a little personal, Ziggy.”
“I meant your perfume.”
“Good, because I’m not wearing underwear.”
“Shhh,” an audience member says.
“Just kidding,” Summer whispers, and elbows me in the side.
We watch the movie for a minute, then she leans over again.
“I don’t wear any perfume,” she says.
“Your skin just naturally smells of apples?”
She grabs her hair. “That must be my shampoo. Is it bad?”
“It’s great.”
She smiles, her face lit by the glow of the screen.
“Ziggy? Do you like how I smell?”
“Shhh!” the audience member says, louder this time.
“Sorry,” I say.
And I settle in to watch the film.
About twenty minutes into it, the image starts to shift on the screen.
“What’s going on?” Summer says.
“Maybe it’s a bad print,” I say.
“Oh,” Summer says.
After a second she says, “What’s a bad print?”
“I have no idea. I was trying to sound like a techie.”
She laughs, a loud peep that earns us another shhhh from behind.
A few minutes later there’s a scraping sound from the projection booth, and the film jams. For a second we watch the tug-of-war of frame versus screen, followed by a grinding sound as the projector shuts down. The screen goes black.
A groan passes through the crowd. Someone shouts in Japanese, and a few people laugh. Someone else jumps up and goes to find an usher.
Meanwhile, we sit in the dark.
At first I’m okay. Then my chest starts to tighten and it gets tough to breathe. I can hear myself wheezing, but I feel far away, my mind and body separated by miles.
“Ziggy?”
“What?”
My voice comes out in a gasp.
“Are you okay?”
I try to answer but I can’t.
My father is driving at night, his spotlight beams illuminating trees in the distance. I’m in the passenger seat next to him.
“What’s going on?” Summer says.
My father switches from high beams to low, the light now shining on wet pavement. The tires squeal as he takes a corner. I gasp and check my seat belt.
“What should I do?” Summer says.
I try to get back to the theater. If I can hold on for another minute, the lights will come on and everything will be fine.
But it’s dark now. Nothing feels fine when it’s dark.
I feel something brush my hand. It’s my father reaching across to me in the car. I yank my hand away fast. It’s not that I don’t want to hold my father’s hand. But if I let him touch me, I’ll have to feel him let go. That’s the part I can’t stand.
“It’s me,” Summer whispers.
I feel the touch again.
It’s warm. Soft.
Summer’s hand on mine.
I relax my arm, spread my fingers. Her hand slides into mine.
I look for my father in the car, but I see nothing.
The pitch-black of the theater.
I’m back.
“Are you sick, Adam?” she says.
I feel my chest relaxing.
“No. But don’t let go, okay?” I say.
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
She squeezes me tighter.
There’s some noise from the projection booth, and the film starts up again. The audience applauds.
I breathe and watch the movie, my body slowly returning to normal.
After a minute I shift my arm a little, thinking now that the movie is on, Summer won’t want to hold my hand anymore. But she hangs on.
We sit like that for what seems like a long time. Our hands start to sweat, or at least mine does. It’s hard to know who is doing the sweating when your hands are sealed together.
I try to watch the movie, but I can’t stop thinking how disgusting my hand must be.
Finally, I can’t stand it anymore.
I take my hand away and wipe it on my pant leg.
Right away I wish I hadn’t.
Summer shifts in her seat but she doesn’t say anything.
I sit for the rest of the movie, wanting to take Summer’s hand, wishing she would take mine, but neither of us doing anything about it.