“Really! I fully planned to only read the first ten pages last night and make some notes for you, but before I knew it, it was after midnight and I’d finished the entire thing. ?And I’d completely forgotten to make any notes. That’s how good it is. It’s smart and funny, and your social awareness really shines through. I didn’t feel like I was reading the work of a high-school senior.”
The cynical side of me feels like she’s laying it on a little thick at this point, but I’m so happy I just don’t care. I beam even more. “Thank you, Mrs Crannon. That means the world.”
“I’m glad,” she says, smiling back just as proudly. “Now, I’ve been thinking about next steps for you. You’re unsure about college, which is totally fine, and you’re not in a position to take on unpaid internships just yet. Again, that’s okay. But I did have a few ideas. Firstly, I really think you need to get this script into industry hands, whether agents or producers.”
I sigh. “Right. But no agents or producers accept unsolicited submissions. I already looked into it.”
“Maybe not,” Mrs Crannon agrees. “However, there are a lot of screenplay competitions out there that have judging panels made up of exactly those kinds of people – agents and producers and story developers who’re looking out for fresh new talent. I did a bit of research over lunch, and there’s a fairly established competition running in LA, aimed specifically at younger writers. It’s heavily development-focused, so as you progress through the various rounds, you get a ton of feedback from people who really know their stuff, plus meetings with industry executives if you make it to the finals. And guess what the grand prize is?”
I shake my head, hardly believing what I’m hearing. How could I not have heard about this? It sounds like a dream.
“A college scholarship!”
I blink, wondering if I heard her right. “What?”
She hands me a printout of a web page [literally something only old people ever do] which has all the competition info on it. Across the top is bold branding: The Script Factor.
But my eyes land on one thing.
Entry fee: $50.
“This is great, Mrs Crannon, but . . . I can’t afford it.” My voice is all flat and echoey. “The entry fee, I mean. I could never ask my grandma to give me fifty bucks. That’s like seventeen hours of work at the diner.” [I did mention math not being my strong suit.]
Without a trace of condescension, she replies, “I thought you might say that.” And then the unthinkable happens. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a leather wallet, and hands me a fifty-dollar bill.
I stare at it in her hand, stunned. “Mrs Crannon, I . . . I can’t take that. No. Thank you so much, but no. No, I can’t.”
“You can, Izzy. I want you to. My father recently passed away, and he left me some money. He was a teacher too. English literature. He’d love to know he was helping a talented young creative find their way.”
Her crazy tunic is all orange and pink and yellow flowers, but all the colors blur together as my eyes fill with hot tears. I’m used to having emotional support from a select few people, but to have a near-stranger take such a massive leap of faith in me? It’s overwhelming.
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“I’m glad to be able to help. Just remember me when you’re famous, won’t you?” She grins and boots up her ancient computer, which still has an actual floppy disk drive. “Now, let’s fill in this entry form together, shall we? The deadline is tomorrow, so we have to move fast.”
11.12 p.m.
Hung out with Danny and Ajita tonight (you know, once she’d finished tennis trials with SATAN PERSONIFIED, i.e. Carlie) and unfortunately the sequence of events that unfolded gave credibility to her theory that Danny is madly in love with me.
We’re in Ajita’s basement, which is bigger than my entire house, playing pool and watching this obscure Canadian sketch show we all love. The conversation drifts toward school gossip, as it so often does, and I just happen to mention finding Carson Manning hot in a sexy-yet-unintimidating way.
Danny is incredulous. “Carson Manning?” He gapes at me, pushing his thick-framed glasses up his nose so he can actually see the red ball he’s trying to pot. His mousy brown hair is doing that weird frizzy thing he hates.
“But he’s . . .”
“Black?” Ajita snaps, aggressively chalking up her cue. Blue dust hangs in the air around her, giving a vaguely satanic vibe. God, is she fierce when calling people out on their problematic bullshit. Reason number 609,315 why I adore her.
“No,” he backtracks hastily. “He’s just . . . well, he spends his whole school day pretending to be an idiot just for laughs. I didn’t think feigned stupidity was your jam.”
I try explaining that finding someone hot does not necessarily imply a deep emotional connection, but he’s too pissed. Ajita and I just eat our nachos and ignore his pet lip, and continue to systematically destroy him at pool for what must be the seven millionth time this year. Ajita goes on an impressive potting spree and buries four stripes in a row. I whoop delightedly. We complete a complicated fist-bump routine we devised in freshman year. Our aversion tactics seem to be working, and Danny almost talks himself out of his emotional crisis, until . . .
Ajita: “So, Izzy, I heard a rumor today.” She pots a fifth. Danny is almost apoplectic. He’s not great at losing.
“Yeah? Did Carlie tell you?” Petty passive aggression aside, I try to act disinterested. But Ajita knows I am deeply nosy, and while I don’t like to be directly involved in conflict itself, I must know absolutely every detail about other people’s drama or else I will spontaneously combust.
“Zachary Vaughan wants to ask you out.”
Soda exits my nose in a violent manner at this point. My brain is fizzing. Is that a thing? It feels like a thing.
Now, it’s important for you to know how utterly despicable Vaughan is on practically every level. He’s pretty, but he knows it, he’s rich and he flaunts it, and his right-wing daddy is so racist he probably has an effigy of Martin Luther King on his bonfire every year.
The effect on Danny is nuclear. “That’s ridiculous. What a joke! Has the dude ever even spoken to you?”
I say nothing, flabbergasted by his vitriol. [Good words. Well done, past me.]
But Danny can’t let it go. He takes aim at the white pool ball and misses entirely. He sighs and thrusts the cue angrily at Ajita. Instead of catching it she just leaps out the way, which if you ask me speaks volumes about her tennis abilities.
Danny scoffs, all haughty and such. “I don’t get it. His dad would freak. What’s he trying to pull, asking a girl like you out?”
This pisses me off a bit, but because of my previously described aversion to actual conflict, I let Ajita fight my corner.
“What do you mean, a girl like her?” Ajita’s awesome when she’s in battle mode.
“Well, he’s a senator’s son,” Danny mumbles in his awkward Dannylike way. “A Republican senator.”
I snort. “And I’m poor. Forget my above-average face and rocking rack – no guy could ever see past my lack of money?”
But instead of biting back on the defensive, Danny does look like he feels genuinely bad for throwing my impoverished state in my face. So even though it stings, I let it go.
Ajita clearly shares my train of thought. She pots the black ball, securing our utter annihilation. “Aaaaanyway. Whaddaya fancy doing for your birthday this year, D?”
It’s Danny’s birthday next month, and while mine is usually a subdued affair, due to my lack of funds, Danny always does something cool for his. He’s an only child, so his parents don’t mind forking out for me to tag along too. Last year we went paintballing, the year before it was go-karting.
“I was thinking maybe zorb football?” Danny says, pushing his glasses up his nose for the thousandth time. “You know, where you run around in inflatable bubbles and attempt to kick a ball around a field while crashing into each other like dodgems. It looks hilarious. And is the only circumstance in which I would consider participating in sports.”