The Art of Getting Stared At Read online

  THE

  ART

  OF

  GETTING

  STARED

  AT

  Also by

  Laura Langston

  Last Ride

  Hannah’s Touch

  Exit Point

  Finding Cassidy

  Lesia’s Dream

  Laura Langston

  THE

  ART

  OF

  GETTING

  STARED

  AT

  For Tlell, with love

  “We should not feel embarrassed by our difficulties, only by our failure to grow anything beautiful from them.”

  ALAIN DE BOTTON

  One

  Big disasters can start small. A little hole can sink a big ship. A lone cell can grow to cancer. A single spark can burn a forest.

  A video going public can burn people too.

  “It’s absolutely unreal!” Lexi says as we walk down the hall after school Thursday. Lockers are being slammed. People are laughing and making plans to hang out. The late September sun is warm; everybody wants to get outside and enjoy it. “It got six hundred thousand hits on YouTube in less than twenty-four hours.”

  It is the video I produced for a film class project.

  “Six hundred thousand people,” Lexi repeats.

  My stomach flips and it’s not the yogourt I had for lunch. Never, in a bazillion years, did I expect Breanne to upload our video project to YouTube. But there’s a lot I didn’t expect.

  “That’s over half a million bodies.” Lexi’s eyes are the size of small eggs. “And every single one of them saw your video.”

  Every single student at Barrington High apparently saw it too. The whispers and looks started when I got to school this morning. Six hours later, I’m still getting them.

  “Think about it, Sloane.”

  I can’t stop thinking about it. A piece-of-fluff video I produced with two people who betrayed and humiliated me is attracting way too much attention. And now Fisher wants to see us. No doubt he’s pissed that the video went viral before we handed it in. He’s probably going to dock us marks.

  Thank you, Breanne.

  “I can’t believe you aren’t more excited.”

  “It’s a video about shoes, Lexi. Shoes!” Michael Moore would never do a video on shoes. I shouldn’t have either. I’d let Breanne—and Matt—railroad me. In more ways than one.

  We weave around a group of girls blocking our path; I hear one say, “I sent that top to the thrift store last month. Can you believe it?” They all laugh.

  And then I see Mandee Lingworth crying by her locker. My stomach tightens. Those damned girls are at her again. As I march towards her, Lexi mutters, “I thought you had to see Fisher.”

  Fisher can wait. This can’t. “Hey, Mandee. Remember what I told you last week. They’re all bitches.” I jerk my head to the girls behind us. “Every single one of them.”

  Tears wobble down her chubby cheeks. “You swore. That’s bad.”

  I’ve known Mandee Lingworth since grade three. She’s overweight, a little slow, and one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. But her easygoing nature sometimes makes her a target for bullying. “Sometimes a bad word is the best word.”

  “One of them said I was wearing her shirt.” Her voice trembles. “It’s not her shirt. It’s mine.”

  “That’s right. It is yours.” Mandee has a classroom aide. But outside of class, the aide disappears and that’s when the trouble starts.

  “They also said I’m too fat and it doesn’t fit me right.”

  “Well, they’re wrong.” I force myself not to look down at the muffin top between her jeans and T-shirt. “All those stupid girls care about is clothes and hair and makeup. We’re better than that, remember?”

  Her face brightens. “Yeah, you and me don’t care about that dumb stuff.” She wipes away a tear and gazes at my cargo pants, my shit-kicker boots. “We both dress ugly.”

  Lexi snorts.

  Not ugly. Practical. I can’t be bothered worrying about things that don’t matter. But Mandee wouldn’t get it. “That’s right.”

  “Wanna go get ice cream?”

  “Another time, Mandee. I have to see Mr. Fisher.”

  Lexi and I start to walk. Within the space of three feet, two people give me thumbs-up signs. A third person yells, “Awesome video.”

  I acknowledge the recognition with a weak smile.

  Lexi shakes her head. “I don’t get it. This is what you’ve always wanted. To produce films that people watch!”

  “Watch because they matter.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Shoes matter. Think about how disgusting our feet would be without them. Cuts, calluses, all those germs floating around. I even read about this disease called Podoconiosis that people can absorb through the soles of their feet.” She crosses her fingers. “Thank God it hasn’t hit San Francisco yet.”

  “You are such a hypochondriac.”

  “It’s true,” she insists. “Some guy in Argentina discovered it and developed a line of shoes so all the poor peasants wouldn’t get it.”

  I skid to a stop. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? I could have used it in the video!”

  “First, I didn’t find out about it until I was googling symptoms on that blister that got infected. By then you were almost done. Second, why ruin a perfectly good piece of shoe porn with some depressing information about poor people and a disease only I care about?”

  Shoe porn? My breath hitches in my throat. Is that what they’re calling it?

  “It’s a good video,” Lexi insists as we head through the school foyer and pass the open front doors. A warm breeze hits my face; I catch the scent of something sweet—camellias maybe. “Six hundred thousand people can’t be wrong.”

  “The whole thing’s a fluke.”

  “It’s not a fluke, Sloane. You always do that.”

  The bells of Grace Cathedral ring out in the distance. The sound is soothing. For a minute, I imagine myself walking up its sweeping staircase, through the gilded bronze doors, and zoning out in front of its amazing stained glass ... or maybe sitting across the street on one of the benches in Huntington Park. Forgetting this day happened.

  Lexi nudges me.

  I snap back. “Do what?”

  “Downplay your achievements. Underrate yourself. You have an incredible eye and great insights. The way you made those feet morph into a pair of yellow stilettos and kick the rest of the shoes off the screen ... it was amazing!”

  “Yeah, amazing shoe porn.”

  Lexi gives me a little push. “Stop it. It wasn’t all fluff. You managed to make that point about running shoes and Asian sweatshops, right?”

  Two minutes worth of tape reduced to two lines. Two lines I had to fight for because Breanne and Matt both thought it didn’t fit with the rest of the film. I should have known then something was going on between them. Matt has always been big on social justice. Or he had been until Breanne’s boobs blinded him.

  “Hey, Sloane! Sloane Kendrick!”

  I turn. A tanned senior with dimples and shoulders the size of a small car comes up and high-fives me. “That was a freaking amazing video. Great job!”

  A flush hits the back of my neck. Oh man, being noticed for something this stupid is ... stupid.

  When he walks away, Lexi grabs my arm and squeezes. “OhmyGoddoyouknowwhothatwas?” She rattles off a name that sounds vaguely familiar followed by a pile of football statistics she clearly figures will impress me. And then she stands on her toes and peers down the hall. “I just hope Matt saw that and realizes what a tool he’s been.”

  “Don’t mention his name.”

  Lexi e
yes me with a mix of pity and concern. “Honestly, if my guy was caught on somebody’s cell doing it in a—”

  My cheeks heat up again. “Don’t!” I’m not ready to talk about it. When Matt and I started dating last spring, I figured it was perfect. We were perfect. How could it not be? We’ve known each other since grade six. We’ve been friends forever. We think alike. We care—and don’t care—about the same things. Except, he’s a computer geek and I’m a film nerd. He likes all-dressed chips; I like salt and pepper. Other than that, we’re totally alike. Or we were.

  “Revenge is sweet. Just saying.”

  I don’t want revenge. Revenge is too good for someone who pretty much got naked in a library stall last Friday. I’m thinking murder. He crossed a line.

  Nerves flutter in my stomach as we near Fisher’s classroom. Matt is early for everything. He’s probably already inside, most likely with Breanne. I’m so not looking forward to seeing them. My lips are stupid dry; I whip out my tube of balm.

  “No, no.” Lexi reaches into her purse. “You need lipstick.”

  “I’m good.” But then I’m not. Because as we turn into the doorway, Breanne and Matt are coming out, walking arm in arm. They’ve obviously finished talking to Fisher. A beam of sunlight from the window frames their shoulders, making them look like a pair of live, golden Oscars. Nausea cramps my stomach.

  Of all the girls in the entire school, my ex had to cheat with a member of the Bathroom Brigade, those shallow airheads who spend more time doing their makeup in the bathroom than doing their work. The same girls who bug Mandee.

  Plus, he did it in public and got caught. I seriously thought he had more brains than that.

  Obviously I was wrong.

  He won’t meet my gaze. But Breanne does. She tosses her two-hundred-dollar blonde streaks and gives me a triumphant smile as they saunter past. I grit my teeth. Mom has told me for years that beauty can hide a lot of ugly. She’s right.

  “I’ll wait for you out here,” Lexi says.

  “It’s okay. I’m heading to the hospital right after this. I’ll call you later.” We need volunteer hours as part of our graduation requirements so I read to sick kids once a week at the hospital where Mom works.

  Fisher’s at his desk, straightening a stack of DVDs. A few kids are hanging out at the back of the room arguing the merits of one director over another.

  “Sloane. Thanks for coming.” Fisher has the rangy build of a runner, thick grey hair that’s a little too long, and an easy smile. This afternoon, however, his face is serious. “Your YouTube video is getting a lot of attention.”

  My scalp prickles. Damned blush is back. “Yes.”

  “And I’m getting calls.”

  Oh God, people are complaining?

  “One call was from a friend of mine at Clear Eye.”

  “Clear Eye?” Clear Eye Productions is up there with DreamWorks. They’re huge.

  “Yes. They wanted to know who produced the video. I gave them your names.”

  My heart begins to thrum.

  “They have a scholarship program, as you may know.”

  Oh, I know. Clear Eye is the Cadillac of film schools. Their scholarships are highly coveted and almost impossible to get. Just like acceptance into their film program.

  “And they have invited you to apply.”

  Outside his window, a car horn beeps. Another car backfires. The student parking lot is emptying. “Pardon?”

  Fisher smiles. “Clear Eye has invited all three of you to apply for their scholarship program.”

  A whooshing white sound fills my head. I can’t believe it. When I open my mouth, my vocal cords don’t work. This is huge.

  “Matt and Breanne aren’t interested.” Of course they aren’t. They only took the class because they thought it would be easy. “But something tells me you might be.”

  Might? I’ve wanted to go to film school since I was twelve. My parents are against it. They’re insisting I go to college and study for a career that’ll be steady and reliable. That’s what happens when one parent is a doctor and the other is a pilot. They’re all about being practical. But my stepmother ... she’s another story.

  “To apply, you must submit two videos between five and ten minutes in length. The shoe video can stand as one.”

  Shoe porn as part of my scholarship application? I don’t think so. “It’s not my best work. It’s too light.” Clear Eye favours topics with substance.

  “Apparently they want to get away from hard-hitting stuff. Something in your shoe video caught their eye.” As I struggle to make sense of that, he adds, “Besides, you don’t have time to produce two new pieces. The deadline is three weeks away—October sixteenth.”

  Three weeks to research, write, produce, and edit a video good enough to get a scholarship? “That’s tight. Especially working alone. Plus, I’m only in grade eleven. It’d be eighteen months before I could enrol at Clear Eye.” And only if my parents agree, which is questionable. All the reasons why I can’t do it keep mounting. “Maybe I could apply next year? That would give me more time.”

  The truth is I’m scared. What if I try and fail? This is too important to screw up.

  “Whoa.” Fisher holds up his hand. “I understand this is overwhelming. But opportunities like this are extremely rare. I’ve been teaching for twenty years and this has happened only once before. Clear Eye sees something in you they like. Right now. Today. They’ll hold the scholarship until you graduate next year. If it were me, I’d seize the opportunity.” Fisher studies me for a minute and then adds, “I wouldn’t encourage you if I didn’t think you could do it. And if I didn’t know how important film is to you.”

  I am so light-headed I could float up to the ceiling. It’s the kind of opportunity people dream about. I’ve dreamed about. “But three weeks?”

  “I’ll act as an adviser, but strictly hands off, of course.” He straightens the stack of DVDs on his desk. “I’ll excuse you from class to do the necessary planning, scouting, and shooting, and I’ll see if I can get you excused from your other classes too.”

  My mind is already racing through timing, topics, and treatment. “I need a second person. Someone to operate the camera.” It’s too much of a challenge to juggle everything myself. And the deadline leaves no time for screw-ups. “Can Matt be excused?” I’ll swallow my pride and ask him to help. I have no choice. He’s great with a camera.

  “Matt isn’t interested. But don’t worry.” He motions someone forward. “I have a camera operator for you.”

  I swivel around. When I meet a pair of laughing amber eyes, my heart flips like a dead turtle and sinks to my toes. Voice Man? a.k.a. Isaac Alexander? Fisher has to be kidding. Isaac saunters into the room from the doorway. What does he know about film?

  “Hey.” He grabs a chair, flips it backwards, and straddles it with his long, jean-clad legs. “How’s it going, sunshine?” He gives me that lopsided smile I know so well.

  Sunshine? That’s what he called me last year when I figured—my thoughts skid to a stop. Don’t go there. “I didn’t think you were in this class.” You’re hardly even in this school. Much. Not since you got picked up by that PR firm.

  “He is now,” Mr. Fisher says dryly. “Mr. Alexander needs two arts credits and the counsellor decided this class fits with his other commitments.”

  Commitments like skipping school, charming girls, and doing voice-overs in his flirty baritone. I know exactly how that works. Isaac was in my socials class last winter and we teamed up for a project on Pearl Harbor. He promised to do his share of the work but all he did was flirt. At first I was charmed. I figured he liked me. I quickly realized Isaac likes all the girls. He flirted with every single one of them in that class and I ended up doing the socials project myself.

  “I’ve agreed to take him on providing he works with you and does what you tell him to do.”

  What you tell him to do. Warmth creeps into my cheeks. Isaac’s lower lip twitches. As we stare at each
other, a weird kind of heat unfurls in my stomach. There’s something about Isaac—something beyond the edginess of his wiry black dreads, smooth, brown skin, strange amber eyes. Something that draws me. Crazy but true.

  He breaks the connection first, glancing down at the V of my white T-shirt. “No problem.” His gaze travels lower, to my cargo pants, my “don’t-mess-with-me” boots. “We’ve worked together before.”

  Not we. Me. My silly daydreaming skids to a stop. Guys like him don’t go for girls like me. I figured that out last year.

  “We can start this afternoon.” He flashes me another grin. “I’ll buy you a coffee and we can talk about it.”

  And let him weave another flirt spell around me? I don’t have time for that. Besides, I’d rather work with someone who knows how to run a camera. “I’m busy this afternoon.”

  “Tomorrow morning, then. I’ll buy you breakfast. Over at the diner. Just the two of us.”

  Isaac Alexander flirts like he breathes—effortlessly and without thought. But I cannot be charmed by coffee or an egg wrap. Not today. I think of Matt. Possibly not ever. “I’d like Mr. Fisher to be there.”

  Isaac lifts his hands, an expression of mock horror on his face. “Whoa, man, as much as I like you, I’m not buying you breakfast. Sorry.”

  Mr. Fisher laughs. “Why don’t the three of us meet before school tomorrow to discuss topics and treatments?”

  Reluctantly, I agree. Isaac takes nothing seriously. I can’t work with a guy like that. Or with someone who knows nothing about film. This opportunity is too big to mess up. That means I need to find another camera operator between now and tomorrow morning.

  In order to get to UCSF Medical Center from school, I hop on a bus to downtown before transferring to the light-rail line. Traffic is heavy and I fight my impatience as the bus slowly chugs its way down Nob Hill towards the heart of the city. I’m forced to stand beside a couple of tourists— English, judging by the accent—and the man does a running commentary for his wife on what they see out the window: the Pacific-Union Club, one of the few surviving buildings from the famous 1906 earthquake; the pagodas of Chinatown; the distinctive spire of the Transamerica Pyramid. I get off near Saks Fifth Avenue, walk past people snapping pictures beside the palm trees in Union Square, and pop into a bakery to pick up sugar cookies for the kids.