Call Me (3 page)

“I will. I’ll call you in a few days. Don’t be upset that I might not come home.”

“Oh, I’m not, sweetie; just know it’s an option. I’d love to have you home anytime. I’m hoping you’ll get to come at least for a visit soon; I really want you to meet Tom. He’s been such an amazing support with you gone and all this shit with your fath—”

“‘Donor’, Mom. Fathers don’t do that shit to their kids. Besides, I haven’t seen him in years. Fathers see their daughters. With this latest bullshit, I never want to see him again.”

“Okay, Ellie, you got it. The Donor it is.” She laughs and I smile. My mom is incredible, considering the raw deal she got when she married my father, Lawrence Sanders Hughes: asshole, cheater, and thief extraordinaire. Not only did he leave us when I was five, he lay dormant until eight months ago when he cleared out his only daughter’s university fund, money in a joint account that was there for me since I was born. The account where my mom would put all the money I’d been given over the years from things like birthdays, gifts from my grandparents, and the monthly contributions she’d been making since I was two. Too bad she didn’t realize he still had access to it before he completely cleaned it out.

“Love you, Mommy.”

“You too, baby girl,” she says, ending the call.

Now to figure out how to pay for tuition, rent, and the bazillion other things a student needs to pay for…

Ellie

“H
ere, Ellie!” my
roommate—and best friend—Courtney calls over the swarm of students trying to find seats in the crowded theatre. Like a soundtrack to the hustle and bustle of the first day of school, it’s a bit of a madhouse in here.

Thank goodness it’s our final year. Sometimes I wonder why I had to be so ambitious, self-inflicting a one-year master’s degree in cinema studies upon myself after completing four years of a bachelor’s degree at U of T’s Cinema Studies Institute. I hope it will help me in my career later on, but for now, at this time of the morning, it’s a bit of a pain in the ass.

“Good thing hangovers make you wake up early, Courtney,” I taunt, glancing at the other students as they continue to pack the place. I plop down into the seat Courtney’s been saving for me, ignoring the array of evil looks I get from those still searching for good seats. I smile and nod to a few people I recognize. “Aisle seating. Nice work.”

“Yeah, it’s perfect, isn’t it? Lucky for you, I’m amazeballs like that. Now shut it and give me the cure, woman,” she retorts, her voice sickly-sweet, not a hint of sarcasm to be found, nope, not from Court.
Not
. I laugh out loud while placing what she wants most into her extended hand.

“Always so cheeky, eh?” I say.

“Yup. Cheers,” she mumbles, lifting her water bottle to toast. “To ‘Sexual Aesthetics and Representations in Film’. You’d better be worth my time, and be a whole lot of learning excellence, ’cause no student in their right mind takes a 9 a.m. class unless it’s unfuckingbelievable.” Court chugs back the water (and the Advil) I’d given her.

Shrugging off my light blue cardigan, I turn to try and appease her as I situate myself in the tight-fitting space, placing my iPad and portable keyboard on the small desktop. “I think you’re in luck. I hear this course is all sexy and fun, which will be right up your alley, with lots of clips, discussions of porn versus erotica, and, best of all, you get to enjoy the pleasure of my company, you lucky whore,” I whisper, nudging her and making her drop her hair tie as she is about to cinch her platinum-blonde hair into a messy topknot, her signature hangover hairstyle.

“Hey! I needed that. You’re such a bully,” she whispers back, rolling her eyes and pulling another band off her wrist. “Ha. Good thing I own shares in these things.” She eyes me. “Anyway, friend, you’re the lucky one.” She gestures to our primo seats near the front of the class, and all I can do is laugh.

“Touché, I’ll give you that for today, however let’s not crown you ‘world’s best seat saver’ yet. Let’s see who gets the good seats for the rest of the semester.” I thumb towards myself, and we both laugh, knowing it will most definitely be me.

“I hear the wait list for this class is huge,” Court says, leaning in closer, the smell of beer still lingering. “I also heard the prof is a little slice too. Maybe it will be worth the ungodly hour.” She raises her brows up and down mischievously.

“You really are a pest, you know that?” I laugh; reaching for her wrist. I pull off a blue hair elastic before grabbing a fistful of my own deep red hair, putting it into a low ponytail. “You really shouldn’t have stayed up drinking with Brent and Susan last night, I can still smell the booze on you,” I tease. “Maybe getting Netflix was a bad idea. Who knew you could make a drinking game out of so many shows?”

Brent and Susan are our neighbours; they’ve been best friends since elementary school and live across the hall from us. We’ve become quite close to them over the last four years. They’re a few years older than us, and also attend grad school at the University of Toronto. They are both working on their sociology doctorates, while Court and I are working towards our master’s degrees in film, not yet sure if we want to pursue even more education.

For me, my current financial situation is predicting a big fat “no” on the doctoral studies at the moment. Right now, I’m just happy to get more than an undergraduate degree. I’m hoping having my master’s degree will give me that little bit more of an edge when it comes to job shopping, especially if I can get my thesis published in a few journals and film magazines. With the setback of no longer being able to run competitively, my sole focus is on my career in film moving forward. Not that I thought I’d be an Olympian, but being a star track-and-field athlete definitely helped to get my name out there a bit.

As for our friends, they’re both on the way to having their dreams become reality, Brent planning to teach post-secondary sociology, while Susan has aspirations to manage social programs for migrants. Luckily, they’re also both film buffs in the extreme. The four of us share a terrible addiction to Netflix, wasting copious amount of time watching old cult classics and
films noirs
together.

Being the smarter one of the group last night, with today being the first day of classes, I opted out of partaking in their game of “Let’s Take a Sip” which entailed taking a sip every time someone uttered the “f-word” during
Pulp Fiction
at our place.

“It’s not my fault,” Courtney groans, sinking low in her chair, her over-bleached blonde hair blending in with the pallor of her skin so much more than usual today. “I knew Tarantino liked the word ‘fuck’, but who the hell would have thought he’d love it that much?” She pauses, and I giggle at her scrunched up face. “Yuck. I can’t even think about it. Am I green? I feel green.”

“Aww, poor Court-Court. No, you’re more of a yellowish colour actually,” I cackle, as she gives me her best cut-eye while running her thumb along her throat in a slitting motion. “Truth,” I shrug, “but, yeah, there were a lot of ‘fucks’, sweets. I think Brent counted two hundred and seventy-one sips.” I try to hide my smile as she makes a low gagging sound. “All right, all right, no more drink talk, I promise.” I raise two fingers like a good Scout.

“You know where you can stick those fingers, you dirty, lying non-Scout,” she says, her green eyes dancing with mirth. “Nonetheless, no more drink talk, please. I can’t take it.”

“Okay. Now, sit up straight. Class is going start in a few minutes. We need you to look presentable, like a good little student, not the grubby not-so-interested one you look like right now. Hopefully, the prof won’t come near us this morning, ’cause you really do reek.” I wave my hand in front of my nose.

“Zip it. I’ll go drown my stink in the tub when this is over,” she moans, taking another sip of water. “Now, let’s take my mind off how shitty I feel
and
smell.” She picks up her tablet, swiping it to life, the course syllabus displayed. “Let’s see what’s in store for us this semester. Shall we look at this fine syllabus? I can’t believe summer’s over.” Court raises her bleary eyes to meet mine as she tries to feign some semblance of excitement. “Nope. I’m not ready for adulting yet.”

Courtney Pierce has been my best friend since the fourth grade when her family moved across the street from my grandfather, my mom, and me. Her family moved to St. Albert, from Kamloops, British Columbia, for her father’s job. He decided to open his own Tim Horton’s franchise after coming into some money when his parents passed away. I guess he and Mrs. Pierce figured our growing bedroom community would be perfect for it and their family. My mom and Vickie became fast friends, as did Courtney and I.

Travelling to Toronto for school had been our dream since Grade 8 when we started to discover movies like
The Lost Boys
,
Star Wars
, even a few like
Dirty Dancing
or anything starring the “Brat Pack”. We knew we needed to be involved in creating amazingness like that, no matter in what capacity. But as we got older, my love of movie genres changed. I became determined with my focus. I became obsessed with movies made from the books I loved, the film adaptions. Some books were adapted better than others, and I wanted to make the good—no, great!—adaptations. I’d discovered my niche and vowed I’d become the best screen adaptation writer, one who takes another’s beautifully written prose and brings it to life, ensuring I gave the books the justice they deserved.

Have you ever read a book that completely blew your mind? I’m talking totally ruining you, leaving you thinking about it for months after. The book hangover you’ve only felt that every once upon a special time. Everything about it leaving a lasting impression, as if it were imprinting itself in your soul, heart, and memory. The characters. The storyline. The ending. Each piece of its complete package allowing you the perfect type of escapism, an escape you didn’t even know you were craving at that moment in your life.

Movies give me my biggest hangovers.

More precisely, film adaptations. I’m obsessed with movies that have come from the world’s greatest literature. How couldn’t you be? It’s seriously the best of both worlds, seeing the characters you’ve imagined in your mind coming to life on the big screen. Nothing can beat the feeling of a truly brilliant film adaptation, like seeing Ewan McGregor, as Mark Renton, experiencing heroin addiction in Irvine Welsh’s
Trainspotting
, seeing how real the struggle is as it plays out in a two-hour film, accompanied by a soundtrack that complements it to perfection. Or better yet, Boris Pasternak’s tale,
Doctor Zhivago,
one of my all-time favourites; watching a complicated story of love unfold before my eyes, confirming it is indeed as beautiful as I knew it to be in my imagination when I read the book.

Now, don’t get me wrong, there are bad ones out there, ones that do not do justice to the literary geniuses that penned the tales, but I hope to be one of the greats. I will be one of the greats. One day, I will be a screenwriter like
Trainspotting
’s John Hodge or
Zhivago
’s Robert Bolt, bringing these books to life for the masses. I, Ellie Hughes, will be the person writing and creating some of the most amazing film adaptions to grace the silver screen, ones people will fall in love with, not the kind where people say: “It was awful, nothing like the book.”

“Listen to these questions.” Courtney sits up a bit straighter, drawing me out of my head, her tablet in hand once again. “This course sounds like it may be all right.
Is there enough of a difference between erotica and pornography?
Should they be considered the same genre?
Ohhh, I like the sounds of that. Lots of fodder for rousing debate!” She taps her black-polished nail on the screen, rattling off another question:
“How much should we censor erotic films compared to pornography, especially if they are deemed similar? How does artistic freedom and censorship relate to larger issues of oppression, entrepreneurship, and technology?
Ah, and this one’s even better:
How are sexual desires and identities shaped around appropriate sexual representations?
I think I’m going to like this course, Ellie.”

Ellie

P
ulling out my
iPad, I open the course syllabus to read along with Court.

My eyes stall on the professor’s name:
Doctor A. Ryan.

“Oh, man. I hope the ‘A’ in his name doesn’t stand for ‘asshole’. ’Cause that would really blow.” I huff the joke out a little louder than intended, my comment causing a few people around us to snicker. They laugh, and I die a little of embarrassment. “Shit.” I sink down in my seat.

“Nice one, Els, good for you. Look at you all losing your scholarship and becoming a badass. Class clown on the first day. I’m so proud, sweetie,” Courtney mocks, clearly thinking she’s funny.

“Hardy har har. Easy on the scholarship jokes, lady. Too soon. But thanks for making the effort, I feel better already…” I shake my head at her and she mouths a “sorry”. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Now back to the issue at hand—this professor, what do we know?”

“Well, I hear the class itself is good, hence the throngs of people,” she waves her hands gesturing to the packed theatre “Let’s recap, shall we?”

I nod. “Go for it.” I sit back up.

“So far, we know: one, there’s a wait list a mile long. Two, the course load seems reasonable,” she waves her tablet in the air, “And, three, the prof is new, which I think is the biggest plus if you ask me. It means we can only go up from here. We all know how Professor Dobbs was the worst. And like I said, I heard this guy is allllllll kinds of yum—”

“Please hold that last bit, miss. I need to take my place at the front of the room, but I must admit, I’m curious to know what you were going to say about me,” a deep voice booms, directly behind us.

Suddenly, there is a sinking feeling in my stomach. That pesky one, you know, the one you get whenever you
know
something isn’t right.

Please be a joke. Please be a joke
, I silently pray, waiting for the stranger to tell us he’s only kidding!