Crash Test Love (7 page)

ME

Sure. One of these days.

We drive the rest of the way home listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Magic album. I can’t help but realize I don’t love Sweet Sixteens—not like I used to. Have I outgrown crashing parties? No, that’s ridiculous. But what, then, has changed?

The next morning, I wake up around noon and cook myself some eggs. I shoot a couple of hoops outside, then check my e-mail. Soon, it’s almost two p.m. I shower, shave, and leave so I can grab a cup of co ee and get to work by three.

I’ve worked at the Huntington Cinemas since I was sixteen. It’s a bit out of the way from where I live (about a twenty- ve-minute drive), but it’s the best independent movie house on Long Island. Hands down. My boss, Roger, pret y much lets me do whatever I want, and I get to see al the lms for free. I also help pick which lms to show, which is awesome, because Roger basical y knows nothing about movies. (I’m not sure what he actual y is knowledgeable about, but that’s another story.)

I love my job. I love that al I have to do is scan tickets or help people choose what movie they want to see or take their money and give them change or direct them to which theater they’l be sit ing in. Sometimes shit hits the fan (or over ows the toilet), and I do have to clean the theaters

—which kind of blows—but mostly it’s pret y calm. Unlike at school, where everyone wants a piece of me, the other employees mostly let me be.

They get that I’m not much of a talker.

The Huntington Cinemas is my refuge, my home away from home, where I go to leave the world behind. Which is why I’m shocked when I see her standing in the middle of the lobby.

Garret .

Turning up for the second time without any warning.

GARRETT

Henry looks surprised to see me.

Surprised doesn’t real y capture it, though. More like horri ed. I decide to take his reaction as a compliment.

I’m wearing a nice pair of jeans and a curve-enhancing sweater. I’m unsure what the quali cations for working in a movie theater are (Not stealing candy? Being able to count without using your ngers?), but I’m kind of nervous. I don’t want to apply for a job here and get rejected.

How embarrassing.

“Garret ? What are you doing here?”

He’s wearing the same uniform as the other employees, but somehow Henry Arlington makes yel ow, black, and a name tag look good.

“Nice to see you too.”

“I mean, hey.” He tugs on the col ar of his shirt. “What’s up?”

“Not much. Just here to apply for a job.”

“You want to work here? Why?”

“Why not?” I ask.

“It’s not exactly glamorous,” he says, motioning to the concession area, where a girl with red hair (and an equal y red face) is scooping greasy-looking popcorn into a paper bag and coughing. The lobby of the cinema has an old-school Hol ywood vibe (plush carpet, white and gold wal paper, owing curtains over the windows), but there’s something a lit le run-down about the décor.

Smile. Wink. “You think I’m glamorous?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Henry says. “I mean … you know what I mean. Does the J Squad know you’re here?” I’m tempted to say: They’re the ones who gave me directions and told me what hours you worked. I don’t, though.

(“Whatever you do,” London instructed me, “do not let him think you’re applying for a job because of him. And don’t let on that you know he told people you hooked up, otherwise he’l get suspicious. Just be cool.”

“And don’t say anything stupid,” Jyl ian added. “Or slut y.”)

I try my best to fol ow their advice. “No,” I say. “Why?”

“You guys seem to do everything together, that’s al . I’m surprised they untied your leash for the night.”

“There’s no leash, Henry. They’re my friends. That’s what you do with friends: spend time together. Besides, we’re stil get ing to know each other, which takes e ort.”

“I never pinned you as one to fol ow the masses.” He looks at me as though he wants to say something more. I want to say, You know absolutely nothing about me. Just then, however, a stocky man approaches us and raises his eyebrows.

“No fraternizing on the job, Arlington,” the man says. He has a goatee that seems to be painted on, and his eyes have the glassy sheen of a drug addict or someone with glass eyes. “You know the rules. This isn’t a house party, or whatever you kids do on the weekends. Don’t chat with your lady friend during work hours.”

“I’m not,” Henry starts to say, “this is—”

“Garret Lennox,” I say, extending my hand. General y, I’m not into handshakes with random people (al the germs!), but if this guy is Henry’s boss—and I assume that he is—then I need to start kissing ass. Or at least being friendly. “I’m not his lady friend. But it’s very nice to meet you.”

“Huh” is al the man says, scratching his head and giving me a confused look.

“I’m interested in a job,” I say, motioning to the lobby.

No response.

“Here.”

Stil no response.

“At this particular cinema,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya.” The man frowns. Henry is sti ing a laugh. “What are your quali cations?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever worked at a cinema before?”

“Wel , no.”

He narrows his eyes. “Have you ever worked before?”

I wonder if he’d count a three-day stint as a Baby Gap salesperson, only I don’t mention it because I’m afraid he’l ask why I left, to which I wil have to respond that I was red for hooking up with Ben in one of the dressing rooms during my break.

“Sure,” I tel him. “I’d real y love to work here. I just moved to Long Island over the summer, and I’ve heard this place shows great lms. I’m a huge movie a cionado.”

This is not exactly true. I do know a bit about movies, but not because I’m particularly interested in them. Ex-boyfriend #3, Dan, was very artsy; he used to make me watch foreign lms nearly every weekend (with subtitles, of course—he wasn’t a monster). It was one of the reasons we eventual y broke up. “I like my movies like I like my reality TV shows,” I told him. “Trashy. And in English.” eventual y broke up. “I like my movies like I like my reality TV shows,” I told him. “Trashy. And in English.” Also, and more importantly, my father is a lm professor. I’ve grown up around classic movies and know them as wel as I know myself. (Some might argue that’s not much, but I would tel those individuals to Suck It.)

The man introduces himself as Roger. I notice that one of his front teeth is gold, and I immediately take a liking to him. “We could use more people around here like you, Gracie,” he tel s me.

“It’s Garret .”

“That’s what I said. What kind of hours are you looking for?”

I remember that I’m holding a copy of Henry’s schedule, and I give it to him. “These are the hours I’m free.” He nods. “We have a basic training program: any newbie has to shadow one of our current employees for the rst few weeks. That person wil provide al the details about what’s expected of you, blah blah blah. It’s not a hard job. I think you’l catch on quickly.”

“Thank you,” I say.

He looks around; the only employees in sight are Henry, coughing popcorn girl, and a guy with a busted face who’s as skinny as a pencil (if a pencil could be a person). I must get paired with Henry. Otherwise, my entire plan is a failure.

I decide on something simple yet e ective: “Did you know that Henry and I go to school together?” Henry glares at me, but Roger doesn’t seem to notice. “Arlington,” he says, “mind showing Greta here the ropes?”

“Garret ,” I repeat. That was too easy.

“I don’t know,” Henry says cautiously, no doubt trying to gure out what my true intentions are.

“What do you mean, ‘I don’t know’?”

Henry shrugs.

Roger points a stubby nger at him. “Just for that, you are going to be in charge of Grizabel a over here, and you wil make sure she doesn’t mess up. And if she does”—he shakes his nger—“it’s on you. Capisce?”

“Yes, sir,” Henry says. His expression would make you think he’d been asked to clean someone’s puke o the oor. What is it about me that absolutely repels him?

Roger pats me on the shoulder. He reminds me of my (slightly tal er) Crazy Uncle Dom, who I actively avoid at family functions. “I’m gonna get your paperwork started, Garrie. You’re gonna love it here. Just love it.”

Roger waddles away and I can’t help it—I start laughing. A smile begins to inch across Henry’s face, but he manages to stop it.

“So I guess it’s just you and me, huh?” I ask.

“I guess.”

I think back to the rst night I met Henry, and how vibrant he was—how ful of life. I was at racted to him immediately. There was something about him, something … special. I shake my head, as if the memories wil simply fal onto the oor so they can be swept away. Remember why you’re here, I tel myself. To win Henry over so you can get even with for him spreading rumors about you and to impress the J Squad. To prove to yourself that you don’t need an actual boyfriend to be happy. That’s it.

We’re silent until Henry goes, “So why are you real y here, Garret ? You don’t seem like the type of girl who wants to spend her free time in a dingy movie theater, and you certainly can’t be here for the money.” He tilts his head. “Are you here because of me? Is that it?” I feel my jaw unhinge. True, I am kinda stalking him, but that he assumes I am real y bothers me.

“You think real y highly of yourself, don’t you? Let me tel you something, Henry. I’m here because I love independent cinema and gured it’d be a good way to spend some of my free time. I kind of hoped I would meet some other people who have a passion for movies too, but you’re clearly not one of those people, so why don’t we just save ourselves the trouble and I’l go ask Roger if I can shadow someone else.” I’m here because I love independent cinema? Where did that come from? I’m surprised by how angry I was able to get, especial y since everything I just told Henry—wel , not everything, but most of it—is a lie. I am here because of him. Only he can’t know that. I have to play Hard To Get.

Henry reacts as if I’d just slapped him. “I have a passion for movies.”

“Whatever,” I say, although secretly I am thril ed. My lit le monologue de nitely got to him.

“Graciela,” a voice cal s out. I turn to see Roger coming toward me with a stful of papers and a black dress shirt with yel ow accents on the shoulders. “Here you go.” He hands me the shirt and al the papers. “Bring these back l ed out, okay? Meanwhile, I’l e-mail you with next week’s schedule. Sound good?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Sound good to you, Arlington?” Roger asks.

I glance at Henry, waiting for him to interject and say he doesn’t want to work with me. It’s now or never.

Henry claps his hands together. “Yup, everything’s great. I’m just get ing Garret here up to speed.”

“Don’t have too much fun,” Roger mut ers, waddling back into his o ce. “Kids.”

Once he’s gone, I look at Henry and wonder what he’s thinking. “Bet er go get changed,” he tel s me. “We’ve got work to do.”

“So what was it like?” Jessica asks me the next day in the cafeteria, sifting through the contents of her unnecessarily large purse and pul ing out a pair of chopsticks.

“Why do you have those?” I ask.

“You never know when you might need them.”

It’s funny how in high school (and, I suspect, in the real world), being friends with the right people real y does mat er. Already this morning, four random girls have complimented me on my jeans, and one guy in my AP Lit class told me I looked like Natalie Portman. (At which I blushed and said, “Oh, stop,” but real y I was at ered.) That de nitely would not have happened if I weren’t the newest (on a trial basis) member of the most popular clique at East Shore.

“Tel us everything,” Jyl ian insists, dipping her nger into a fat-free Jel -O pudding cup and licking it.

There’s honestly not much to tel . Henry showed me around the movie theater and explained how to use the register, how to scan the tickets, and where to direct patrons if they needed to use a bathroom. Our conversation was … cordial. I could tel he was holding back, not being entirely himself. Henry is going to be tougher to crack than I original y anticipated, but I can do it. I can de nitely do it.

himself. Henry is going to be tougher to crack than I original y anticipated, but I can do it. I can de nitely do it.

“Tel us about Henry,” Jessica says. Today she’s wearing her hair in a long braid down her back, which sounds milkmaid-ish, but it’s actual y a good look for her. She takes a jar of peanut but er, a slice of bread, and a knife out of her bag and starts to make a sandwich—no one even inches at how odd this is.

What do I say? I don’t want to lie and say that Henry and I hit it o , but I also don’t want them to think I won’t be able to seal the deal.

I go with: “He was real y surprised to see me there.”

“Of course he was,” London says. “What else?”

I tel them I’l be shadowing him for the next few weeks. They seem very, very pleased and genuinely “Interested” (India.Arie, 2002) in what I have to say.

“You didn’t mention hearing about the rumor, did you?”