The Watermelon Project

Chapter Eight

 The Acme in town is still blasting AC for some reason, and I wrap my cardigan tighter around myself as I step inside. It's Saturday morning, and the store is full of parents and old people, all trying to beat the crowd, not realizing that they are the crowd. It's my turn to do the grocery shopping this week. Mom's sleeping in. After ten minutes of digging around her purse for the car keys, I'd headed out to the garage and hit the road. The leaves are all finally turning bright red and orange, and the morning air has that crisp feeling to it. Unfortunately, Acme still thinks it's summer.

"Gosh, it's cold in here," I say once I've spotted Ryan. On Saturdays, Ryan is on reshelving duty.

"Yeah, well, gotta keep the produce cold."

"Are those...watermelons?" I ask, looking at the mound of melons Ryan is stacking.

"Yup."

"But it's October?"

"Yup." She peels a rogue produce sticker off of her shirt sleeve and slaps it onto a watermelon. "I don't know why we're still selling them. I don't even know where they came from."

"Down south, probably," I say, scanning my mom's grocery list.

"Yeah, no shit," Ryan says, rolling her eyes. "Oh, don't tell my boss I said that. Not supposed to swear on the job."

"My lips are sealed," I say, zipping them shut with my fingers. "Ugh. Look what mom is making again this week." I shove the grocery list in front of Ryan's eyes.

"Girl, you gotta stop with the negativity. It's just meatloaf."

"Lentil loaf, actually. Which I mean, is great. Like, I'm all for going plant based, but like...her recipe is not good."

"Then find her a new one," Ryan says, lifting a watermelon.

"Yeah I guess." I rub my forehead. "And you're right about the negativity. I keep doing that, don't I?"

Ryan just rolls her eyes.

"You know what I need? Let's make a positivity pact. We'll just like, call each other out—" she looks at me, "well, like, you can call me out whenever my negativity has overstayed its welcome. Like, when it's not a healthy-in-my-feels moment, but just me being bitchy."

"It would be so much better if I could just chuck a watermelon at you every time I wanted you to shut up."

I laugh, and then my eyes light up. "That's perfect. Watermelon can be our...'safe word.'" Ryan raises her eyebrows. "Anytime one of us is being too negative or complaining too much, the other person just says 'watermelon.'"

"I actually kind of dig that. But you can't get mad or flip out, like we talked about in the car yesterday, if I watermelon you."

"Deal."

"Can I also watermelon you whenever you start talking about Charlie Parker too much?"

"No." I smile mischievously. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some lentils and oats to go buy."

"Other direction, smartass," Ryan calls as I walk away. I flick my hand into a wave and disappear down an aisle.

"I'm gonna tell your boss you called me a smartass," I say, just loud enough that I know she can still hear me. I can hear her snort through a wall of Cheerio boxes.

On Monday morning, I sit in my Screenwriting for Full Length Feature Films course. I've been dreaming about this course since high school. Now that I'm finally here, I'm terrified. The students around me are all chatting, buzzing with ideas and excitement. What if I'm not as creative as them? my imposter syndrome asks. I've known since high school that I want to write movies and television shows, but now I have to actually do it. Now I have to find out if I can actually do it. If I'm actually good. I was good enough to get into the program at Hodgins, but am I good enough to land a job in Hollywood?

"Alright," my professor says over the chattering class. The room falls silent at the sound of his 1950s-film-star-esque voice. "We've learned the basics of writing for the big silver screen over the past few weeks. But learning about writing is no substitute for the act of writing itself. Practicing the craft is the only way you will truly learn."

My heart begins to pound in my chest. I've watched so many movies, studied all the classics, read their screenplays word for word. I've binged watched YouTube videos about cinema studies, how to write screenplays, and the history of Hollywood. But I have no idea what I want to write about. Everytime I think about it, my brain shuts down.

"For the rest of the semester," my professor continues, "you will be brainstorming, writing, rewriting, and rewriting...and rewriting your feature film script. It can be any genre, anything you want — as long as it speaks to you. Write about something you're passionate about, something with a gripping story, something that will make me cry, laugh, or both when I read it."

Gripping story, I think, playing with the bracelet on my wrist. Something I'm passionate about...well, I'm passionate about movies. But a movie about a movie is a bit overdone. I can feel my negativity creeping in, and I hear Ryan whisper "watermelon" in the back of my mind.

"Many of my films revolve around memories from my childhood. Core moments that shaped me. Take the rest of class to begin brainstorming your ideas. Feel free to come up and see me if you are stuck." My professor takes a seat at the desk that sits at the front of the lecture hall. I stare at the blank notebook in front of me.

Childhood...story...my mind begins to wander. And suddenly it lands on a picture of my grandfather, standing by the docks near his childhood home in Connecticut. My grandfather was the one who introduced me to stories — always telling me a tale from his childhood when I would visit him during summer vacation. His home had a nautical feel, just like the days of his youth. I always loved reading stories of young kids growing up, spending time outdoors. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain, and Boy by Roald Dahl. Maybe I could write a film about my grandfather and his adventures. If I could capture that summertime nostalgia...

My phone dings and I pull it out of my pocket. It's a message from my dad, asking if I'm still coming down to visit during fall break. I smile. My dad has a bunch of photo albums from my grandfather, and I'm sure he grew up listening to stories about him. This would be a perfect opportunity. I begin to jot down ideas when my phone dings again. Another notification about Charlie posting on Instagram. Okay, sorry, I have to admit — I may or may not have turned on post notifications for his account. Sue me.

I click the notification and a photo of the Boston harbor fills my phone screen. Hmm. What a nautical coincidence. "Just standing here, listening to Ben talk about how big his boat is," the caption reads. I snort. So he's in a frat, and friends with guys with boats. Typical rich white kid. Gosh, he even looks like Logan from Gilmore Girls. How didn't I see it before?

Maybe now that he's been in college for a year, he's less embarrassed about being rich? If that is the reason he never mentioned it as a kid. Maybe he's just spent a year with a bunch of other rich college kids who probably also have issues with their parents. I mean, he must have issues with his dad, right? Why did I never meet him? I mean, not that Charlie and I were great friends or anything, but we were in the same class, and in a lot of the same clubs and stuff. It's all so weird...though I'm probably just reading way too far into this. I mean, why am I even thinking about Charlie Parker anyway? Why can't I daydream about Nick Klein like a normal person?