Malik works at the only movie theater in town, the Lone Star 4, if you’re not counting the drive-in. It’s one of the oldest buildings in town, too, so I guess it should be no surprise that it’s not equipped to play films digitally either. It’s a bummer not to go bowling, but I hate even more that our night has to end before it’s even begun. And then it hits me. “What if I go to work with you? Like, as your assistant.”
“You don’t want to do that,” he tells me. “You’ll be so bored.”
“Not as long as we’re hanging out.”
He blushes. “I guess there is unlimited popcorn in it for you.”
“Throw in some Milk Duds, and we have a deal,” I say.
“Done.” He holds his hand out for me to shake.
Malik parks around the back of the movie theater, near the employee entrance, and we trot up a dark, narrow staircase just inside the door.
I have been to this theater countless times, with its old, dusty Art Deco lobby and plush royal-blue seats, but a few years back, the drive-in on the edge of town reopened, and this place just isn’t quite as busy as it used to be.
“Okay,” says Malik. “It looks like Cameron got all the shows going, so I’ve just got to be here to change out the reels and do the late shows. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not even a little bit,” I tell him.
“Let’s get those Milk Duds I promised you.”
I follow him through a tiny office and onto an even tinier elevator that drops us right into the lobby, which smells like butter and years of soda syrup soaked into the gold, red, and blue carpet.
“There’s no one here,” I say.
“Everyone’s in their movies,” he tells me. “The calm between the storms.”
“Trust me,” says a petite, older black woman behind the counter. “This place turns into a war zone in between shows. And you don’t even want to know what the floors of those theaters look like when we bring up the houselights.” She wears black slacks, a white button-up, a blue satin vest, and a bow tie made to look like the Texas flag.
“Cynthia,” says Malik, taking my hand, “this is—”
“Millie!” she finishes for him. “Darling, he has been singing your song for months now.”
A sharp gasp that comes out more like a laugh tumbles from me and echoes through the lobby. “Months, huh?”
Malik bites down on his lips until they disappear and his cheeks melt into a deep shade of pink. “Cynthia is my coworker.”
“And friend,” she adds.
He turns to me. “And general sentence finisher.”
Malik fills a large tub full of popcorn, pours us each a soda, and retrieves my Milk Duds from the glass case. I know this isn’t how our date was supposed to go and that this is just concession food, but something about this feels decadent. My mom never buys movie theater snacks. Instead, she sneaks in bags of sliced apples or, if she’s splurging, a SlimFast cookie-dough bar.
We take the elevator back upstairs and settle onto a small couch in one of the projector rooms.
“So should I be worried about you and Cynthia?” I ask as the ninth movie in an action-adventure car-chase franchise plays in the background behind us.
He cracks a smile. “I guess we’re not two people who you would expect to be friends, but you try spending half your summer here and not bonding with the closest set of lungs you can find.” He shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth and washes it down with a swig of Dr Pepper. “But I’d like to think that me and Cynthia would’ve found a way to be friends even if I didn’t work here.”
“Is she married?” I ask. “Any kids?”
“Two kids. A daughter in Houston and a son in Fort Worth. She took a job here after her husband passed away.”
I don’t know if this makes me feel better or worse. Knowing that she has people and is alone anyway. “Why does she stay here then? She could go be with one of her kids. And I’m pretty sure they have way better movie theaters in Houston and Fort Worth. No offense.”
“Oh, I’m offended,” he says. “Experiencing a film on thirty-five millimeter is the purest movie-watching experience there is. Even if it means sitting in our broken seats and your feet getting stuck to the floor. But actually, Cynthia and her husband went on their first date here, so she’s kind of serious about keeping this place up and running.”
That’s so sweet,” I say. “But I had no idea you were such a hipster snob about your movie-watching preferences.”
“If we lived in a big city, I’d be a total hipster snob, but out here, I’m just the weird kid who works at the movie theater and is boring enough to be trusted with keys to the school.”
I take a few pieces of popcorn and toss them in my mouth with a Milk Dud, because I’m an enlightened genius. “I don’t think you’re boring. Heck, I didn’t even know you were this into film stuff.”
“I wasn’t always, but working here and watching old Westerns with my dad has kind of had an effect on me.”
“I for sure thought you wanted to be a politician.”
He sets his drink down on the floor by his feet and rotates his whole body toward me. “I did. I do.” He shakes his head. “Maybe I still will be.” He holds his lips in a firm line for a moment. “I always wanted to change the world. I know that’s so corny. Of course everyone wants to change the world.”
I place my hand on top of his. “No,” I say, my voice dead serious. “Not everyone wants to change the world.”
“I just always thought the only way I could do that was by being a senator or a mayor or something like that, but there’s something about movies and stories. I want to help change the rules, you know? To help make everything more fair. But no one cares about evening the playing field or changing the rules unless they have some kind of connection. I guess . . . well, that’s what stories do. They connect people. Stories change hearts and then hearts change the world.”
I didn’t think I could fall harder. But I am. I know that lots of folks look at people like me and Malik and think we’re just silly idealists who want more than we have any right to have. But let them think that. “I bet you can have it both,” I tell him. “I bet you can change the rules and the hearts.”
He leans toward me and our lips brush—just as the credits in the theater begin to roll. “All I’m changing tonight,” he says, “are these film reels.”
My heart hiccups. And then I begin to hiccup.
“Are you okay?” he asks, holding back a laugh.
I nod, only a little mortified. “Too much fizzy soda.”
He takes my hand and pulls me up. I follow him to each of the projector rooms and watch as he carefully changes the film for the 9:00, 9:10, 9:20, and 9:30 showings, which is right about when my hiccups die down.
We hang out for a bit in each room and catch a glimpse of each movie: action adventure with street racing, a cartoon about cats, a World War II romance, and a slasher movie about a cheerleading summer camp.
At the end of the night, Cynthia closes up the concessions and the ticket counter while Malik and I sweep up the four theaters.
“I’m sorry this didn’t turn out exactly as planned,” he tells me.
“Hey, at least I got a free pair of socks out of the whole thing.”
“And Milk Duds,” he reminds me.
Cynthia pops her head into theater four. “I’m all done up here,” she says.
“You head on out,” Malik tells her. “Just lock up the front and we’ll leave out the back door.”
“You got it,” she says before turning to me. “Millie, it was a pleasure.”
Once she’s gone, Malik asks, “Do you have to be home soon?”
I glance down at my phone to find a text from my mom asking how much longer I’ll be. I shoot off a quick response to tell her we’re studying late at Amanda’s. That should buy me a few hours. “Nope, I’m good!”
“What’s your favorite kind of movie?”
“Promise not to laugh?” I ask.
>
“That depends.”
I clap my hands over my face. “Romantic comedies.”
Between my fingers, I watch as he leans the broom against a chair and takes a step toward me. One finger at a time, he pulls my hands from my face. “Romantic comedies,” he says, “are entirely underrated.”
“Right?” I feel my whole face lighting up. “It’s like, just because they’re marketed toward women and end with a happily ever after, they’re somehow silly or frivolous.”
“I’m always game for a good HEA.”
I sigh. He even knows the lingo.
“Stay right here,” he says. “Pick any seat you want.”
As he races up the aisle, I settle on a row in the middle of the theater and even choose the exact middle. I squeeze my hips past the armrests of the tiny old seat. I’m not squished exactly, but I just barely fit. A gold star-shaped plaque on the wooden armrest reads 13P, and the one next to me reads 13Q. It’s such a small detail, but I want to remember these two seat numbers forever. I think about Cynthia and her husband, and I wonder which seats they sat in on their first date.
The houselights dim, and it’s actually a little spooky in here by myself. And then the screen comes to life with intro studio music playing. Malik runs back down the aisle and flops down into 13Q.
“Which movie did you pick?” I whisper. I feel immediately silly, because it’s just us and I can talk as loud as I want.
“Well, I almost chose my favorite,” he says, “which is The Princess Bride, which we keep on hand for annual anniversary showings, but then I figured maybe we should watch one I hadn’t seen. So we could expand my education.”
“Next time we have to watch your favorite,” I tell him.
“In which category? Sci-fi? Horror? Suspense? Bollywood? Comedy?”
“You’re into Bollywood?” I ask. I’ve only seen a few on TV, but to say I like what I’ve seen would be an understatement.
“Strictly the classics,” he says. “I don’t do remakes.”
And then the opening scene starts before I can ask for more details. We see the back of Drew Barrymore’s head as the camera pans down to reveal she’s standing on a baseball mound as she narrates. “You know how in some movies they have a dream sequence, only they don’t tell you it’s a dream? This is so not a dream.”
“Oh my gosh!” I squeal. “Never Been Kissed! Drew Barrymore plays a journalist—well, technically a copy editor—who goes undercover at her former high school. You’re going to love it.”
“We’ll see,” he says. “I’m kind of annoying to watch movies with. At least according to my sister. She says I find a flaw in everything. But we had this one on hand for a Drew Barrymore marathon.”
“Just watch,” I tell him.
We’ve held hands. We’ve kissed. And still my stomach is spinning in circles when I hold my hand palm up on the armrest—the universal sign to oh-my-gosh-please-hold-my-hand-already!
It takes as long as it takes Drew Barrymore to show up to school with her fresh makeover in her outlandish white fur outfit before Malik’s hand inches closer to mine and our fingers finally intertwine.
We sit there and watch the movie—the whole thing. I quote along to a few lines before I can catch myself, and I don’t even get up to pee because I’m scared I’ll somehow ruin this moment and it won’t be the same when I return.
After the credits roll, I let out a big, unstoppable yawn.
“Just one last thing,” Malik says. “I just have to show you one more thing before you turn into a pumpkin.”
I yawn again, but I nod. “Okay.”
He takes me back through the employee staircase we initially went up, and then he leads me to an even narrower staircase. Before he opens the heavy metal door, he reaches for a brick sitting on top of the doorframe.
He grunts as he opens the heavy door and holds it for me as I step out onto the rooftop. Carefully he wedges the brick in place to stop the door from swinging shut.
“The best view in Clover City,” he says.
I take a few steps closer to the edge of the roof where the LONE STAR THEATER letters stick up over the roofline. A few of the letters have little birds’ nests inside and a couple of the lights need replacing.
But he’s right. The view is amazing. At this hour, only a few buildings are still lit up, but you can still see all the way to the edge of town, and then it’s like the rest of the world is just swallowed up in darkness. Like this little town exists on a planet all by itself.
Malik pulls over two old office chairs. “Cameron and the other guys take their smoke breaks up here,” he explains.
The two of us sit down, and for a few minutes we just live here in this moment without a word between us.
Finally I break the silence. “How is it I’ve lived here all my life and I’m just now seeing this view of Clover City?”
A soft smile plays at Malik’s lips. “You think you know a place,” he says. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, but it’s like with camerawork. You just adjust your position, even slightly, and suddenly you’re telling a different story. Seeing a new world.”
And funny as it may be, this reminds me of Callie. I thought I knew just the kind of person someone like her was. I thought I had her pegged. Pretty girl, dance-team assistant captain, dream boyfriend, and just sharp enough to intimidate you. But that was only the story of herself she wanted me to see and not the Callie I’ve come to know.
“Perspective,” I say. “Perspective is everything.” I want to stay here forever, but I can’t stop myself from yawning again. I glance down at my phone to see that it’s well past two in the morning.
“I better get you home.” Malik stands up and offers me his hand.
“Only if you promise not to be greedy with this view.” I take his hand and stand.
“We can’t tell too many people,” he says. “Can’t have everybody trying to steal our spot.”
My mouth goes a little dry. I’ve been waiting for another chance to kiss, ever since we were interrupted by the movie coming to an end earlier. We haven’t kissed, like really kissed, since we filmed my audition tape. I thought kissing him again would get easier, but try telling my nerves that.
If Malik’s nervous, it doesn’t show. His head tilts to the side as he pulls me closer to him, holding me tight. It’s way too warm out to have this many goose bumps, but my body defies science as Malik’s lips meet mine. I almost forget to breathe through my nose as he deepens the kiss and combs his fingers through my hair.
I can have it all. I decide in that moment. Everything I want can be had.
Callie
Twenty-Eight
When Mitch came by the gym to talk to me, I was completely caught off guard. After Millie left me totally stranded with him—I gotta teach that girl how to be a proper wing woman—Mitch blurted, “I’m sorry about acting so weird at the pep rally.”
I nodded. “It is what it is.” Instinct told me to play it cool, but somehow I didn’t think Mitch was the kind of guy to respond to playing it cool.
“Listen,” he said, “I’d really appreciate it if you gave me another chance.”
And that was about the time Millie piped in, stealing away whatever shot I had left at playing it cool.
So I’m giving him a chance. Partly because what the hell else do I have to lose? And also not many people outside of Millie and her friends are clamoring to hang out with me. And there’s something about the boy that makes me want to get to know him better.
The real obstacle now is getting my mom to agree to lifting my grounding enough to let me hang out with a member of the opposite sex.
I decide the best time to strike is Saturday morning. I wake to a flurry of text messages from Millie. She included me in a group text with Amanda in the middle of the night.
MILLIE: If everything is horrible every day for the rest of my life, just remind me that this night in April was perfect.
MILLIE: Is it silly to think that yo
u can find true love in high school?
MILLIE: Have y’all ever thought about how weird it is that birds are just little feathery dinosaurs?
MILLIE: Okay, that last text wasn’t relevant. But I think I’m in love. Real love.
MILLIE: happily ever after romantic comedy love #HEA
ME: What’s HEA?
MILLIE: HELLO?? Happily ever after!
I laugh to myself. So I guess it’s safe to say her date with Malik was a success. I don’t get how she just feels everything so hard. That must require some serious energy.
I can smell my mom’s omelets from where I sit upstairs in bed. My door creaks open, and Kyla pokes her head in and then shouts down the stairs, “She’s awake! Can we eat already?”
I push myself out of bed. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” I tell her, yanking on her ponytail as I jog past her and down the stairs.
“Mom said so. She said to let you sleep in.”
That makes me perk up. Maybe it will be the perfect morning to ask for a reprieve. Maybe I do deserve to sleep in and even go on a date.
Downstairs, I find my mom setting the table while my sister examines each omelet to be sure she gets the best one.
“Keith had to run into work for a bit,” says Mom. “So it’s just us girls.”
The three of us sit down, and my mom pours two glasses of orange juice, for herself and me, while Kyla demands to pour her own. I think this is the first time we’ve all sat together for a meal in weeks. Mom’s always busy with work and running Kyla to dance class and soccer, and Keith has been picking up extra shifts to save for the vacation he and my mom have talked about taking us all on for years now.
“I don’t want to take dance classes anymore,” announces Kyla with her mouth full of egg and cheese.
“Excuse me?” asks Mama. “Swallow your food and try again.”
Kyla takes a sip of orange juice and then sits up on her knees, so that she’s at eye level with both of us. “I want to quit dance.”
I slink back a little. This is definitely my fault. “You’ll regret it, Kyla bear,” I tell her.