On Screen & Off Again

Now Daxon

Now DAXON

F rom the moment the wheels lift at LAX to the rumbling thud of them touching down in South Carolina, my stomach, my heart, my lungs and all of my intestines are knotted tight. Opportunity isn’t just knocking here—it’s kicking the door down.

A car waits for me outside baggage claim, driven by an older man in a suit and tie. This is the thing you never really get used to about making movies: how much the studio will shell out to keep you comfortable (if it’s in your contract, and my agent showed her stuff).

Some productions put you up in a hotel. But property out here is cheap, so the driver pulls up in front of a tract house at the far end of a suburban neighborhood. My home for the next few months.

Call it habit, but I pull my phone from my jeans pocket and bring up ye olde family group chat. Really, the chat is just a place to document the fact that me, my twin sister, Rainie, and our dads all play this ongoing game called We Never See Each Other Because We’re Constantly Traveling For Work, and between the four of us, I have no idea who’s winning. Itext the group.

Made it to South Carolina

Dad texts a thumbs-up emoji. Pop does the same. Rainie won’t text me back for hours or days because that’s just how she is.

My dads are always quick to text back the bare minimum. Because if it’s not a fixer-upper with good bones, they won’t make time for it. Won’t is the wrong word—maybe I mean can’t . Literally can’t. Their filming schedules are so tight, you’d need an industrial wedge to pry them open. Which isn’t their fault; it’s probably a good thing, actually. But a busy schedule and involved, attentive parents are two incompatible things.

I climb out of the car and step out into a humid night, thunder crackling distantly. And then six seconds later, it starts to pour with rain. I mean pour . My T-shirt, my jeans, they’re both stuck to my skin as my driver and I pull my suitcases from the trunk. The last case, I realize about a quarter of a second too late, has its zipper half-open, and when the driver lifts it from the trunk, the lid splits completely from the base.

Legos. That’s what hits the sodden pavement. They scatter in a thousand different directions, barely illuminated under the orange glow of the streetlamp. I had to pack the Falcon. Had to. But the reason for that is nowhere I can find it as I stoop in the rain and feel around the sodden ground for a thousand tiny plastic bricks.

“Hey!”

I look up and squint against the darkness at a figure running down the adjacent driveway. Wil’s immediately soaked, short hair sticking to her face and neck, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t make a fuss.

“Hi.” I raise my voice above the downpour.

“The fuck are you doing?” Wil says.

“Regretting my life choices,” I tell her.

“Will that be all, sir?” asks the driver. He raises his eyebrows the smallest amount and I know he’s waiting for a tip. I dig in my jeans pocket for my wallet and fish out a twenty.

“You still do the Lego thing?” Wil squats down and begins raking pieces towards her in the dark, collecting them in her fist.

“Old habits.”

“What’s this supposed to be?”

“It was about three-quarters of the Millennium Falcon.”

“Oh, Daxon,” Wil says solemnly. “So nerdy. So, so nerdy.”

“No, I mean, it’s—it’s a hobby. Lots of people...” Imumble, my voice getting lost in the rain. Then a laugh comes ripping out of my gut. “It’s extremely nerdy. Thank you, by the way.” I nod to her fistful of gray and black Lego pieces. “Also, hi.” I stop and really look at her. Right away I wish I hadn’t, because the tornado of fluttering that starts up in my stomach is life-ending at best.

“Hi,” she says, then adds, “neighbor.”

We dump the pieces we’ve collected into the suitcase and I zip it tight. Wil grabs the other, smaller case.

“What brings you to South Carolina, Wilhelmina?”

Wil snorts. “I heard it rains Legos and dweebs named Daxon Avery here and I thought I gotta see that. ”

I glare at her. “Cruel woman.”

“Come on, come over to my place. Dry off your spaceship.” Wil signals for me to follow her across the driveway.

“It’s a sailing vessel, technically, but that’s not... important,” I trail off.

“Oh my god, Daxon,” she says, turning the knob on the front door, “please shut up.” She laughs.