Chapter 7
Lana
I waited for Holland in the campus parking lot on Monday morning, leaning against my car and scrolling through my phone to pass the time. Going to classes was always exciting to me, because I’d rather spend time here than back home, where, this morning, yet another porn was being filmed.
I managed to get out of the house without being seen by Callan, but I did run into a girl who looked freakishly similar to me.
Same red hair, blue eyes, curvy body. The only difference between us was that I was fully clothed, and she was wearing nothing but a satin robe.
She was around my age, too, and for a moment I had this funny thought that maybe I was her, just in an alternate universe.
But then I imagined having sex with Callan, and my body shook all over.
When Holland pulled into a space a few rows over, I could tell from her face that she had a story ready to unload.
She always did. Not because she chased attention wherever she went, but because she kept ending up in strange situations.
To be fair, she attracted unusual men, always attended parties that went sideways, and had ridiculous misunderstandings that escalated for no apparent reason.
She noticed things other people missed and then somehow got pulled into them.
Luckily, the worst that had come out of the situation was that she had to spend a night at the police station, and even that was a misunderstanding.
All of that gave her a stack of stories you could go through for weeks. If anyone in our film class could turn their life into a sitcom, it would be Holland, and no writing would be required. Her days automatically supplied the punchlines.
“Lana, Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with men?” she blurted out the moment she stepped out of her car.
I chuckled, shrugging a little, knowing this was going to be good. “Probably a lot,” I said, already bracing myself.
“Yeah, a whole damn lot,” she said, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulders after she swung her backpack on. “I went out with this guy—”
“Which one?” I asked, falling into step beside her as we started walking toward the main building.
“The one I met at Leah’s party two weeks ago,” she replied, waving her hand vaguely like it explained everything. “Anyway, we were at this bar, right? Just drinking cocktails, nothing crazy, and then one of his friends came over and started talking to him. And they just wouldn’t stop talking.”
I nodded, encouraging her to continue, while I listened attentively, as I always did. “Go on.”
“I’m sitting there, just trying to make conversation, and the guy is completely ignoring me.
I’m like, hello? I’m literally right here.
We’re on a date, but he just keeps talking to his friend.
And then, get this—he has the audacity to ask if it’s okay to do the date another night. Can you believe that?”
I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Wow. That’s…impressive, in a terrible way.”
Holland groaned, throwing her hands in the air. “I know, right? I swear, sometimes I wonder if men even know how to treat and talk to women. Or maybe they just don’t care. I don’t know. But it was the most infuriating thing.”
I glanced at her, smiling despite the disbelief, and said, “Sounds like you survived it though, and I bet you were still able to turn the night around and have some fun.”
“I sure did.” She nodded once, and her frown turned into a smirk. “I left him at the bar with his friend and went to the bar across the street, where I drank and danced.”
“That’s my girl.”
“You missed out on a fun night. Actually, you always miss out on fun nights. You should come out with me sometime.”
I had thought about going out to bars more often. I had been a few times, but I never really had that much fun. I liked to dance, sure, but on a Friday night, I’d rather be home reading a book.
Cliché, I know. But I just didn’t like being around drunks.
“It’s your birthday soon. We can go out then,” I told her, smiling.
“Good. Because I don’t feel like spending my nineteenth with anyone else. Oh, by the way…do you need a new fake ID?”
“Nope.”
Holland sighed. “I lost mine. Not that I ever had to show it, but you never know.”
I never had to show mine, either. But I figured it was always best to have one just in case. Though in bars around our area of town, girls were allowed to do just about anything—as long as they looked somewhat good. Therefore, entering bars wasn’t even a challenge.
We arrived at the building a few minutes before class started, and we passed by students who were scattered around the hallway, either sipping their coffees or debating about the movie they had watched and loved or hated over the weekend.
Holland pushed the door open, and we slipped into the lecture room just as Professor Hayes was adjusting the projector.
He was frowning at his laptop like it had personally betrayed him, muttering under his breath while stabbing his keyboard with his fingertips.
He always looked tired, and I just knew that he spent all his time outside of college working hard on his personal film projects, which nobody ever got to see. For whatever reason.
Hayes was a unique individual with one of the greatest minds I’ve ever met, and that made him an exceptional professor.
We took our usual seats near the middle.
Holland slumped down beside me, pulling out a pen she would never actually use, and putting her little glasses on that she only ever wore during lectures.
“He looks like he hasn’t slept since 2005,” she whispered.
She’s said that joke around ten times in the past three weeks, and it was still funny.
I smirked. “Probably around the time the last good indie film came out.”
The projector finally flickered to life, casting a bright light across the board. Hayes straightened his tie, cleared his throat, and began in his usual monotone. “Morning, everyone. I’ll keep this short. Your next assignment is an essay. Three thousand words. Due in three weeks.”
A collective groan filled the room. Holland rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might pull a muscle. But I smiled, because writing essays was almost like a hobby to me.
“You’ll write about a personal experience on a movie set,” Hayes continued, ignoring the noise by raising his voice slightly.
“Any kind of set. Student film, short film, independent project. Anything you’ve been part of in the past. I want your observations.
What went right, what went wrong, what you learned. What you would’ve done differently.”
He started pacing slowly in front of the whiteboard. “If you’ve never been on a set, I suggest you find one. Volunteer. Shadow someone. There’s no better education than being in the middle of a shoot.”
A guy further down raised his hand, and Hayes tilted his chin toward him. “Yes, Graham.”
“Does it have to be a written essay, or can we make it a short documentary?”
Hayes looked at him with narrowed eyes, then he pursed his lips while rubbing his beard. “I want it to be written. But we’ll do documentaries another time. Thank you for the idea, Graham.”
Graham sighed but nodded, and Hayes continued to list everything he wanted us to add to the essay.
Holland leaned over, resting her chin in her hand. “Think he’d accept a short essay on the time I helped a guy film his cat playing piano?”
I grinned. “Probably not.”
“Well, damn.” She sighed and tapped her pen against the desk. “I guess I’ll have to find someone who’s shooting something actually interesting. Maybe I’ll crash a set.”
“Or,” I said quietly, “you could actually write about that student short you helped with last semester.”
“That thing? Please. The only lesson I learned was to never trust a guy who claims his script ‘just needs financing.’” She sat up straighter, then turned toward me with a look that said she’d just had an idea. “Wait. You live with Buster Ace.”
My stomach tightened when she said his porn star name. I hated hearing it, especially out in the wild. “I’d prefer if you’d call him Callan.”
“Buster Ace is literally the most poetic name I’ve ever heard. Truly genius.”
“Totally.” I rolled my eyes.
“Anyway, what I was saying…”
I took a deep breath, already dreading where this was going.
“You’re living with an actual porn star who’s also a filmmaker—”
“He does porn.”
“No difference in my opinion,” she said with a shrug. “You do realize how insane the opportunity you have is, right?”
“I’m not writing my essay about a porn set.”
“Lana, my girl.” Holland shook her head slowly, her eyes wide. “You’re passing up on something I bet no other student has done before. Hayes would probably be fascinated by an essay like that.”
“Hayes will get a heart attack if he reads something like that. The man covered his eyes when Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore kissed in Ghost.”
“Pretty sure he closed his eyes because he was creeped out by a ghost kissing a woman,” Holland stated. “Or because he had finally realized that watching the movie Ghost with all of his students was weird as hell.”
I laughed softly. “That was a bit strange. He could’ve chosen a different movie.”
“Either way,” she continued. “Just think about it, Lana. You’re sitting here trying to think about what to write your essay on when you can literally go home and walk into a movie set that’s actually interesting.”
I groaned softly. “Holland, no.”
“But it’s so perfect! You can discuss the lighting, camera work, angles, and the script. Hell, even the acting if you’re feeling brave.”
I gave her a look. “You really want me to turn in a three-thousand-word essay about a porn shoot?”
She grinned wider. “Why not? It’s still a film production. Buster Ace can literally be your mentor.”
Disgust was the first emotion I felt just thinking about that, then I felt a sense of excitement, which I immediately pushed aside.
I forced another unsettling emotion, which made my skin crawl.
“I love you, Holland, but you need to stop talking about him before I’m physically unable to go back there. ”
“Come on, it would be authentic.” She nudged me with her elbow. “You’d probably be the only one who writes about something people actually want to read. Everyone else is gonna turn in something about student films where no one knew how to hold a boom mic.”
I shook my head. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” she said, grinning, “but I’m right. Because in this room, you’re the only one who was actually born with talent, and whatever you write about always gets high praise from everyone.”
I tried not to smile at the compliment, but I failed. “Thank you, Holls, but you’re a great writer too.”
Before she could respond, Hayes clapped his hands at the front of the room. “All right, that’s it. Three weeks. Real experiences. Now, let’s look at some of my favorite old school indie movies that never got enough recognition.”
While Hayes talked, I started taking notes but got lost in my thoughts trying to find the right thing to write about. I wrote down the names of a few seniors I knew were working on something, and I also added professors to the list in case I wanted to ask them questions.
I noticed Holland peeking at my notebook, and after a while, she leaned in again and whispered. “You know I’m right, Lana. You should write about Buster Ace and his industry. You’d kill that essay.”
“Or I could just pick a normal topic like everyone else.”
She pursed her lips to hide a smirk. “Normal is overrated. Besides, you’ve got front-row seats to one of the weirdest corners of filmmaking. Use it.” She paused, then added. “Or I will.”
Scrunching my nose, I imagined Holland on the set of one of Callan’s movies, wide-eyed as she admired her surroundings. To be fair, she’d totally fit into that world, and since she showed so much interest, I figured, why not give her the go-ahead?
“Fine with me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re really going to let me watch your stepdad direct and act in a porn movie?”
“First of all…” I turned more toward her with a pained look on my face. “He’s not my stepdad anymore because they got a divorce. Second, you realize that you watching him have sex isn’t even half as weird as when I’d do it, right?”
Holland studied me as if my words didn’t make sense, then she made a face that said she was halfway between horrified and impressed. “Yeah, okay, when you put it like that…gross. Never mind.”
“Exactly.”
She laughed under her breath and leaned back in her chair. “Still, though. You can’t deny that living with him is probably the most film-adjacent experience any of us has. You’ve got everything there. Hell, even the acting direction. Just minus the clothes.”
I pressed my pen to the notebook and stared at the half-written notes in front of me, pretending I didn’t hear her.
“Come on,” she whispered. “You could write about how he frames a scene, or the ethics of intimacy on camera, or whatever fancy thing professors like to read about. You don’t even have to say what kind of film it is. Just call it…an independent adult production.”
I tried not to laugh. “That’s the worst euphemism I’ve ever heard.”
“But it’s accurate.”
“Yeah. Sort of.”
Holland was silent for a moment, then she gasped out loud, as if her own thoughts surprised her.
A few heads turned, and she apologized. Then she whispered to me.
“You could make a mockery out of it. Like, if you don’t like the fact that it’s porn, just…
make fun of it or something. It’s still different from what everyone else here will write about. ”
I shook my head and smiled gently. “I’m really thankful for all your help, Holland, but I will find something else to write about.”
She noticed how serious I was and that I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. So she nodded and gave me a tight smile before focusing on what Hayes was saying.