Chapter 9 #2
“I’m undeclared. But you’re right, I’m leaning toward computer science or maybe business.
” He leans in close as if he’s about to tell me a secret and continues, “I don’t really talk about this—it’s kind of embarrassing—but I trust you, so I’ll let you in.
I’ve always had this secret dream of becoming a movie director.
So while computer science and business are the practical options, if I were a little braver, I might major in film. ”
I’m sure my expression does nothing to hide my shock. The idea of Alex Aquino—near billionaire, tech scion, arrogant asshole—having an unfulfilled dream is wild to me. But of course he did. Doesn’t everyone?
Then I wonder: Does everyone?
Is that why I’m back here? Because I lived my first life in a manner that ignored any unfulfilled dreams I had based on the assumption that everyone did that to some extent and I should suck it up and continue down the path I had set myself on?
Was this actually an unfulfilled dream of his or was it just a dream he outgrew?
“I know it’s silly—”
“It’s not silly,” I insist. “Not at all. You should pursue film if that’s your dream.”
I force myself not to say anything else. I wouldn’t want to sway him too much. On the one hand, I would love to live in a world where Alex Aquino becomes a struggling film director, not evil incarnate. On the other hand, it feels rude to mess with his future like that.
And yet…
Tempting.
Eh, who am I kidding? Eighteen-year-old Alex is sweet, but that doesn’t change the man he’ll become, and I’m not sure being a filmmaker would make him any different. It’s pretty widely known that a lot of filmmakers are the worst. The Alex I remember would fit right in.
“What are you doing here, Ms. Pre-Law?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk to block out the rest of the room.
“I’m switching majors,” I tell him matter-of-factly. Like it’s no big deal.
“To what?” he asks, surprised.
I shrug. “I’m trying a few things out. We’ll see what sparks joy.”
I consider admitting that he’s the one who inspired this change but decide to keep that my little secret. He leans back and regards me as if seeing me in a new light.
“Keep me posted on how that goes. Who knows, maybe we’ll both love this class and become filmmakers.”
He says it so easily, without a shred of irony or doubt, as if the difference between a future where we’re both filmmakers—a career that I, a person with almost zero understanding of the film industry, am well aware is hard to make it in—and a future where we aren’t is really as simple as us deciding if we want it or not.
As if every possible version of his life is his for the taking—he just has to decide which one to reach out and grab.
I wonder if he’s ever experienced a shred of self-doubt in his life.
Unlikely.
Maybe I’d do well to try to be a little more like him.
“So? What’d you think?” Alex asks, waggling his eyebrows at me as we exit the classroom.
“Professor Cuellar is very…” I pause, searching for the right word.
Professor Cuellar is a lot. High-energy.
Passionate. Knowledgeable. The sort of professor who can stand up there and just talk, who has the ability to go on about his subject for the entire class without once consulting his notes. I don’t think he even had notes.
I have a full page that’s just a list of movies he referenced.
He holds film screenings every Sunday; they’re optional, but watching those movies at some point is not.
So far, I’ve missed Citizen Kane and Singin’ in the Rain.
Luckily, I’ve already seen both, but admittedly, it’s been a minute.
This Sunday, they’re screening Dr. Strangelove.
“He’s pretty radical,” Alex tells me.
I snort at the word choice. Radical. Sure, why not?
“Where are you off to?” he asks. “What else did you sign up for to see if it sparks joy?”
I glance up at him as we turn down another hallway and find him looking at me. His eyes shine with mirth, but there’s no mockery there, only genuine curiosity.
“Acting for Non-Majors,” I tell him.
“You’re going to be a double threat, huh? Actress-director? Like Barbra Streisand and Penny Marshall?”
“And Julie Delpy,” I offer.
“Angelina Jolie,” he counters, turning this into a challenge.
I wrack my brain. The problem is, I can think of several actress-directors. Greta Gerwig. Olivia Wilde. Regina King. I just don’t think any of them were directing in 2012.
And then it comes to me—duh. “Lena Dunham.”
“Jodie Foster.”
“Jodie Foster’s directed stuff?” I ask, shocked. Again, I know. But in 2012?
“Oh yeah. Little Man Tate, 1991. Home for the Holidays in ’95. Classics.”
“Drew Barrymore,” I offer, hoping beyond hope that he doesn’t have anyone else. Despite the fact that this started as lighthearted small talk, I have an overwhelming need to win.
He turns to me, confused, and I shoot him a smug smile in return.
“She directs?” he asks.
I nod. “The beloved classic Whip It.”
“The one about Roller Derby?”
“The very same.”
“Huh. I did not know that.” He nods in a way that tells me he’s filing this information away in his brain for later use. “Looks like you win. I mean, I can think of plenty actor-directors. Clint Eastwood. Ben Stiller. Danny DeVito—”
I cut him off. “Nope, sorry. That wasn’t the assignment. I win.”
“What would you like your prize to be?”
I pretend to think about it, then say, “You’ll walk me to acting?”
“I thought that was a given. What a waste of a prize… and you could’ve asked for anything.”
I laugh as he holds a door open for me to exit the building, trying not to notice how our bodies brush as I pass him.
Sitting next to Alex in Intro to Film was fun.
He’d whispered comments on the lecture to me, and when Professor Cuellar shot him a stern look, he switched to making faces.
It felt like we’d spent as much time looking at each other and trying not to laugh as we had paying attention.
I think of the way I dated in adulthood: Meaningless hookups orchestrated via dating apps, occasionally leading to flings that fizzled out over the course of months or even weeks, until the inevitable day I got sick of it all and deleted the apps, swearing off men until enough time passed that I got tired of being lonely and restarted the cycle.
I forgot how nice it is to just have a crush. An innocent, butterflies-in-the-stomach crush.
How electrifying it is to lock eyes with your crush in the middle of class.
How empowering it is to know that your crush is mutual.
It’s not the same as dating someone. Although I’ve always longed for the comfort of a stable, rock-solid relationship, there’s something magical about the pre-dating phase. The mutual crush. The anticipation and excitement are their own kinds of drugs.
We walk in silence for a few moments, and I glance up and take him in. He walks with an easygoing swagger, and maybe I’m biased because of my knowledge of things to come, but he just exudes confidence, hinting at the inevitability of his success.
But something is off. I know that memories warp and change over time, but the Alex I’m with here and now is so different from the Alex I remember at this age—or near this age, since I didn’t meet him until sophomore year the first time around.
No matter how hard I focus, I can’t figure out what the difference is.
Maybe my own perception of him has changed because of all I know, a bias I couldn’t escape if I tried.
If I’m honest, when I first met him, I thought he was a bit strange.
Kind of pretentious, a little distant. Nothing to write home about or anything, just…
not what he ended up becoming. But also not the endearing boy walking next to me.
Did something happen freshman year to transform him into the guy I remember?
Alex glances over and catches me observing him. I can tell from the tilt of his mouth that he’s pleased by my attention.
“So we got film, we got acting. What else did you sign up for?”
I rattle on about my other classes, answering all his questions; he seems particularly fascinated by archaeology and confused about Two-Dimensional Design.
I explain, “It’s the study of two-dimensional art. I don’t know. It’s a pre-req for Three-Dimensional Design, which is a pre-req for pottery.”
“Are you a big fan of pottery?”