Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Danny
Things are rarely what they seem. If my investigations have taught me anything, it’s that you can never be sure what’s lurking beneath the surface or happening behind closed doors.
Based on my view from the gazebo at the heart of campus, Hilltop University doesn’t scream bigotry or puritanism.
In fact, the campus is beautiful: redbrick buildings, grassy plazas, tree-lined paths.
The trees’ bare branches reach high toward the clear sky; I can only imagine the lush canopies that will bloom come spring.
The students shuffling their way toward classes or meeting their friends with hugs don’t look unhappy. They look like college students.
I’m desperate to know about their experiences here.
Well, I’m desperate to know one particular person’s experiences here.
I pull up the text message that I’ve memorized but can’t stop staring at anyway.
Christina: Hi, Danny—this is Christina Edmondson (purveyor of pagan festivals and waffles).
I am very interested in your idea of making the Jezebel List into a documentary, but I would love to discuss how this would work and what to expect before I fully commit.
Are you free to meet this Friday at Hilltop? Noon? I can send a location pin.
I must have answered half a dozen spam calls from various locations that were definitely not her—just in case—before her Tennessee number finally flashed at me on Tuesday afternoon.
I forced myself to wait ten minutes before texting back in a feeble attempt to counteract my Waffle House impression—the one that probably left her thinking my life depended on seeing her again.
I’m not even sure that impression would necessarily be … incorrect.
I examine my surroundings again. If she agrees to the documentary, it’ll be important to get some footage of campus to establish the feel of it, even if I can’t necessarily follow Christina around here.
I should be able to get some shots from adjacent public streets and even use my new drone for a few flyover shots …
“Hey, boss.”
I leap to my feet and whip around to where she’s stepping into the gazebo behind me.
And yeah, okay. I thought I had maybe built up how pretty she is in my head over the past week.
But the sun filters through the gazebo beams to softly illuminate the black hair falling in waves down her shoulders, looking impossibly dark against her light blue turtleneck that reflects a blue tint in her hazel eyes.
If anything, my memory undersold her.
“Am I your boss?” I ask, trying to keep my eyes from roaming the full length of her.
She scrunches her mouth to the side in consideration. “Potentially. Although I guess if I agree to the doc, you’d be more like my maestro.”
“So that would make you my muse, then.”
“Oh, right. You’ll have to be careful not to become one of those painters who suddenly can only paint the one thing over and over and over.”
“Are you saying you don’t want me to set up cameras around every inch of your home and campus to film you at all hours of the day and night?”
A smile flits across her face. “There’s no doubt the masses will want to watch me 24/7. I live an awfully riveting life. You know, I brush my teeth. I read books. I check my bank account.”
I hum. “I didn’t know all that was going on. Maybe this documentary is focusing on the wrong thing.”
She laughs, and it rings through my chest. I realize I’m not channeling my best Charlie impression yet—she’s so damn disarming—but she seems decently at ease. It’s a good thing, too, because I can’t seem to stop the low words from tumbling out of my mouth:
“I’m really glad you texted me, Christina.”
Shit, I’m already being too intense. If I’m going to be her documentarian, I need to maintain a professional front with her.
I need to put her at ease. I need to be loose and inviting so she can feel comfortable on camera and comfortable talking to me.
I can’t forget myself like I did at that Waffle House table.
The integrity of this project depends on me staying as objective as possible.
“Yeah?”
And just like that, the open, hopeful look on her face makes me want to reach for her. Fuck, I’ve got to lock down these urges coming out of left field.
So I let loose my most charming half-smile. “Yeah. I think this documentary could make a difference for people.”
Her face falls—just a fraction—but she nods. “I think so too.”
I turn to scoop up my bag where I’ve left it on the bench so I can’t examine her every reaction.
“I’d love to talk through the process and logistics with you, brainstorm aesthetics, and answer any questions you may have.
I’ve been sketching out a possible shooting progression, needed permissions, and possible additional footage so you can make an informed decision about whether this is something you want to get into … ”
“Hey, Danny?”
I force myself to fiddle with my bag and keep my shoulders loose, even though my name out of her mouth makes every muscle in my body want to clench up. “Yes, Christina?”
“I know there are a lot of details to discuss, but before we get too deep into all of that, do you think we could use today as a sort of … trial run?”
“A trial run?”
“I do think this doc is a good idea, and I honestly trust whatever vision you have for the project …”
I try not to let what that does to my chest show on my face. Be professional.
“… but the issue is that I need to see what this feels like before I fully commit. I know the items on the Jezebel List must seem silly—”
“They don’t,” I cut in. Shit, too intense again. She’s looking at me with wide eyes, mouth still open. But she has to know. “They don’t seem silly at all.”
“That—that’s nice to hear. Because they aren’t silly to me, either, even if they are silly in and of themselves. And I mostly just want to make sure that doing this doc, that being observed and filmed, doesn’t ruin the experience of the list.”
“Of course,” I nod, stepping around the bench to face her. “I should have been the one to suggest the trial run.”
“Well, this is a very different kind of project for you, isn’t it? Have you ever focused on one person doing slice-of-life stuff like this before?”
She knows from my oeuvre that I haven’t.
I usually focus on a particular topic and edit together footage from a range of events and interviews with voiceover narration to fill in any gaps.
A trial run today would actually help me develop the visual style and consider what kind of footage we may need for this project.
If she chooses to do it.
“This is a very different project for me,” I confirm. “But I haven’t felt this excited in a while.”
She fidgets a bit and bites her thumbnail. And there it is—my intensity is turning her off. But before I can switch into interviewer mode, she asks, “Have you been to Hilltop before?”
I tear my eyes away from her to once again sweep over the prestigious-looking buildings and the laughing students.
“I’ve never been, even though I’ve passed the exit plenty of times when I visit Nashville.
It looks like any other beautiful college campus.
I think I expected more … steeples or something. ”
“Indeed,” she laughs. “There is a proper chapel on the other side of campus, but the twice-a-week required services actually take place in the large auditoriums, since every single student must attend.”
“Do you get course credit for that?”
She snorts. “Um, no. We do get course credit for the religion minor every student must complete. Although, calling it a religion minor is pushing the boundaries of accuracy because we don’t study religions of the world or theories of religion. It’s just this one Evangelical denomination’s views.”
“Yikes.”
She leans in conspiratorially. “Last semester, I was in this ethics course”—she air quotes the word—“and I had to give a presentation on sex. My friend Ally recorded a bunch of scenes from different movies and TV shows that talk about sex, and I just played those back to back to get out of having to give my own opinion, which is the opposite of Hilltop-approved. But then at the end of my presentation, the asshole professor asked me what I would tell my children about sex.” She switches to a fire-and-brimstone tone.
“Would you, in good conscience, encourage them to have it outside of marriage?”
This fucking place. “I hope you said hell yeah, with the proper mental and physical preparation.”
“That would have been a good answer,” she sighs.
“I was honestly so shocked he asked that I can’t remember what I said.
But at least we can stand in this gazebo together!
When my grandparents were students here, men and women literally had to stand on opposite sides of the street to talk to one another.
They still won’t install a pool on campus because ‘mixed bathing between sexes’ is a no-no. ”
“Your grandparents went here?” Apparently I can’t stop pushing for more about her even when the cameras are cold.
“And my parents. You know, they actually changed the rules about men being allowed to keep long hair around their time.” She eyes the hair sweeping the top of my shoulders. “You would have had to cut yours if you attended before then, and wouldn’t that have been a national tragedy?”
My stomach clenches. I really shouldn’t read too much into her apparently liking my hair. I dig deep to keep things loose. “I’m just having a little trouble—you don’t seem like you belong here.”
She tilts her head. “I’ll say this: There are a lot of people at Hilltop that you would expect. But there are also a lot of people that you wouldn’t expect. And then there are some people who start out as one thing and end up as something completely different.”
I wander a step closer, practically vibrating with curiosity. “Which one are you?”
“The last one.”
“Why are you still here? Couldn’t you transfer elsewhere?” The question feels a bit brash, but I hate the idea of her stuck in this fundamentalist nightmare.