“Wait—no, wait, you can’t leave me.” Her anger starts to give way to desperation as the last door to the vehicle closes in her face. “Guys, come on—just drive me to the ship, please. Don’t do this.”
Molly stalks around the Unimog to the back passenger window. I can see through the vehicle slightly as Duncan rolls his window down halfway, but I can’t catch the expression on his face from where I’m standing. Dan, the other DOP, does a wide circle of the scene, coming to stand in front of the truck so he can capture the interaction between Molly and Duncan.
Words are exchanged, then a frustrated huff escapes Molly as she stomps off in the opposite direction of the vehicle.
Greta dashes over to me. “Can you catch up to her? We’re going to follow the other contestants now,” she explains in a rush, as the second Unimog pulls up from where it had been waiting a few hundred feet away. “Molly’s transport will be waiting in the parking lot when you guys get down from the cable car. See you later?” She puts a hand on Sora’s shoulder and tosses her head in the direction of the vehicle to indicate that Sora is to go with them.
Sora gives me an apologetic smile, passes me my lens, and then quickly follows Greta. In less than thirty seconds, the entire crew is gone.
And I’m completely alone.
TWENTY
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
BLUE (DA BA DEE) — EIFFEL 65
“Molly, will you wait up?”
For a woman in a short skirt and boots made more for walking the streets of Paris than a field of lava rocks, Molly has already made it pretty far by the time I catch up to her.
“Ugh. It’s you,” is all she says, not even turning to look at me. “What doyouwant?”
I’m trailing behind her, trying desperately to hold my camera on one shoulder and keep the tripod steady on the other. “I, uh…I’m supposed to be filming you for the rest of the day. We’re supposed to hitch a ride with?—”
“I’m not hitching aride,” she hisses, whirling to face me as I skid to a stop, fumbling my camera and tripod and nearly dropping both. “I’m not doing any of this shit.”
“I mean…you kind of have to,” I say bluntly. “You signed a contract.”
She huffs out an exaggerated sigh and turns on her heel, beginning her slow descent down the rocky slope toward the cable car station. A few hikers pass and give Molly somevery confused glances, which turn into looks of understanding once they catch sight of my camera.
Since she’s already heading in the direction I need her to and I don’t have to corral her toward the cable car station, I decide to hang back a bit. I quickly swing the tripod down and press the legs into the loose rocks under my feet so it holds steady, then I crouch, adjust my angle, and hit record.
Surrounded by muted shades of black, blue, and gray, Molly stands out against the harsh terrain, her honey-blond hair and the yellow of her blouse reminding me of sunshine breaking through the dark clouds of a storm. The shot I set up is so visually pleasing that it scratches the artistic itch in my brain that’s always sort of buzzing in the background.
Molly sways a little and stumbles as she carefully makes her way down a steeper part of the slope, and the smallest pang of empathy flares and then fizzles quietly in my chest.
The anger I’ve held toward Molly has been so heavy for so long. But after having to see her almost every day for several weeks—a real person, and not just a memory I’ve conjured up—I can’t help but notice little glimpses of the Molly I knew as a teenager.
The flash of hope I saw on her face earlier, her desperation as she was left behind, and now, seeing her stumble…they’re all little cracks in Molly’s mask. And, despite everything, my first instinct is still to help her.
That being said, my second instinct is to throw her off the side of the volcano. So, who knows how this little excursion will end?
Shutting off the camera, I lift my tripod with one hand and carefully place it on my shoulder, then head toward her. She’s made it fully down the slope now, and is stalking toward the station in a determined way that makes me think she may just leave me behind if given the opportunity.
I make it to her just as the next cable car lets its passengers off, and she hops in.
“Don’t even think about it,” I say, sliding in after her. “You’re not getting out of here without me.”
“Can you just, like, go away?” she hisses, fists balled at her side. “Seriously, I’ll find my own way back to the ship. Goaway.”
The hurt behind her eyes is jarring. Something else is going on—something that I’m not privy to.
“What is yourproblem, Molly?” I hiss through gritted teeth.
The door to the cable car shuts with a clank, sealing us in together—alone—and it lurches forward as we begin our descent. I wedge the tripod between the bench seat and the wall and sit immediately.
If there’s anything I hate more than flying, it’s heights. Which, I guess, kind of plays off the same fear—falling.
