“What did you say in your email?”
Hugo shrugs. “I asked if it would be possible to defer the scholarship.”
“That’s it?”
“More or less.”
“Good grief,” Mae says, rolling her eyes. “Next time please do not send a potentially life-changing email in the middle of the night without consulting me, okay?”
In spite of himself, Hugo laughs. “Okay.”
“Look, this is what I do,” she says. “I tell stories. And stories are magic. Trust me on this. You can’t just tell them you want to skip out for a year. You need to explain why you want to go. Paint them a picture. Tell them all the things you want to do. Tell them how much it’s killing you to just blindly follow the same path as all your siblings. Tell them you need a year to figure out who you are, and then you’ll come back a better, more focused person, and it’ll be a win for everyone.”
For some reason, he’s finding this all fairly amusing, and though he knows she’s serious, he can’t seem to wipe the grin from his face.
“Hugo,” she says, leaning forward and putting a hand on each of his knees, “I’m not kidding. If you don’t believe this, why should they?”
“All right.” He holds up his hands. “All right. I’ll give it a go.”
Mae looks enormously satisfied. She stands up and thrusts her laptop at him. “Good. I’m gonna go up and take a shower. You stay here and get to work.”
And then she’s gone. Hugo stares at the computer, wondering if she’s right. The email from the university seemed fairly final, but it couldn’t hurt to try explaining himself a bit better. He closes the window with the clip of Ida’s interview, his head already buzzing with his arguments. But just as he’s about to open a blank document, he notices a folder calledrejects.
He freezes, remembering their conversation the other day. It’s almost certainly in there, the film she submitted to USC, the one she never wants to talk about. And now that it’s only a couple of clicks away, Hugo is burning to see it.
He lets the mouse hover over it a second, his curiosity overwhelming.
But at the last minute, he sits back again. It would be too big a betrayal of trust.
Instead he opens a new document, staring at the white screen for a few seconds.
He thinks:Why I can’t go home just yet.
He thinks:Please just let me do this.
He thinks:Maybe a few seconds wouldn’t hurt.
And then he clicks over to therejectsfolder and opens it.
There are easily two dozen files there, all with cryptic names likethat one tuesdayortypical weekendorsnow day.There’s one calledfor dadand anotherfor pop.One calledgroceriesand another calledyou are here.He wants to watch them all, wants to dive straight into her head. But then he spots the one calleduscand goes straight to that.
When he opens it, the window is black, with a small title card that saysmae day productions.He takes his earbuds out of his pocket and slips them in, glancing around the lobby to make sure nobody is watching. Then he presses Play.
There’s a shot of clouds and some music, and then the camera pans down from above in an impressive sweeping shot and zooms in on a girl about their age walking toward a small yellow house.
Hugo thinks:I should stop watching.
But he doesn’t.
She starts to reach for the doorknob, then changes her mind and sits down on the porch steps as two male voices drift out the window, arguing about whose turn it is to fold the laundry. The camera pulls in close to her face as she listens.
The camera work is impressive, and the shots all look stylized in a way that’s truly distinctive, bright and glossy and uniquely heightened. But he can’t help noticing there’s something a bit hollow about it, too, something a little detached.
Though maybe that’s how it’s supposed to feel. Hugo honestly isn’t sure.
Someone walks up behind him, and he slams the computer shut so fast it almost goes sliding off his lap. When he turns to look, it’s just a middle-aged woman with a glass of wine. She gives him a funny look as she squeezes past his chair, walking over to a group of couples assembled near the harpist. His heart is pounding as he opens the computer again, exits the window, and closes the folder, covering his tracks.
He looks once more at the blank document and decides he’ll work on the letter later.
