“No.”
“Then why are we listening to funeral dirges?”
Max Richter’s finest, postminimalism compositions are pulsating through my car speakers. Film scores keep me level. I need balance before my next run-in with Derick, before I’m thrust into a new position at the drive-in with double the responsibility. This summer is already stacking up like a pile of dirty dishes on the sink edge, dangerously close to teetering over.
Ignoring Mateo’s comment, I turn up the volume.
We’re all wearing our bright-yellow T-shirts with a pink Wiley’s logo on the breast pocket. The wordSTAFFis stamped on the back in sticky-looking block letters. It’s a horrendous uniform no one is happy about.
“Can I crop mine at least?” Mateo had asked before we left.
Avery and I hid all the scissors.
When I step out of the car in the grassy field, I’m hit with the familiar smells of home—fresh-cut grass and cow dander from the massive dairy plant down the road. It’s not Yankee Candle fresh, but you get used to it. Willow Valley is a charming sprawl of farmland, decently funded public schools, and a historic main street. It’s about a twenty-minute drive from Rosevale, which I chose because it had the best film studies program in the area.
I’m thankful I remembered to put on my work sneakers—the mud-stained, well-worn Nikes—as I approach the concessions shack with its cartoon personified snack foods painted on the outside walls. The sole screen sits on the far side and the other perimeters are fenced and lined with tall, thin trees, which give the space a sense of privacy. The only places where the trees break are at the entrances and one corner of the back where a two-story family home with eggshell shutters can be seen.
That’s my childhood home. When I say I grew up at Wiley’s Drive-In, I literally mean it. From my second-story bedroom, I could peer into the lot. On nights I couldn’t sleep, I’d peek out my window and watch the soundless second feature, movie stars running from swamp monsters or racing cars or singing songs in the rain. It was all magical to me, all beautiful.
Of course some nights, when they showed a family film and the weather was right, my parents would break out the lawn chairs, and Claire and I would race down to the fence with our microwave popcorn and portable radio to soak in the latest blockbuster.
When I got older, the backyard wasn’t good enough for me. I’d collect my friends, including Avery, in whichever car my parents would let me borrow. Usually the cobalt-blue 4x4 pickup truck since it had the most space in the bed for hanging out. We’d ride into the lot with cash to blow on peanut M&M’s and slushies.
I’d like to say I chose the reel life, but the reel life chose me. Or, more exactly, Earl Wiley chose me. When I turned fifteen, he demanded my parents let him hire me. I was there almost every weekend anyway. It only made sense, and I wanted the work. So, I elbowed my way up the ranks, and here I am, the new manager, reporting for duty.
Avery and Mateo veer off to join the growing throng of coworkers, chattering together, looking a little nervous. They’re about to be indoctrinated into the land ofDo you want to make that a combo for fifty cents more?
Earl stands with his feet spread apart on the mound as I approach. He’s waiting for me. In one hand, he twirls a pristine name tag.
“It’s like I’m about to be knighted,” I joke when I’m within earshot.
“Don’t make me do a British accent, kid. It’ll end badly for both of us,” he says while pinning the pink piece of plastic to my chest. Derick’s impending arrival fades away for a moment. Whatever emotional catastrophe may be coming for me can wait. This is a real-life level up finally,finallyunlocked.
Earl slips a bent envelope from the back pocket of his faded Wranglers and places it in my hand. He’s not the sentimental type, and I know this isn’t an early paycheck. I’m not stupid enough to think that his cute, vintage drive-in has the kind of bank that lends itself to birthday bonuses or graduation checks.
It doesn’t even have the kind of bank to sustain itself through a single season, but that’s a problem I might have a solution to now, thanks to Oscar Villanueva.
The card is a dollar-store variant with balloons on the front and a blank inside. In his shaky hand, Earl has written:
Happy Birthdagraduation. I got you a card and a name tag.
Below, he’s drawn a big, amorphous arrow to a miniscule PS:
There’s a six-pack of cider with your name on it in the concessions fridge, but it’s not from me. I’m your boss. That would be unprofessional.
“Thanks, Earl.” We’re not the hugging type, so we opt for a firm handshake. I hesitate for a moment. On the heels of his generosity, I want to bring up my possible plans. “Hey, do you think we can make some time to talk about doing a special event here in August?”
His bushy eyebrows go up into his receding hairline. “What do you have in mind?”
“Remember how you said to bring my big ideas?” I ask, and he nods. “Well, what about a premiere of Alice Kelly’sChompin’ at the Bit?”
His eyebrows disappear onto the back of his head, do a one-eighty, and circle back to their rightful place. “Do pigs fly now or something? What makes you think you can make that happen, kid?”
I try appealing to the businessman inside him. He may hide his savvy beneath a disheveled exterior, but he’s an industry man with the plentiful credentials and experience to back it up. The drive-in has been in his family since its inception, when it was nothing more than a field behind a historic hotel, a sheet tied to two poles and a rinky-dink projector. Earl never married or had kids, so I know the genetic line stops with him, but that doesn’t mean the establishment should cease to exist.
He strikes a thinking pose, forefinger outlining his stubbly chin. “You had trouble getting in touch with Alice for your big college paper. How’s it going to be different this time?”
“I have a lead.” I nearly spit from the abrupt acidity of lying. I don’t make a habit of telling half-truths, but little white ones every now and then seem innocuous enough. If I can make this happen, all will be forgiven. Earl never needs to know that I’m flying by the seat of my pants.
