“Notthatold,” Celeste answers. “It’s a masterpiece of American cinema. Freddie Prinze Jr. in overalls at the prom? That is a cultural moment. That transcends generational divides.”
I shrug as I flip over to the button that says, more information. “It was released in nineteen-ninety-nine. The year I was born.”
Celeste’s smile collapses through a series of reactions. Her jaw drops, eyes widening with the stunned recognition of someone who’s just been ambushed. Then her features contort into something more visceral—eyebrows pinching together,mouth twisting sideways—as if she’s just discovered an uncomfortable truth about herself that can never be unlearned.
“Right. Ninety-nine,” she muses.
“Okay, Celeste, tell me the truth. Do you think I’m too young for you, or do you think you’re too old for me? Because those are two different things.”
She locks onto my gaze, challenge dancing in her eyes, her smirk guiding me to the metaphorical edge of my seat. But “let’s watch the movie” is all she says.
I press play. The opening credits roll and I realize immediately that this movie is exactly as dated as advertised. The fashion alone is a time capsule. We enter the realm of chunky highlights, cargo pants, platform sandals. The soundtrack sounds like the inside of a store that went out of business. I have no idea what’s happening and I am deeply invested.
Celeste provides context. It starts as quiet observations on culture, as if she’s a historian trying to walk me through a different era. “Back then that haircut was considered sexy, by the way” is just the beginning. Eventually, Celeste’s commentary escalates into full narration. She knows every scene. She mouths certain lines before the actors say them. When Freddie Prinze Jr. removes his sunglasses and does the slow-motion head turn, she clutches her chest like a woman receiving medical news.
“This was it,” she whispers. “The swoon.”
“He took off sunglasses. Indoors.”
“Yeah.” She shoots me a look. “And it changed my life.”
I’m laughing. Not the measured, strategic laugh I’ve trained myself to deploy at work events and client dinners. The real kind—the one that starts in my stomach and ambushes me like an intrusive thought, the one that sounds like it belongs to someone who laughs all the time, which I don’t. Celeste watches me with the satisfied expression of a woman who intended exactly this,and I realize this might be the first time I’ve laughed like this in months.
The movie plays. We drink the wine. She narrates the prom montage and a scene involving a hacky sack that she insists was “athletically groundbreaking.” By the time credits roll, she’s already queuing up the next one.
I’m so exhausted. I was hanging by a thread when I got home this morning. Stretching out the sleep-deprivation is almost physically painful. I most definitely should not be operating heavy machinery at this point, but there’s no way I’m going to sleep on this precious opportunity to see Celeste giggling like a school girl. It becomes my instant life-mission to stay the hell awake.
“Ten Things I Hate About You. Nonnegotiable. Let your education on good cinema continue.”
“You mean my education on guys you thought were hot in the nineties. Is this the one with?—”
“Heath Ledger. Yes. And if you say a single negative word about Heath Ledger in this room, I will make you sleep on the balcony.”
“Understood.”
Now this one I’ve seen—or at least, clips.The Taming of the Shrewin a high school. The paintball scene. The bleachers. Heath Ledger singing on the stadium steps, which is one of the most genuinely charming things I’ve ever watched a human being do on film. It’s right up there with the dude holding the boombox over his head, serenading that girl from her bedroom window.
This is actually fun. A nice escape from the monotony of helplessness.
Somewhere during the second act, the geography of the couch shifts. It happens the way shorelines change—so gradually that you only notice when you look up and the landscape isdifferent. Celeste started in the far corner. Now she’s in the middle, her feet tucked under the throw blanket, her shoulder three inches from mine. I don’t remember either of us moving. But here we are.
“Can I tell you something?” she says during a quiet scene.
“Of course.”
Celeste looks at me. Her eyes are wet but she’s smiling. “Whitney would really like you.”
“I think I’d like her too.”
The credits roll. She doesn’t start another movie. I expect her to—the third pillar,Clueless, the completed trinity as she explained—but instead she just sits there, wrapped in her robe and the blanket and the quiet, looking at the dark screen like she’s watching something the rest of us can’t see.
“One more?” I ask.
“I’d like to, but I am operating on approximately four percent battery.”
“Is that why you stopped chattering through the whole movie?” I tease.
“Yes, the commentary function has shut down to preserve core operations. Aren’t you tired?”
