“Angelina Jolie,” he counters, turning this into a challenge.
I wrack my brain. The problem is, I can think ofseveralactress-directors. Greta Gerwig. Olivia Wilde. Regina King. I just don’t think any of them were directing in 2012.
And then it comes to me—duh. “Lena Dunham.”
“Jodie Foster.”
“Jodie Foster’s directed stuff?” I ask, shocked. Again, Iknow. But in 2012?
“Oh yeah.Little Man Tate, 1991.Home for the Holidaysin ’95. Classics.”
“Drew Barrymore,” I offer, hoping beyond hope that he doesn’t have anyone else. Despite the fact that this started as lighthearted small talk, I have an overwhelming need towin.
He turns to me, confused, and I shoot him a smug smile in return.
“She directs?” he asks.
I nod. “The beloved classicWhip It.”
“The one about Roller Derby?”
“The very same.”
“Huh. I did not know that.” He nods in a way that tells me he’s filingthis information away in his brain for later use. “Looks like you win. I mean, I can think of plenty actor-directors. Clint Eastwood. Ben Stiller. Danny DeVito—”
I cut him off. “Nope, sorry. That wasn’t the assignment. I win.”
“What would you like your prize to be?”
I pretend to think about it, then say, “You’ll walk me to acting?”
“I thought that was a given. What a waste of a prize… and you could’ve asked foranything.”
I laugh as he holds a door open for me to exit the building, trying not to notice how our bodies brush as I pass him. Sitting next to Alex in Intro to Film wasfun. He’d whispered comments on the lecture to me, and when Professor Cuellar shot him a stern look, he switched to making faces. It felt like we’d spent as much time looking at each other and trying not to laugh as we had paying attention.
I think of the way I dated in adulthood: Meaningless hookups orchestrated via dating apps, occasionally leading to flings that fizzled out over the course of months or even weeks, until the inevitable day I got sick of it all and deleted the apps, swearing off men until enough time passed that I got tired of being lonely and restarted the cycle.
I forgot how nice it is to just have acrush. An innocent, butterflies-in-the-stomach crush.
How electrifying it is to lock eyes with your crush in the middle of class.
How empowering it is to know that your crush is mutual.
It’s not the same as dating someone. Although I’ve always longed for the comfort of a stable, rock-solid relationship, there’s something magical about the pre-dating phase. The mutual crush. The anticipation and excitement are their own kinds of drugs.
We walk in silence for a few moments, and I glance up and take him in. He walks with an easygoing swagger, and maybe I’m biased becauseof my knowledge of things to come, but he just exudes confidence, hinting at the inevitability of his success.
But something is off. I know that memories warp and change over time, but the Alex I’m with here and now is so different from the Alex I remember at this age—or near this age, since I didn’t meet him until sophomore year the first time around.
No matter how hard I focus, I can’t figure out what the difference is. Maybe my own perception of him has changed because of all I know, a bias I couldn’t escape if I tried. If I’m honest, when I first met him, I thought he was a bit strange. Kind of pretentious, a little distant. Nothing to write home about or anything, just… not what he ended up becoming. But also not the endearing boy walking next to me.
Did something happen freshman year to transform him into the guy I remember?
Alex glances over and catches me observing him. I can tell from the tilt of his mouth that he’s pleased by my attention.
“So we got film, we got acting. What else did you sign up for?”
I rattle on about my other classes, answering all his questions; he seems particularly fascinated by archaeology and confused about Two-Dimensional Design.
