me.â
Thomas stops chewing on his popcorn. His eyes are grilling me on whether Iâm being serious or not before he busts out laughing so hard he almost chokes. I sit down in the back row, and he collapses into the seat next to mine as his laugh winds down.
I flip him off. âDonât act like youâve never been freaked out by something ridiculous.â
âNo, I definitely have. I used to bother my mother when I was a kid, maybe nine or ten, to let me watch horror movies, especially slasher flicks.â
âProbably not the best thing to say to someone afraid of having his throat sliced.â
âShut up. So my mother finally gave in one evening and let me watch Scream . I was scared shitless and was up until five in the morning. Ma always encouraged me to count sheep when I couldnât sleep but it only made things worse. I was counting sheep that night and every time they hopped over the fence . . . â Dramatic pause. âThe Scream guy would stab each of them and they would fall down, bloody and dead.â
I laugh so loudly other people shush me, even though previews havenât started yet, and itâs hard to stop. âYou are so disturbed! How long did this go on for?â
âNever stopped.â Thomas screeches and mimes someone getting stabbed. The previews come on and we shut up.
Thereâs a rom-com, Next Stop: Love , which is about a train conductor crushing on this new attendant; a typical horror movie where creepy little girls appear after someone turns a corner; a miniseries called Donât You Forget About Me about a husband trying to convince his wife not to forget him with a Leteo procedure; and, finally, a comedy about four postgrad guys on a cruise ship that doesnât look funny at all.
âThose all looked terrible,â I say.
Thomas leans over and says, âI will slice your throat if you talk during the movie.â
This movie is total bullshit.
Itâs supposed to be funny and the only thing Iâm laughing at is how the studio managed to disguise an uncomfortably dark movie as a summer comedy.
Itâs about a guy named Chase who strikes up a conversation with some cute girl on the train about where sheâs going. She tells him, âSomewhere good.â He digs deeper but she doesnât respond. She leaves her phone on the train, and Chase chases (sigh) after her to return it, but itâs too late, so he goes through her phone and discovers a bucket list of things she wants to do before ending her life.
By this point, Thomas has fallen asleep. I should probably do the same thing, but I hope it gets better . . . and it never does. Near the end, Chase pieces together sheâs going to kill herself at the pier and when he finally gets there heâs greeted by the blinding red-and-blue siren lights of police cars. He smashes the phone.
I want to smash something, too.
My recap to Thomas when he wakes up: âBullshit, bullshit, bullshit.â
He stretches and yawns. âYour throat looks fine, though,â he says.
I sort of, kind of, definitely like summer in my neighborhood: girls chalking hopscotch; guys playing card games under whatever shade they can find; friends blasting their stereos; shooting shit on the stoops. And while my apartment is small, itâs moments like these that make those walls feel bigger than they are.
I point to the red hospital across the street. âMy mother works over there and manages to be twenty minutes late every morning.â Down the block is the post office. âAnd my father used to be a security guard there.â Maybe all that time alone with his thoughts was where he went wrong.
The fire hydrant on the corner has been wrenched open. The screaming kids remind me of all the times we filled up buckets and spilled water all over the playground, throwing ourselves down the wet slides since we couldnât afford to go to an actual water park.
âI donât
Matthew Woodring Stover; George Lucas