Page 55 of Past Present Future

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At any given time, there is a limit-does-not-exist number of student films in production at Emerson. Flyers and online notices are always asking for extras, and that’s how I end up in an old warehouse in Charlestown one Saturday afternoon, clad in a yellow unitard with aluminum scales pasted to my back, green paint covering my face.

“Planet Dread, take twenty-seven,” calls out Leilani, a freshman with long braids and red cat-eye glasses. She settles into a makeshift director’s chair, a threadbare love seat probably destined for the dump. “And… action.”

My fellow snakes and I lie flat on the ground, arms clasped above our heads. We’re supposed to be slithering, which sounds a lot easier in theory than it is in practice. More than once, Leilani had to call “cut” because someone was crawling instead of slithering, so she got down on her belly to show us how we could scoot ourselves around on our toes and forearms. The flyer for this particular film failed to mention it would involve a killer core workout—my abs are already protesting.

Kait emerges from behind a tower of cardboard boxes, motioning for someone else to follow behind her. Then, in a grave voice, she says, “I don’t think we’re in the right place.”

Another actor enters the frame, stroking a fake beard and looking deeply concerned. “That’s the thing,” he says, gazing around the warehouse. “It’s the right place, but the snakes have made it uninhabitable for humans. Twenty years ago, this was a city. A civilization. And now—”

We hiss.

“And now it belongs to them.” Kait reaches into her holster, pulling out a prop axe, which she brandishes like a baseball bat. “And they’re not going to let us take it back without a fight.”

“Cut!” Leilani says from behind the camera, and the dozen of us on the ground heave a collective, pained sigh of relief. “Amazing job,” she says, giving Kait a sweet smile. “Space snakes, great slithering.”

We break for some water while Leilani and a couple of her friends reset the scene. I’ve already made the mistake of referring to Leilani as Kait’s girlfriend. We’re just hanging out, Kait said when I asked. I’m not eager to get into another relationship right away.

Maybe the best part about this film is that it’s reminded me of all the creativity on campus that exists outside my major. Actors and directors and painters and comedians and musicians and designers, all of us yearning to make art out of nothing. There is something about seeing others so immersed in their art that makes me want to get lost in mine, that undeniable contagious spark. The reason I was drawn to Emerson in the first place. When you have that desire deep in your bones, you can’t simply shut it off. Even during a drought, it’s always there, waiting to seize inspiration and weave it into something beautiful.

Maybe I never had to be tortured—just inspired. Because even if this movie, a snake-based sci-fi epic meant to be a parable for climate change, isn’t going to win any awards, it’s been a ridiculous amount of fun. Leilani is no-nonsense and knows exactly what she wants, a trait that’s easy to admire, and the costume-design majors glued scales to our snake outfits with utmost care.

Sure, it’s not high art, but none of these people are giving it any less than their full attention and love. And that makes it feel that way.

Leilani asks for one more take, promising “I think we really got it that time!” before we do it three more times.

When I get back to my dorm, stomach muscles aching, I don’t rush to scrub off all the green paint. Not yet. My mind is whirring, fingertips itching to create. I peel off my unitard, flexing my hands before sitting in my desk chair. Microsoft Word will not send me into a panic spiral this time. Somehow, I’m sure of it.

The first few sentences are buttery smooth, just as lovely on the page as they are in my head. An auspicious start. For this assignment, Professor Everett brought a sack of mystery objects to class and asked us each to pick one. “Your character cries when they see this,” she said. “Why?” My object: a bright purple finger trap.

Paulina’s gone, so it’s just me and my laptop and the soft hum of the radiator. While I assumed our Dunkin’ adventure would bring us closer, that hasn’t happened yet. We exchange pleasant small talk when we’re in the room, but she still seems perpetually frazzled, always on her way out the door. I use that as inspiration, crafting a character who never stays put long enough to build strong connections with anyone.

One night she meets a charming guy at a carnival, both of them having been ditched by their friends, and she’s so miserable at every game that all she manages to win is a cheap finger trap. The two of them gamely stick their index fingers inside, joke that now they’re bound forever. After a magical night together, she fears he’s getting too close and pulls away. Deletes his number. Ten years later, she runs into him the night before she’s about to be married to someone she doesn’t truly love—and because he’s been hoping he’ll see her again one day, he still has the finger trap. Cue tears.

I tinker. I nudge. I search for the right words, massaging my phrasing until the prose reads exactly the way I want it to, soft and romantic and threaded with nostalgia.

I don’t break until my phone pings with a text from Kait, reminding me that we had plans to crash an MIT party later and asking if I want to get ready together. I give my work a quick reread, save, and send it off to Professor Everett.

Then I allow myself to smile, drawing in the first deep breath I’ve taken in the past hour.

It takes far too long to scrub off all the green paint, even with Kait’s help. In the eighth-floor bathroom, we apply eyeliner and mascara, try on a couple outfits before landing on the right one. We’ll meet Leilani there, along with a few other kids from the shoot.

All of it brings me back to getting ready for high school dances with Kirby and Mara. Watching them sneak glances before they knew they liked each other, Mara seeming to go catatonic while Kirby lined her lips with a deep red. Mara asking us to pause in the middle of pinning up our hair so she could get a photo that looked candid, the two of us dramatically moving our hands in slow motion. I’m hit with a pang of homesickness and longing—because I never realized, back then, that those kinds of experiences were finite. I just assumed I had all the time in the world to get ready for school dances, that the hour we spent huddled around the mirror was only a precursor to something grander when it was usually much better than the dance itself.

“A picture for your boyfriend?” Kait asks now, holding out her hand. “Because you look gorge.”

“It’s just because I’m not space-snake chic anymore,” I say, but I finger-comb my dark waves one more time before she snaps a photo. One for Neil, and then one of the two of us together.

It’s not the same as it was in high school, but it’s not terrible, either.

The Emerson party scene mostly consists of partying at Boston’s other, bigger schools—Harvard, BU, MIT. MIT is a few stops on the red line away in Cambridge, its campus spread along the Charles River, and the frat house is a quaint brick building a block from the water. Having spent the past four years as an AP kid, I already know that nerds can go hard, and that’s exactly how it appears when we step inside.

The lights are dimmed, music blasting, floor littered with SOLO cups. Kait makes herself at home in the kitchen, pouring us each a shot of vodka. Deciding not to overthink it, I toss it back.

“Ughhhhh, that’s awful.”

“Welcome to college,” Kait says with a wince. “No one can afford the good stuff.”

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