Page 21 of The Second Chance Cinema
“Umm,” Ellie started.
“When you go in there”—Natalie pointed to the auditorium— “you’re only going to see cinematic parts of your lives. Things worthy of a big screen. For the two of you, that’s ten tickets. For some people it’s longer. Or shorter. Each movie is bound together by a theme, something like—”
“Babies,” Ellie filled in. “That’s the one we saw the other night.”
“Exactly,” Natalie replied, moving them to finish their ascent up the stairs.
With a little push, Natalie guided them inside the open doors of the balcony entrance. They had missed this second level of seatingon their first visit. “This right here is the best spot in the house,” she said. Ellie agreed. It felt more intimate than the rows down below. She liked being high up, slightly removed from the action. “Here’s all you need to know,” Natalie explained. “You want to watch the movie? You enter the auditorium where we are now. If you want to stop the movie and go to the bathroom, you exit to the lobby.” Natalie pointed to the entrance line that separated the second-level lobby from the inside of the auditorium. “When you come back in, it’ll pick up where you left off. Make sense?”
“Is it safe?” Drake needed to know.
“Movies are only dangerous when you overthink them,” Natalie said.
“But back to my main question,” Drake pushed. “How does any of this actuallywork?” He held his hand up to Natalie like he was about to touch her to see if she was an apparition.
“I’m just the manager.” Natalie’s tone was light. “Look, the magic of cinema is that it’s supposed to leave you with questions,” she said. “Go with it. Enjoy the show.”
By the time Drake turned around to protest—and before either of them could ask her about the beach—Natalie was gone.
As soon as they found their seats, the cartoon hot dogs started to do the Charleston. Once they took a bow, a title appeared over the screen.
TICKET TWO:SCHOOL
Drake looked about ten now, and the little girl crying in the front row of the classroom had a hold on him. No one else bothered to check on her after the bell rang. Kids bumped through the rows of desks, their shoes squealing past cardboard dioramas and bad volcano projects. Then, Drake and the girl were alone.
“My mom cries sometimes, too,” he said, pulling at the sleeves of his blue-striped shirt. “Usually about game shows. Seeingpeople bring home a new dishwasher makes her feel things.” The girl sniffled and rubbed the tears off her porcelain cheeks. “Do you want to eat lunch together, Sarah?”
“Sure,” Sarah said, gathering up an Everest of tissues.
At the cafeteria table farthest from the other kids, Sarah and Drake shared peanut butter sandwiches. Hers was messy, and Drake’s came inside a brown paper bag decorated by hand-drawn balloons. He offered Sarah a bite of his off-brand chips, but she waved them away. “It’s my clothes,” she admitted, prying open the lid on a milk carton. The straw dove in through the open diamond. She took a tiny sip.
“What is?”
Sarah did a facepalm. “My clothes are why nobody got me a gift for Valentine’s Day. They’re all hand-me-downs.” She gestured to her enormous overalls. A faded floral blouse was tucked into the sides of the denim. Most of the girls in their class had gotten gifts, she told him. There was something wrong with her.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Drake said. As quickly as he reached out to touch her shoulder, his hand jerked away. The gesture must have seemed too grown-up.
“Just look at Brittany Fields,” Sarah lamented. They turned to study an energetic blonde girl in a short tartan skirt and strappy silver tank top.
“I like your clothes,” Drake told her. Sarah took another swig of milk. “Boys are just dumb,” he said.
“You’re a boy,” Sarah reminded him.
“Well, what’s her name? The girl you need a gift for?” Drake’s mom rolled down the driver’s-side window and grabbed the cash canister from a long, clear bank tube. “Thank you,” she shouted through the speaker, slurping down the remnants of an Arnold Palmer inside a Styrofoam cup.
“It’s not foragirl,” Drake clarified in the passenger seat. “I need to buy a gift forallthe girls.”
“All right,” Beth told him with a wink. “As long as you can stick to the budget, kiddo.”
One of the benefits of shopping late for the holiday was that the Valentine’s gifts were already marked down at the store. Drake’s budget was enough for every girl in his class to receive a single rose and a small box of chocolates. At home on his bedroom floor, he strapped a rose to each box with some leftover twine from his mom’s crafting supplies.
The next day in class, he handed the boxes out. Crushes formed around the room as Drake moved through the rows. When he landed at Sarah’s desk, she mouthed, “Thanks.” A hand shot up at the back of the room.
“Yes, Billy?” the teacher asked.
“I just wanted to thank our class lover boy.” Billy wielded a slow-clap, revealing sweat-stained pits. “Bravo, lover boy.”
Lover boy. The word was flung like a boomerang around the classroom, into the halls, and became a chant.Lover boy! Hey, lover boy. Move it, lover boy!Drake ate his white-bread sandwich alone on the outskirts of the cafeteria. Sarah wouldn’t even sit with him that day, perhaps fearing the social implications of attaching herself to the newest class outcast.
