Serpentine Walls (7 page)

“This is pretty much the same as when I did a film for it,” Matthew commented, scanning the paper. “Have you ever made a movie before?”

“No, but I’ve always wanted to. I mean, I messed around with a video camera in high school, did some totally ridiculous stuff starring my friends, but nothing beyond that.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot different. I take it you don’t have equipment?”

Equipment?
“Uh, no. Yeah, I guess I need some, um, maybe I could rent stuff or, like, borrow from the school?”

“No, that’s okay. I have all the equipment you need. I was just checking to see if you had any already.”

“You’d lend me your equipment?”

“Sure.” Matthew shrugged. “I’m not using it right now, so it’s just sitting around collecting dust. What’s your concept for what the film is going to be about?”

“Um, okay.” This was something Pete
had
thought about. “It’s about a guy who, for the whole film, is confined to his bed because he’s convalescing from a serious illness. It’s driving him crazy that he can’t go anywhere, but it’s forcing him to think about stuff. Um, and people from his life come to see him, and each visit is, like, you get a little more about this guy’s life through these visit sequences.”

He came to a halt, sure his idea was boring, but Matthew was listening intently.

“Hmm, okay, interesting. How old is the guy?”

“Early twenties.”

“And what’s the crisis or turning point or whatever?”

“It’s something about how this guy’s been running from the truth about himself and he’s gotten depressed and now sick, and he has to figure stuff out.”

“What truth is he running from?”

“That he’s gay. His dad is military and ultraconservative, and his family belongs to one of those fundamentalist Christian churches. He’s in love with his best friend, who’s straight. And he’s a writer and really creative, but he’s been going to business school to please his dad.” Pete stopped again, but at Matthew’s nod, he kept going. “And he’s practically engaged to this girl in his church who he’s dated for years. And he’s about to graduate from college, and get engaged, and start a business career, and that’s when he gets sick.”

“Wow.” Matthew gave him an encouraging smile. “Sounds interesting.”

“You think so?” Pete asked. “It doesn’t sound lame?”

“You know, I thought every story idea I ever had was totally lame at first. But they come alive when you film them. So far this is good because it’ll be simple to film if you’re going to confine the action to this guy in a bed, with people coming in to see him. But it runs the risk of being boring that way, and the whole burden is on the dialogue. Unless you plan to show the backstory through flashbacks.”

“Hmm. Flashbacks would be more interesting. I also have this idea for, like, a dream sequence or fantasy sequence where a mythical figure or creature or something comes and tells him to stop fucking up his life.”

“Cool. Archetypes and all that good stuff. So, have you written this up?”

“Well, no. Not fully.”
Or at all, but jeez, I just decided to do it.

“Okay. Start writing your screenplay, and then let’s get together again and begin to visualize how this is going to look on film. I’ve got a good screenwriting guide I can e-mail you.”

“That’d be great. Thanks for helping me out on this.”

“No problem. How are your classes looking for this year?”

“Good. I’m pretty psyched about the program I’ve come up with.”

“Program?”

“Um, yeah. I’m an Echols Scholar.”

“Are you?” Matthew leaned forward. “I’m impressed.”

Pete shrugged. “Well, maybe you should wait until I do something impressive first.”

“Stop being modest. Getting selected as an Echols Scholar is already impressive enough. So what are you doing with your major?”

“Well, I’ve decided I want to focus on nineteenth-century literature and explore how the themes of that period are expressed in modern art, music, and film. That way I get to take all the courses I’m interested in, since I’m pretty much a humanities whore.”

“A ‘humanities whore’?” Matthew laughed. “I like that! So am I. Do you have a working thesis yet?”

“No, Dr. Burton is my advisor, and we’re going to get that fleshed out this semester. I still have next year to write my thesis.”

“Well, let me know if you need any help with the modern art and modern film stuff. I’m pretty good on that.”

“Okay.” Pete took a sip of his drink to hide the goofy smile that had spread over his face at the prospect of Matthew helping him so much this year.

“So what classes are you taking this semester?” Matthew asked.

“Film Aesthetics with Professor R. Music and Discourse of the Twentieth Century with Millgrove. Nineteenth-Century Lit—the graduate-level one—with Cantwell. Thesis prep with Burton. Oh, and singing in University Singers.”

Matthew whistled. “That’s quite a load. You sure you’ll have time to make a movie too?”

“Sure. Piece of cake. As long as you and Parker don’t have parties every night. I still haven’t recovered from the last one.”

“Really?” Matthew’s face creased with concern as he looked Pete over, presumably for ailments.

“Yeah,” Pete said, deadpan. “That karaoke totally took it out of me.”

Matthew’s concern turned into laughter. “Jerk. You had me going for a minute.”

“How about you?” Pete asked, enjoying the crinkles around Matthew’s eyes when he smiled. “Cleo said you’re a graduate student?”

“Yes, I am. What can I say? I liked this place so much I couldn’t tear myself away.”

“That’s good,” Pete said without thinking.

“It is?”

“Yeah, because if you’d left after fourth year, I never would have met you.” He realized belatedly how suggestive that sounded, and felt himself blush.

Matthew looked pleased, though, and the color rose in his cheeks as he said, “You have a point there, Mr. Morgan.” He took a sip of his Americano. “Anyway, I’m doing a doctorate in the history of art and architecture. It’s a very cool program, but I’ve got a huge interim thesis due this year because I’m at the halfway mark, which is where I get my master’s en route to my doctorate.”

“Sounds scary, man. Also, impressive.”

“Ha, well, like you, let’s wait until I do something impressive first. And I’m not scared yet, but if you see me in May and I’m bald, it means I’ve torn all my hair out trying to finish the damn thing.”

Pete leaned closer, about to ask him more, when Matthew’s phone sounded.

“Oops, there’s my alarm. I wish I could stay longer, but I’ve got a TA advisory session in a few.”

“No problem. Listen, man, thanks again for helping me out on this, especially now that I know how busy you are.”

Matthew had stood up by now and was putting his laptop and books into his bag. He stopped and shot Pete a dazzling smile. “Are you kidding? We’re going to have all kinds of fun.”

God, you’re gorgeous
. Pete caught his breath. “Okay. Yeah.”

Even though he’d said he had to go, Matthew lingered by the table. “When do you want to get together again?”

How about tonight?
Pete thought but said instead, “Um, how about I text you when I’ve gotten a first draft done on the screenplay?”

“Sure. And let me know if you get stuck. I could help you toss some ideas around.”

“Okay.”

“Adios, amigo.” Matthew gave him a salute and strode out of the bagel shop.

Pete watched him go, a small smile on his face.

“I’
M
BORED
.”

Angie’s voice intruded on Pete’s attempt at writing his screenplay, but he was stuck anyway. He closed his laptop and stretched.

“So, what d’you wanna do? Saturday night in the land of Wahoo—things must be hopping.”

“I don’t know.” Angie gazed at her fingernails. “I don’t like this color after all. Have you heard of any parties?”

“No.” He picked up his guitar, strummed a chord, and started tuning the strings. “I know! We can unpack more boxes!”

“Oh, fun.”

Angie’s glum tone had him peering at her. “What’s up with you, Sunshine?”

She sighed. “Nothing. I’m already done with my homework. I just want something to happen. I’m tired of this life.”

Pete picked out a melancholy melody. “So soon? We’ve only been back to school a couple of weeks. Why don’t you give Brian a call?”

“No, thanks. It’s all the same old thing. And this is the year that things are going to change for us. I just know it.” She wandered over to the refrigerator and inspected the contents. “Like you getting together with Aidan the very first night.”

“Yeah, that was different. No big deal, though.”

“No big deal? Sure. You’re only dating your dream crush.”

“I haven’t—I mean, we’re not ‘dating.’”

“He invited you to be in that singing thingy, didn’t he?”

“Singing thingy? Octet.”

Pete hadn’t heard from Aidan since their hookup. He had been excited when he ran into him in the bookstore after Professor R’s first class, and Aidan had invited him to join a men’s octet he was organizing for U. Singers. But while Aidan had been friendly during the brief meeting to get the octet going, he’d left afterward with a few of his theater buddies without another word to Pete.

Throwing down his guitar, Pete decided for the tenth time to forget about Aidan—and his lips, his hands, the way his cock—

“Pete!”

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Forget it. Let’s go out somewhere tonight.”

Before Pete could answer, a loud
bam!
sounded at the door. Angie ran over and opened it; Bud stood on the other side, grinning. He wore a T-shirt that said “Rugby Players Have Leather Balls” and his usual baseball cap turned backward.

“Ready, guys?”

“Ready for what?” Angie asked.

Bud stared at them. “For the frat party!” He scowled at Pete. “Didn’t ya tell her?”

“About a frat party?”

“Duh, bro. I texted you, remember?”

Kind of remembering a text from Bud yesterday that he hadn’t paid much attention to, Pete stared at him with disbelief. “Really? You want us to come to a party at SAE?”

Angie laughed.

“Hey, guys, I know you’re not into frats, but I thought you’d like some free booze and some dancing. Yeah!” Bud hopped around in a semblance of a dance that made him look like a spastic frog.

“Well, Ang?” Pete ignored Bud’s flailing to focus on her. “Should we go to a frat party? You said you wanted something different to happen. It’s either that or Brian.”

“Oh God. Might as well.”

Bud did a fist pump. “Yesss!”

She turned and pointed a finger at him. “Just don’t get any ideas.”

“Me? Ideas?” Bud asked, all innocence.

“Yeah,” Pete said. “You and the rest of your cretin frat brothers keep your hands off.” He said to Angie, “Remind me why we’re going to this again?”

“Nothing else to do. I’m going to go get changed.”

Bud grinned. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.” Angie socked him in the arm. “Ouch!” He watched her vanish down the hallway to her bedroom, rubbing his arm. “Damn, girl’s strong. That’s hot.”

P
ETE
stood clutching a red plastic cup full of some deadly concoction involving grain alcohol and watched Angie and Bud dance. He could feel the thump of the bass all the way through his body. The frat house living room had high ceilings and wood floors and was jammed with people, most of them U.Va. students known at school as “the preppies,” sorority and fraternity types and jocks, and probably not another gay guy in the place.

Bud had introduced them to some fellow rugby team players and a couple of his fraternity brothers, but Pete had soon abandoned any attempt at conversation. The noise level was unreal. Instead, he’d been drinking. He could barely taste the alcohol in this grain punch, although Bud had warned him it was pretty lethal. Maybe it was, because Pete couldn’t recall how many cups of it he’d drunk. When the music changed, Angie joined him, reaching for his drink and taking a sip.

“Ew, this stuff is awful,” she said, making a face. “Let’s get out of here before I have to dance with Bud again.”

“Gladly.”

As they left, one of the rugby team guys whom Pete had talked to briefly gave them a wave, and Pete nodded back at him.

“Who was that?” Angie asked.

“No idea.”

The sidewalks were almost as crowded as the frat house, especially when they got to Rugby Road. Groups of drunken revelers walked along, hooting and weaving and being generally obnoxious.

“Want to go to The Virginian? I need something to eat.”

“Sure,” Pete said. A moment later, he tripped over a rough patch on the sidewalk, almost knocking into someone walking toward them in a group of partiers.

“Watch where you’re going, faggot!” one of the guys called out amid a swell of drunken laughter.

“Fuck off!” Angie yelled back, steadying Pete with a hand on his arm.

“Calm down,” Pete said, not interested in engaging with homophobic assholes tonight.

“No. Nobody gets to call you that,” Angie said fiercely, then peered at him. “How much of that grain punch did you have?”

“I—crap, I can’t remember now.” He felt dizzy, and way drunker than he had been at the party.

“Hmm. Why don’t we go back to the apartment? I’m not sure you’re going to make it to the Corner at this rate.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Angie hooked her arm around his waist while he rested his over her shoulder, and they did an about-face, pushing their way through the crowd and ignoring the wolf whistles and catcalls from the bozo frat guys. Pete concentrated on staying on his feet. The warm, almost suffocating air wasn’t helping him feel any more sober.

“Ang?”

“Yeah?”

“No more frat parties.”

“No kidding.”

“I wanna go to Matthew’s again for a party,” Pete said, remembering him and Aidan sitting on the quiet screen porch, watching fireflies. “That was bitchin’.”

“Yeah, and more our kind of crowd. I hope he has another one.”

They turned down their street, which was blessedly free of loud, partying throngs, and made it to their apartment building. Once inside, Angie steered Pete to the couch.