It felt good to open up to Noah. He was a good listener—not that I gave him much choice.
“This is just between you and me,” I said. “And Greta, of course. But I haven’t told anyone else. I don’t want to hear, ‘better luck next time,’ or ‘there will be other festivals.’ You understand?
“And, if by some miracle the film is accepted, well the festival’s in LA, as in Los Angeles, as in California, as in there’s no way in hell my parents are going to let me get on a plane and fly all the way to California.
“Of course, I wouldn’t have to tell them. I could just sneak off.”
This didn’t get the reaction from Noah I’d expected. He didn’t dismiss my comment as a joke or, worse, remind me of the dangers. Instead, he seemed to genuinely consider what I was saying. Of course, I was capable of sneaking away. I’d done it before. I ended up in a coma for seven hours, and Greta has been riddled with guilt ever since, but I did sneak off. And this time, it would be to attend a film festival featuring a film I’d made and not to attend some stupid high school party at a guy’s house I didn’t even like.
I handed Noah a cleaned plate, but I didn’t let go, not straight away. I fixed my eyes on his. He held my gaze. We held on to the plate together. “I’m serious, you know?”
He nodded. “I know.”
“You wouldn’t try to stop me?”
He seemed to reflect on the question a moment before shaking his head. “No, I’d go with you.”
“You would?”
“Of course, I would.”
I was surprised, but I saw from his expression that he meant what he had said.
I think that moment there was the first time in my life, at least since I’d talked Greta into taking me to that ill-fated party, that someone didn’t try to stop me from taking a risk. He wasn’t daring me or goading me or even tempting me. He just knew there were some things I simply had to do. He understood. It was such a moment that I threw my arms around him and gave him a big hug. Fortunately, he didn’t let go of the plate.
“That’s if the film is accepted,” I said as I pulled away and regained my composure. “I should know soon enough.”
“I’m excited for you,” he said. “Nervous, too. But excited.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” he said, and I knew that it was.
We finished cleaning up far too quickly. I took in a deep breath. “Well, I’m off to find out my fate.”
“Can I stop in a bit later?” he asked. “I’ve got to know.”
“Sure. But alone. Not with Guillermo.”
When I entered my room, I saw that I had a message waiting for me in my inbox, but I still wasn’t prepared to read it. Instead, I changed into my most comfortable, form-fitting exercise gear and did a short but effective yoga session. Then I was calm; I was collected; I was ready.
Dear Bonita Rose Morales,
We would like to thank you for submitting your work for the Los Angeles Independent Film Festival. After careful consideration, we regret to inform you that, while we find your work compelling and it clearly demonstrates talent and promise, we simply don’t have a spot for it in our program.
We received over a thousand submissions, and we can only accept a few. Please understand that this choice is largely subjective and does not reflect any lack of quality in your work.
We hope you will continue to create, and please do consider submitting to us in the future.
Regards,
Natalie Dorsel
Head of the Selection Committee
I was disappointed, of course, but I wasn’t crushed. I read and re-read the last line over and over again: “continue to create, and please do consider submitting to us in the future.” The more I read, the better I felt. I think it was the word “future” that helped me shake off the disappointment so quickly. I did have a future, and I would continue to create. Of that, I was sure.
I closed my inbox, and there in its place was the photo I’d been looking at before lunch: Sasha Snow. I touched my finger to the screen. “I bet you had a few rejections in your day before you finally got your big break. Isn’t that right, Sasha.”
In spooky, uncanny timing, my phone rang. I nearly jumped off my seat. As if Sasha had heard my question and was calling me to answer.
It wasn’t Sasha, of course. It was Greta.
“Have they emailed yet?”
“Hello, Greta. I’m doing fine, thanks.”
“Cut the ‘I’m doing fine crap.’ Have they emailed yet?”
“They have.”
“And?”
“Please try again next year.” I had to pull the phone from my ear. I was in no mood to hear her condolences. There was nothing to be sorry for. I had a future, and I would continue to create. All was well.