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Wade has taken a strange obsession with Ozzy that goes far beyond following his boss’ orders. He snipes at Ozzy constantly, shoulder-checking him every time they pass. They’ve almost come to blows a dozen times, held back only by the presence of teachers or staff.
Wade mocks Ozzy’s height, his looks, his accent, his family, and his interests. Ozzy seems unable to shrug it off as he usually would, maybe because Wade is tall and blond and good-looking, the epitome of what Ozzy believes Chay would prefer.
Ozzy and Chay are still hooking up. I don’t know if it’s good for him. He looks sick every time he sees her chatting with some other guy, laughing and smiling up at them in her usual flirtatious way. His feelings for her deepen by the day, but it doesn’t seem to be reciprocated, and it’s driving him mad.
The tension eats at me, the secrecy and the strain to find some way out of this. The conflict with Rocco feels like a rubber band stretched to its furthest limit. There’s no doubt it will snap. The only question is when.
My only relief is sneaking out to see Zoe.
It’s not just for sex. I love that part of it, of course, but more than anything I want the freedom to talk to her, fully and openly, without anyone listening.
I’ve read through her whole script now, and I think it’s brilliant. She has an incredible way with words. She reminds me of Aaron Sorkin or Greta Gerwig, in that her characters are wildly articulate and bold in speaking their minds.
It gives me a look at what Zoe herself would be like, without fear of threats or spies or reprisals.
She’s working on the ending. Sometimes she asks me for ideas, and I try to give suggestions, even though I don’t know fuck-all about writing. Sometimes we even perform little bits of it, laughing at how awful we both are at acting.
I’ve never done anything creative before. I think of myself as a facilitator, not an artist. It surprises me how enjoyable it is to map out conflict and resolution within a fictional frame, where the stakes are low and Zoe and I are gods of that world, able to orchestrate events exactly as we want them.
We work well together, Zoe and me.
She’s laying in my lap one Sunday afternoon, on the green couch, which I’ve returned to the stables so Anna can have her ballet space clear again. I’m playing with Zoe’s hair, gently combing through the long, black, silky strands with my fingers. She has her notebook propped up on her knees so she can add to it while we talk.
“Should the ending be tragic?” she says. “Or happy?”
“Happy, of course.”
“But the whole point all along has been that seeing the future doesn’t allow you to alter it. It’s a paradox—what you’re seeing isn’t actually the future, if you can change it.”
“I know. But nobody likes tragic endings.”
“Romeo and Juliet would beg to differ,” Zoe teases me. “Or Titanic.”
“The end of Titanic is Jack and Rose reunited.”
“In death.”
“It’s emotional catharsis all the same. You have to give the audience what they want.”
“So . . . you think that once our protagonist realizes the nature of her visions, that should give her power over the outcomes. She learns how to manipulate the system. Like inThe Matrix.”
“Maybe,” I say. “I guess my point is that I don’t believe in no-win scenarios.”
“There’s always an out?” Zoe says, looking up at me.
“Yes.” I nod. “You just have to be clever enough to find it.”
Zoe sits up, the dark curtains of her hair falling around her shoulders, soft and shining from my grooming.
She looks at me with those beautiful eyes, pale green with thick black lashes all around. Whenever she looks at me like this, straight on, our faces only inches apart, I’m struck by how lovely she is. Impossibly lovely. A kind of beauty that only increases the closer you examine it.
“What’s our out?” she asks me.
“I’m working on it,” I say.
“I know you are. I want you to tell me. I want to help you, like you’ve helped me with the script. I want to work on it together.”
I consider this, not unwilling but surprised.
