It’s there that Craig’s eyes are glued right now. I’m wearing a loose blue T-shirt and a flowing, floor-length gray skirt. Completely conservative. No skin shows but my arms and a slim rim above the high scoop neck of my shirt. Even still, Craig can’t take his eyes off my chest. I’m suddenly irritated by this. But then he closes in with another step, and he’s close enough that I can smell the beer on his breath and see the lust in his eyes.
“Come on, Grey, show me how you dance.” He puts his hands on my hips, low, and grinds against me.
I’m frozen, because no one has ever touched me like this. Should I react? Part of me likes it, but that part is sinful. The lustful sinner in me likes it.
With a sharp intake of breath, I yank myself out of his grip. “I don’t think so, Craig.”
He just laughs, as if I’m playing a game. Following me so his body is hard against me, he doesn’t let an inch between us, Before I know what’s going on, his mouth is on mine, sour beer breath and faint body odor. It’s a split second of contact, but I’m revolted. I push him away and stumble backward, then slap him, hard. I don’t bother speaking, but storm into the house, closing the sliding glass of the patio door behind me.
Through an open window, I hear Devin’s voice calling out from the yard. “She ain’t like that, Craig. You can’t pull that shit with Grey Amundsen. Don’t you know who her father is?”
“Who? Should I know?” I hear him reply.
“Erik Amundsen. Pastor of Macon Contemporary Baptist Church.”
“Isn’t that the huge church out off of seventy-five?”
“Yeah. That’s her father. She’s a pastor’s daughter, C. She ain’t the kind of girl that’s gonna make out with you at a party. So forget it. Forget her.”
“Sucks,” Craig mutters. “She’s hot as hell.”
“Well, she’s off-limits. Go hit on Amanda.”
Craig laughs. “Yeah, right. Every guy in Macon under the age of twenty-five has banged Amanda. I don’t want on that train.”
Devin laughs with him. “Which means she’s a sure bet, don’t it?”
“Sure bet for herpes, you mean.” I hear a shift in Craig’s voice. “What about you, Dev? What kind of girl are you?”
Devin doesn’t answer right away. I can’t believe she’d fall for a tactic like that, but her voice is low and breathy. “Get me another drink, and you surely just might find out.”
I retreat into the house, not wanting to hear anymore.
I skip the next party Devin throws, and I think she gets it. The exchange runs through my head for the rest of the summer, though. I’m the girl who’s off-limits. I’m the pastor’s daughter. I’m not off-limits because they respect my beliefs on marriage, or because of who I am, but because of Daddy. Devin was right that I’m not that kind of girl, but that doesn’t mean I entirely minded Craig’s advances—at least, until he assaulted me with his mouth. I liked feeling desired.
* * *
I’ve taken a lot of AP classes my first three years of high school, so my senior year schedule has some large open blocks where I can take electives. I’m trying to choose some classes that interest me, but there’s nothing. I’ve already taken photography, theater, journalism and the dance elective. I don’t want to repeat any of them except maybe the theater class. It was fun getting up on stage, pretending, and acting. It was even more fun watching the others. We even got to each direct our own scene, and that was where I shone.
I settle on an introduction to film class, taught by Mr. Rokowski, who had worked in Hollywood as a cameraman for most of his life before retiring to Macon with his wife. He’s a short man with a round belly and long gray hair bound back in a ponytail.
The semester flies by. Most of my classes are boring, hard but dull. All except film. We watch movies, dissect them, talk about cinematography, camera angles, the reason for a dozen takes for every scene. Something about the process hooks me. Hearing Mr. Rokowski talk about being behind the camera for movies like Ghost and Dirty Dancing, being a part of making something so lasting, so iconic…I love it, I love every story he tells. I drink in the films. I love to see the different things a film can make you feel, just by the music in the background or the angle of a close-up, or how a shot sweeps from one place to another. It’s manipulation of light and sound and emotion. Each film is a piece of magic. It’s just like dance for me. When I dance, I lose myself. I can be anyone, do anything. I can say what I think, what I feel. With films, I can get lost in another world, in the lives of other people with problems different from mine.
At the end of the last day of the semester, Mr. Rokowski pulls me aside. “Grey, I just wanted to say what a pleasure it was to have you in class this semester. Every once in a while, this class ignites something in a student, and those are the moments I live for. I teach film because it’s what I know and what I love, but when I’m able to show a student the magic in films, that’s the best part.” He pulls a brochure from his briefcase. “I teach at The Film Connection. It’s a film institute with a branch here in Macon. It’s an awesome program that really teaches you the ins and outs of the industry. You go through the process of producing your own film, and it even connects you to execs in Hollywood. I think you might be a great candidate for the program. It’s something to think about. You could possibly even get in as a co-op. I could make the recommendation for you.”
I feel something like hope blossom inside me. “It’s a real film institute?”
“Absolutely. It’s a great way to get experience and make some contacts in the industry.”
“I’d learn how to really make a film? Like, for real?” I want it so bad I can taste it, until I remember Daddy. “My father wouldn’t let me,” I hear myself telling Mr. Rokowski.
“Why not?”
I shrug, not wanting to have to explain. “He’s…very strict. He doesn’t approve of Hollywood.”
“But if it’s what you want? I mean, what if you get a scholarship? It’s entirely possible. I know people. You really showed a passion for film this semester, Grey. I think you could really go places.”
I shake my head. “I’ll think about it. I’d like to, I really would. But…I just know Daddy.”
Mr. Rokowski wipes his face with his hand, his brown eyes glancing at me and then away. “Your relationship with your father is your business. Just think about it, okay? I’d hate to see talent go to waste.”