THE HEALTHY WAY
The first girl I kissed worked at the Healthy Way, a smoothie, salad, and sandwich spot in the food court of the Halifax Shopping Centre. I’d returned to Halifax from Toronto to finish high school, taking a beat from acting. Her name was Jessica, and she dressed in all black, her dark, short hair resembling that of Tegan and Sara, a new Canadian band on the scene. Being near her filled me with an anxious excitement. It wasn’t so much that I had a crush on her, but that I knew she was queer and I had to be near her because of this. I found myself seeking her out.
I’d ride my bike to the mall solo and order some kind of wrap, watching her hands as she made it. I’d awkwardly say hi, then lose my words, catching a small smile as she grabbed the pickles. I worked to hide mine. Finding an empty table, I’d sit down to eat and then promptly leave without a word, only there to see her and be near her queerness. When I arrived and she wasn’t working, there was a mixture of disappointment and relief. Was it a compulsion? I kept going back for those wraps.
Eventually, we hung out one-on-one. I assume Jessica asked me because I was terrified, so nervous I was shaking. The sun had set as we walked down Spring Garden Road toward the harbor, Lord only knows what I was talking about. We stopped just before Barrington Street in front of Saint Mary’s Cathedral Basilica, a prodigious stone church that has the tallest granite spire in North America.
She turned around and we stared at each other. We stood close. The Gothic steeple loomed. Silence. She kissed me.
When our lips touched, I short-circuited, the elasticity of my brain not yet able to bend around what was happening. I jerked back, separating my body from hers. My breath became shallow.
“I have to go,” I said, “I’m so sorry…”
I made a ridiculously obvious excuse.
“Oh, okay,” she said. And I promptly fled the scene.
I literally ran away from my first kiss with a girl. Still today I cringe when I think of that moment. I’d been the one going to the food court day after day, watching her carefully place pickles on my sandwich, yet a single kiss made me disintegrate. I left her standing there alone at the foot of the basilica steps. Despite not being religious at all, a small part of me wondered if God had seen. If I had sinned.
Later in the year, after many months of awkward silence and no sandwiches, I went to a party at a classmate’s house. Teenagers crowded into the space, drinking and dancing. I saw Jessica. I was buzzed and determined not to be a coward this time. We sat down in the same large chair in the corner of the living room. A big yellow Lab kept coming to say hi. Something was different. I was different. I didn’t crumble or shake. And this time when we kissed, it wasn’t brief. I did not pull away, but pushed in. My tongue found hers, exploring, moving with the music, dancing in our mouths. I felt her hand reaching for the top button of my jeans.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes,” I answered with a nod.
She slid her fingers down my pants and touched me.
“You’re so wet,” she said.
And I was. Turned on in a way that was new, I felt the sensation I had only managed to reach on my own until this point. My body quivered, I wish we’d been alone, but the presence of others snapped us out of it.
Being in proximity to Jessica changed me. Growing up with hardly any queers around, this person helped me discover myself, someone who had pushed through the fear and the shame to exist proudly. Running into her on the sidewalk, seeing her at a party, eating the wraps she made at the mall, I didn’t have a crush, but I yearned to be near what was possible. Her visibility meant the world to me.
I think about this as I walk through the world now.
22
FLATLINERS
“You’ll be fine,” the stunt coordinators said to us.
“It’ll be even better if you aren’t strapped in,” someone said to Kiersey.
We should have removed ourselves, called someone, said something, but we’d been conditioned, filming is extremely costly and you have limited hours, especially during an action-filled night shoot like this one. The sun will come.
It was the summer of 2016, on the precipice of that horrid election. I was filming the remake of the 1980s cult classic Flatliners, in which a group of five medical students perform a high-risk experiment. They stop their hearts briefly to induce near-death experiences, “flatlining” until their colleagues resuscitate them. Obviously, things get messy. The original starred Julia Roberts, Kiefer Sutherland, and Kevin Bacon. I was fortunate to work with a fantastic cast for the remake—Diego Luna, Nina Dobrev, James Norton, and Kiersey Clemons.
A brilliant cast, a cult classic, it was set to be great. But it went off the rails, one of those movies that is a true mess from the very beginning.
We were getting ready for a car stunt when Kiersey and I realized that everyone had a built-in thick seat belt, except for us. We looked to the various stunt crew members strapping the others in, perplexed, questioning why we weren’t being secured for the scene. “Why does everyone else have a safety belt but not us?” we’d inquired.
Kiersey was laid out in the back over Diego. I was perched on James’s lap. No restraints, a basic safety measure of the carefully orchestrated, expensive, and elaborate stunt that hadn’t been thought through.
Kiersey and I didn’t do anything, except comply and get in the car. We did not say anything further. That worry of appearing “difficult.”
The scene began with a panicked escape, hospital security in hot pursuit. Barely making it out, we all barge through a heavy door, appearing in an underground parking garage. We sprint to a red Mini and pack in. Marlo (Nina) hits the gas, Jamie (James) is in the passenger seat, and I am on his lap. Ray (Diego) is in the back with Sophia (Kiersey) sprawled over him.
Our reactions in that scene are genuine. The Mini was being driven by a stunt driver who sat in a go-cart sort of thing on the roof of the car. The vehicle was rigged with cameras to capture all of us. And the director did not want us to see the stunt before we did it.
“I don’t want to tell you guys about it, I want it to be a surprise, to get real reactions,” he said. We were initially excited. We’d never seen stunt rigging like that, with a person attached to the top of the car. I still don’t even know how that works.
I love a thrill. I am a die-hard roller-coaster enthusiast, a force you to watch POV videos of my fave roller coasters degree of fanaticism. I have friends who refer to me as “the mayor of Six Flags Magic Mountain.” I would bring people frequently, acting as a guide, the ride order all laid out. You’re strapped in at an amusement park, employees walk up and down the rows, checking the various belts and harnesses, pushing and pulling. They yell words indicating all is clear, and off you go. All of those measures making the experience possible, permitting one to surrender. The rise and fall, upside down, backward, the sudden drop, the world whizzes, the body evaporates. It offered respite for almost two minutes, the average length of a roller coaster ride. I could let it all go.
This was different.
At action that car took off at a shocking speed, zooming through the claustrophobic underground garage, barreling toward the gate barrier arm. It did not rise, but smashed against the windshield, the force splintering it. My heart pounded, jaw tight. It jostled the body, shoving it back as the driver barreled up the ramp, taking a hard, sharp turn onto the street right when a car sped past. The Mini swerved, the two left wheels going over the median curb. The vehicle tilted, all of us propelled to the right. I placed my hands firmly on the front dash, attempting to brace myself. Flailing, I had no control, Kiersey and I both. Half the car off the street, we raced by traffic. Our bodies jarred when it pounded back to the cement. The Mini reached the end of the median and pulled a one-eighty. Spinning rapidly, we clasped what we could, inertia taking over.
The director yelled, “Cut!” We sat there in shock. The first take was a whirlwind, a degree of intensity we did not quite anticipate. Kiersey and I looked at each other, speechless, staring at our shaking hands. We should have spoken up immediately, but we hadn’t. The set pressure, all the moving parts, as if it can never stop.