He tilted his head.
“What kind of question is that? It’s fucking art, man,” he said, scowling. “You don’t choose it. It chooses you. If you waste that chance, your talent dies. That’s when you start dying along with it.”
? ? ?
“So he lets you hang out here?” Sam brought Bastian to House, where he promptly made himself very much at home. He was sprawled out on a sofa, with his feet up on the coffee table. “You bring girls back here and party with them and shit?”
“Nah.” Sam kicked Bastian’s filthy sneakers off the table. “I work here, man. You don’t shit where you eat.”
Bastian surveyed the premises. Sam had promised to make Bastian pancakes since that’s what the movie’s “talent” wanted.
“But you have keys so you can be here whenever you want?”
Sam nodded.
“It’s cool that your boss trusts you.” Bastian nodded toward the fireplace. “That thing work?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We crank it up around the holidays. It gets pretty toasty.”
Bastian walked over to inspect it. “Yo, that’s cool,” he said, peering into the flue. “You could make s’mores and shit.”
For his big talk about girls and his budding career as the next Basquiat, Bastian was unmistakably still a kid.
Sam pulled out a folder and handed it to him. “I need your mom to sign this,” he said.
Bastian stared at it. “Yeah, whatever it is, she’s not going to do it.”
“It’s not anything crazy,” he said. “It’s a release ’cause you’re a minor.”
Bastian took it and put it down on the coffee table.
“Luz doesn’t sign stuff,” Bastian said again. “She’s an illegal. I mean, a DREAMer or whatever.”
“But she runs the juice stand,” Sam said.
He knew about undocumented workers, only he never pictured Luz, someone who was the mommest-seeming mom ever, being one. “And her English . . .”
Bastian rolled his eyes. “She’s been here for over twenty years, dumbass,” he said. “You can’t tell anyone. It’s effed up, and every day she’s mad paranoid that someone’s going to ask for her papers.”
To Sam it sounded like Germany in World War II.
“That’s insane,” Sam said. Still, he’d heard the news reports on ICE raids all over Texas but had never properly paid attention. He hadn’t had to.
“Can’t she apply for a green card since she’s been here so long and you were born here?” Sam asked.
Bastian shook his head.
“Nah, she might as well try winning the lottery,” he said. “And with everything that’s going on, if she gets busted now and deported, then what happens to me?”
With the pity parties Sam threw himself on a weekly basis and the panic attack he had about being “almost” homeless and “almost” a dad, there was a woman and countless others like her with real problems.
“Can’t you fake it?” Bastian asked. “Shit, I’ll sign it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said. “It’s not that deep.”
? ? ?
Sam had been on hold for thirty-six minutes when he realized it was that deep. Alamo Community College’s film department was lax about everything except their beloved red tape.
“The releases for your subjects and the rights for your work need to accompany the submission. The department automatically enrolls you into a series of fellowships and festivals, along with . . .”
The lady on the phone kept talking about the department as if it were some ancient secret society with fanatical rules.
“So, let me get this straight, Lydia,” he said. “Lydia, that’s your name, right?”
“Yes,” said Lydia. “That’s right.”
“So simply by turning in my project to get a grade I’m automatically enrolled in this other stuff?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean the rights for my work?”
“This is what I’m trying to tell you,” said Lydia slowly. “You grant ACC and its affiliates the copyright in the work, and the department is granted the exclusive worldwide right in perpetuity to view, perform, display, distribute, stream, transmit, make available for download, rent, disseminate, issue or communicate copies to the public, telecast by air, cable, or otherwise import, adapt, enhance, show, translate, compile or otherwise use in any media and to adapt as a musical or a stage show.”
“Wait,” he interrupted. “A musical?”
“Yes,” said Lydia. “A musical.”
“If they turn my documentary about a fourteen-year-old Mexican kid living on the East Side painting pictures with his dirtbag friends into Hamilton or whatever, the department gets all the money?”
“The chance of that is slim to none,” she said. “Lin-Manuel Miranda is a certifiable genius and you . . .” Lydia cleared her throat. “But yes, seeing as you’ve granted the department the copyright.”
“And I don’t have to sign anything,” he said. “Just by turning in my project they get to do this.”
“Well, turning in your project with the accompanying releases. It’s very clear in the course curriculum. And as you know, your project is a large percentage of your grade, as determined by your professor, Dr. Lindstrom. I believe it’s eighty percent,” she said.
“Lydia, have you met Dr. Lindstrom?”
“Actually, no,” she said.
“Well, neither have I,” he said, and hung up.
There was no way Sam was going to risk Luz and Bastian’s future for this. Screw the tuition. Besides which, musicals were the worst.
PENNY.
Penny was anxious about seeing Andy. He’d texted her after asking her out but she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to date him—that much she knew—but she realized that for the past week she’d been looking forward to class with nervous anticipation because he’d admitted to liking her. It was on the record and everything. She chose an extra-clean pair of black leggings and showed up ten minutes early.
He came in just before the bell and sat in the seat in front of her. Penny noticed he needed a haircut. A five-o’clock shadow crept south on his tanned neck. He was dressed in a white sweatshirt and matching white sweats and sneakers, and Penny couldn’t believe how pristine it all was. He practically shone.
Penny thought about how next year she might never see him again and how future-her would be pissed off at present-day her for screwing the pooch right now.
She squinted forcefully at the back of Andy’s neck. It was a good neck. His shoulders were killer too. Muscly but nothing that said vain or obsessive. As if he could sense her attention boring a hole at the base of his skull, Andy suddenly turned around.
Shit.
Penny bared her teeth in a rigid smile to indicate everything was perfectly fine. He turned back around and texted her.
Wait for me after class.
“Okay, Penny, am I making things bizarre or is it you?” They were standing on the edge of the quad lawn, though not far enough in that Andy would stain his shoes on the grass. “It’s probably you,” he said.
“It’s probably me,” Penny agreed, and suddenly needed a nap. It was astounding the ways in which her body reacted to confrontation.
“It’s not that big a deal, you know.” Andy pulled a matte black cylinder out of his book bag, twisted the top off, and out slid a pair of sunglasses. He put them on. Penny was immediately struck by the competitive advantage of people not being able to see your eyes in a fight. Not that this was a fight. Or maybe it was. Penny had no idea. She made an awning with her hands and squinted up at him.
“Okay, so what’s the protocol now?” she asked.
“Protocol?” Andy laughed. “Well, I think we still hold value for each other in our roles as cronies. Colleagues. Writerly peers.”
This was news to Penny. Positive news.
“So we can still collaborate and talk about work?”