A director was coming to Harper’s college campus to shoot a movie that

fall. The night before she learned this information, Harper asked her

roommate Anne what she thought the block of time on the freshman

orientation schedule labelled MOVIE NEWS was supposed to mean. Maybe it’s

what movies are being shown on campus this semester, Anne, an idiot,

offered before spitting a cheekful of toothpaste into the sink. They both

knew Anne was wrong about this, but it wasn’t worth getting into. The two

girls were alone in the women’s bathroom on their floor, voices echoing off

the dulled coral tile. Harper despised Anne the second they’d met the

previous afternoon, their similarities limited to both having checked the

boxes that read NIGHT OWL and I SNORE INFREQUENTLY on the incoming freshmen

roommate survey and nothing else. Anne was a wispy, watery-eyed theater

major who went to an arts high school in Nebraska and loved that she went

to an arts high school in Nebraska even though Harper was certain there was

no art there. Anne put up photos of her Nebraskan arts high school friends

on a newly-purchased bulletin board. When she asked Harper where her photos

of her high school friends were, Harper said, I don’t even think about high

school. Also Anne snored frequently.

Harper was eager to abandon their obligatory friendship as quickly as

possible, which, after MOVIE NEWS, the hour block on the freshman

orientation schedule between SEXUAL HEALTH & SAFETY and GETTING THE

MOST OUT OF THE STUDENT PORTAL, would be easy to do now that a director was

coming to campus to shoot a movie. Harper would be cast in the movie. She

had decided it.

The college Harper and Anne were attending was not a very good one, a fact

made apparent in the assistant provost’s obvious and embarrassing

excitement over the director coming to shoot a movie there. The school was

classic in a Midwestern sense: leafy, bricked, formerly religious but now

merely spiritual. The orientation took place on the quad. Gray

metal folding chairs held anxious freshmen bodies squirming with

discomfort. A nicer school, a better school, Harped noted, would have done

this inside, in padded seating, in air conditioning. This was her safety

school, she reminded herself. She’d transfer next year, once the movie

wrapped. It’s not every semester this happens, the assistant provost told

them. The director of the movie was an alumnus of the college. So he was

biased, Harper thought, and nostalgic. What a combo. The director was

vaguely familiar to her: he had been prominently featured in a significant

percentage of the college’s promotional materials, leaning against a

well-regarded tree on the quad in a sweatshirt she’d learned from walking

around the bookstore cost sixty-five dollars. This was his directorial

debut, the assistant provost explained. He had spent the past decade of his

life starring in a very popular sitcom. It was one of those shows about

people in their twenties played by people in their thirties. Kids at

Harper’s high school defined their sense of self-worth in how many episodes

they could binge-watch on nights and weekends. The assistant provost was somehow still

going. He always loved acting, but his real passion is directing, she said,

adding, also writing, because he wrote the movie he’s directing because he

did, after all, major in English, and he’s starring in his own movie as

well.

What can’t he do? Anne whispered too loudly.

The last thing the assistant provost told them was that the director wanted

students, real students, even freshman students to play parts in

his movie, because he wanted it to be verité, which Harper knew

from three years of copying French homework meant truth.

That night, Harper, and much to her chagrin, Anne, made their way to the

school-sanctioned, alcohol-free foam party on the quad in which most of the

incoming freshman class flailed rhythmically to EDM in a pool of soapy,

manufactured foam until a girl from their dorm slipped and broke her ankle.

The whole thing got called off after that. You can’t even grind good in

foam, a guy said loudly as most of them filed back to the dorms. In the mess of it all, Harper ditched Anne.

She went alone off-campus to a much rumored-about party at what was called

the Model UN house but just looked like a normal house. An upperclassman on

the Model UN team bought her three shots of vodka, asked her her

major––French, she told him––and then Harper danced with a different guy, a

freshman, some blonde boy she recognized from looking borderline catatonic

during MOVIE NEWS.

What’s your major? He asked at one point, his whole hand on her ass.

Political science, Harper told him.

Kissing him was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, their mouths soaked in

vodka.

Back in her room, Harper gave him a blowjob. Her first. She thought of a

girl she knew in high school, Ally someone, who gave a blowjob their

sophomore year, and said the whole thing was like having a bunch of pennies

in your mouth. After that, Harper’s parents had discovered her in the

bathroom, slipping penny after penny past her lips, and they yelled at her

until she spit them, salty and smudged and slimy, into the sink. You have

to admit I got a lot of them in, she said at the time.

Anne, classic stupid Anne, burst in midway through (or maybe towards the

end, it was impossible to tell) the blowjob, and the blonde boy yelped and

scrambled out of bed as Anne muttered, Sorry, sorry, oh my god, sorry, I’m

sorry, shit, I’m sorry. It didn’t matter much to Harper. I hope you get

some sleep, Anne told the boy as he hiked his pants up and stormed out,

horrified one other person saw his dick.

Once again, the two girls were alone in the bathroom brushing their teeth.

Harper dragged the toothbrush roughly along her tongue and the inside of

her cheeks, desperate to get the taste of copper out of her mouth. I really

am extremely sorry, Anne said again, almost crying.

It’s not that big a deal, Harper told her. How do you get to Carnegie Hall,

you know? Anne shook her head, confused, and said, I don’t know.

In the weeks leading up to the director’s arrival, Harper watched every

single episode of his sitcom at the expense of her homework. Her classes were dull anyway. She

was in a smattering of useless, required gen eds: astronomy for non-science

majors taught by a wheezing elderly woman who wore mismatched earrings;

American literature taught by a middle-aged man who would have been

considered conventionally attractive if he weren’t also teaching American

literature; and Painting 101, for which she refused to buy her own supplies

and instead stole small tubes of oil paints from her classmates. Every

afternoon when Anne would arrive home from whatever touchy-feely theater

workshop in which she was allowed to wear leggings, Harper would be lying on her bed, laptop posed on

her stomach, watching the director’s sitcom. It was bad, like so much of TV

was. The jokes were obvious, the timing off. He was a notably bad actor,

prone to eyebrow raising and scoffing. She passed on dinners in the

cafeteria with Anne, hoping she’d get the hint as time passed that she had absolutely no

desire to be friends. When Anne would return night after night, Harper

would be in the same position, another episode beginning or ending, granola bar crumbs strewn across her chest.

Harper was sitting out on the quad not reading for class the day the

director arrived. He was tall with the kind of half-hearted beard that only

looked good on a man older than forty. He was not handsome, but he was

older and a man, which was almost the same thing as handsome. He would try

to fuck her at some point, Harper figured. It was an inevitability, like

the sun exploding. He walked up the quad, grinning like a moron and

pointing at trees, the assistant provost following him around. Across the

quad from where Harper was sitting, the blonde boy whose dick was in her

mouth some weeks ago was nose-deep in a book on the French Revolution. He

looked up when the director walked past, baffled, maybe, and in that second of distraction, Harper waved. He looked back,

confused. That was fine. It was a relief to have someone decide for her

that he was not worth it.

The director paced aimlessly around campus with his crew during the day,

which Harper learned from one of his scraggly production assistants named

Quentin was known as location scouting. This tree was good, this tree was

bad. This patch of grass got nice light, this building can be framed elegantly. After offering the possibility of sex she never intended

to and would ultimately not have with him, Harper got Quentin to email her

the screenplay of the movie. It was obviously horrible: A guy returns to

his alma mater after about fifteen years to teach literature for a semester

in the place of his favorite English professor who is undergoing

chemotherapy. While spending a year at the college, he starts to realize the students are teaching him more than he’s teaching

them. But they’re teaching him about what young people are into, like polyamory and texting, not about

Chaucer or socialism or whatever. Also he dates one of the students which

at the time the guy, the main character, the director, thinks is a good

idea, but comes to realize that there are actually a lot of perks to being

an adult, like leaving college.

It’s not quite a comedy, Quentin said, but there are definitely jokes.

The director, however, didn’t run the auditions; the casting director did.

She was a hard-nosed lesbian with an edgy haircut and an edgier jawline.

She wore severe black glasses that Harper could tell were fake. In their

audition, Harper and Anne, bafflingly inescapable, improvised a scene in

which Anne cried (which was so easy for her it was practically cheating)

and Harper said, you have to tell me the truth or I’ll kill myself. She

snarled a little. It was scary. Anne was obviously scared. The casting

director, astonished by Harper, clearly, thanked them both to be polite.

I don’t think it’s that type of movie, Anne said afterward.

I’m not sure you ever have any idea what you’re talking about, Harper told

her.

The parts were posted the same day as midterm grades, both forecasting an

unanticipated outcome for the rest of Harper’s semester. I want to see you

in my office sometime, her American literature professor emailed, which she

knew was meant to be a flirt and deliberately ignored. And the casting

director, who Harper realized was likely self-conscious about her age and

vastly jealous of Harper’s lack of forehead wrinkles, did not cast her in

the movie. Anne––of all people!––managed to get a role as the director’s

character’s girlfriend’s roommate. Congratulations, Harper told Anne in the

most genuine tone she could muster, just to fuck with her a little.

I want to meet him, Harper later told Quentin after making out for

approximately ten minutes. They were in her dorm room which she had been

sure to lock this time as an Anne prevention measure.

He doesn’t want to meet you, Quentin said as nicely as possible while also

not being particularly nice. Not that there’s anything against you, but

he’s really trying to keep to himself. This whole process is really

stressful for him.

Oh, because making a movie is obligatory? Harper said. She broke things off

with Quentin that night.

She started to follow the director around campus, noting which coffee shops

he frequented and when and what he got. The day after she didn’t turn in

her astronomy paper, Harper purposefully knocked the director’s latte out

of his hands at the coffee shop in the student union. Oh my god, I’m so

stupid, I’m so clumsy, she rambled like a girl who’s so stupid and so

clumsy.

The director told her it was fine. He was clearly livid but trying his best

not to be. Maybe he was a little bit of a good actor. Harper offered to get

him a new coffee, and he smiled at her. Bingo. In line at the coffee shop

in the student center, Harper told him he forgot to cast her in his movie.

Well, I don’t cast… he said. And there are only so many parts for

students, you know? There are adult characters, you know, we have Tommy

coming in this week.

Tommy?

He was in my show, uh, with me. He played Greg––like the best friend,

basically.

I’ve never seen it, so that literally means nothing to me. She rolled her

eyes, as if to articulate this was a major oversight in her cultural

upbringing.

Huh, he said, well, you know, it’s streaming now. He was taken aback,

clearly. It was possible that he was falling in love with her. He ordered a

replacement latte, but Harper could tell he was still thinking about her.

The guy behind the counter at the coffee shop was the blonde boy from ages

ago. He muttered a hey to Harper but she ignored him. He said hey again but

louder. Of course he was jealous to see her with an older man––that was how

all men were.

What’s his deal? The director asked her once she bought the coffee.

Harper shrugged. I gave him a blowjob and now he’s obsessed with me.

The director laughed––really laughed. Okay, wow. Yeah, that’s college, I

guess.

It’s so annoying, Harper said. He’s, like, I mean. He’s a kid. Like if you wanted to hook up, it’d be one thing, but…

The director looked at her. What’s your major? Biology.

Oh. His mouth stayed open. Just kidding, it’s English.

His face didn’t change. He asked, What’s the one thing, by the way? What?

You said if I wanted to hook up with you, that’d be one thing. What’s the

one thing? Oh, it’d be, like, cool and fun, and you’re an actual adult.

That’s three things.

So he was good at this, Harper realized. Never mind, she said to him.

Yeah, he agreed. I’m married, also. He showed her the ring on his finger

and everything. The silver band was dull and ugly. What a performance this

was turning into.

If you use this as dialogue in your movie, you owe me $4,000, Harper said.

He laughed again. It was good to hear him laugh. Harper never thought of

herself as funny before, but maybe she had been funny the whole time. They

went their separate ways––I have to go to class, Harper said, even though

she was planning to skip––but he waved, his stack of script pages in his

hands, and said he’d talk to casting for her.

That night, Harper found herself in such a good mood she even read lines

with Anne, who seemed incapable of actually acting but was very good at

memorizing lines. Acting is reacting, Anne explained as they brushed their

teeth that night. So you have to listen to what the other person is saying

and react to that, rather than think about what you’re going to say. You can’t just live

your whole life thinking you know what you’re going to say. I can and I do and I thought those things before you even said anything at

all. Harper spit into the sink.

The next day, Quentin was hanging around outside her astronomy class after

Harper got a strict talking to about how her final would be the deciding

factor in whether or not she’d pass for the semester and how the professor

was willing to offer her some tutoring. Harper did not respond in the

moment, distracted by the professor’s mismatched earrings, one of which was

a ceramic carrot, the other a black and white cat. Think about it, the

professor told her.

There’s a crowd scene, Quentin said out in the hallway, somewhat

despondently, clearly heartbroken. He wants you to be one of kids drinking

coffee in the background. Shoots on Monday. Do you have class or anything

that afternoon?

No, Harper lied.

Quentin gave her some sheets of paper, referring to them as a call sheet.

He paused, then: I don’t know how you wormed your way into this one.

It’s unbelievably sexist of you to call ambition worming. And here

I was, thinking maybe I ought to give you another chance, and then you go

and say something like that. I mean, the fucking nerve on you! A few people

in the hallway turned to stare, but it didn’t bother Harper in the

slightest. Quentin needed to hear this. How often was someone brave enough

to talk to a man this way?

Before she could get another word in––and she had several planned––Quentin

turned and headed down the hallway. See you Monday, he called back,

flipping her off.

ASSHOLE! By this point, Harper’s astronomy professor poked her head out

into the hallway. Turning to her, Harper said, As you can see, I’m going

through a really difficult time and won’t be able to swing by for tutoring.

The following Monday, Harper went to the coffee shop where they were

shooting for the day. It was all a big mess––cameras, lights everywhere. If

this was meant to be low-budget, it didn’t look it. Anne was there, of

course, where wasn’t Anne? And the girl––some junior or senior at the

college––who was playing the director/writer/actor’s character’s

girlfriend. She was tall, almost taller than him, but the camera was angled

lower to make him seem taller than her. She had long, blonde hair and good

posture. She looked so quietly confident in herself that Harper considered

never speaking again until she realized the girl looked like an expensive

horse. Oh well. A production assistant showed Harper to a table and gave

her a copy of Jane Eyre to pretend to read. I’ve read this before,

she told him, it sucks.

You made it! The director came over to Harper’s table and gave her a

squeeze on the shoulder. She put her hand over his and he withdrew it

quickly. No ring, she said aloud.

He nodded slowly. The character’s not married.

We write ourselves the way we want to be seen, Harper said. What’s your

major again?

Philosophy. She smiled at him.

Anyway, he said after a pause, I think it’ll be a fun day. Totally, Harper

agreed.

The scene was straight-forward: the director/writer/actor’s character and

his girlfriend and his girlfriend’s roommate (Anne) were all going to the

coffee shop to talk about literature together. This was an opportunity for

the director/writer/actor’s character to explain some garbage life lesson

to them, Harper assumed. Guys in these types of movies always had life

lessons despite their characters being consultants or whatever adult men

did. Behind the counter at the coffee shop was not the blonde boy

but a different blonde boy. So it really was verité. Harper looked

down at a random page of Jane Eyre, her eyes glazing over the

small font, as she listened to the scene.

Hey, the new blonde boy said.

Hey, Anne replied.

The director/writer/actor’s character and his girlfriend and his

girlfriend’s roommate all sat down at the table adjacent to Harper. She

could feel herself being filmed on the other side of them, the warm burn of

the lights on her cheeks. It was really happening.

What’s the deal there? Who?

The guy at the counter… You don’t wanna know… Tell him! It’s funny!

I mean, it’s not funny, it’s––okay, like, I gave that guy head like a week ago.

The director called for a cut, and Harper snapped up from the book. Had

Anne of all people just said that? Harper looked over and Anne gave her a

small, innocent wave.

Can you––can you be a little braggier about it? The director asked Anne.

Braggier… she was thinking about it. Anne never understood before and she

wouldn’t understand now.

Like, you love this about yourself. Gotcha. Anne smiled.

The scene started over again, Anne read the line in a braggier way. A

boastful, hurtful way. I sucked him off, she said, and Harper could feel a

proud grin rise up the sides of Anne’s face. Stupid fucking Anne who hadn’t

given a stupid fucking blowjob in her whole life. This wasn’t acting, it

was pretending. It was lying. Before Harper could turn to them––tell her

exactly how to do the one thing she was supposed to be good at doing––the

director/writer/actor’s character spoke:

Hey, I mean––that sounds fun, but like, I guess, one of the things I wish

someone had told me in college is that the greatest thing you can learn is

to have respect for yourself. Love yourself, know yourelf. Everything you do amounts to this whole––full––beautiful–– thing. And you should nurture that thing, that you-thing,

like you would a rose.

Harper stood up quickly, the coffee shop chair scooting back with a shrill

drag. Everyone turned: the grips, the PAs, the coffee shop employees, both

real and fake, the director, the director/writer/actor’s character’s

girlfriend, Anne. Sorry, I, uh, I forgot I fucking hate movies, Harper said

finally, and left.

Out on the quad, Harper took a few deep breaths. She didn’t know what was

more of a relief: that Anne couldn’t act or that the director couldn’t make

a good movie. Still. He owed her $4,000 and then some for the emotional

damages caused by hearing Anne do a half-rate––no, quarter-rate––impression

of her. It was all so broad, so miscalculated. She looked around. Classes

were just getting out. Students filed onto the quad, walking in pairs or

groups, chatting enthusiastically, lanyards strewn over their necks. So

many smart kids, in theory at least, and professors, thousands and

thousands of dollars spent on all their degrees, and none of them

understood her at all.