My mom and I arrived at Camp Towanda in Pennsylvania — called Camp Firewood in the film — and were set up with a bedroom in the infirmary. This lodging situation was one of many quirks that reflected what a low-budget, labor-of-love production we’d just jumped into. I was totally unfazed, though: There was a basketball court directly outside the infirmary and a ridiculously cute blonde actress, around my age, Whitney, bunked next door. Things were looking up.



I was killing some time that first afternoon, shooting hoops, when I saw Molly Shannon walking over to introduce herself. I think I must have just shook her hand and then resumed playing, because she ended up chatting with my mom for a while. But eventually she joined me on the court, taking a couple shots herself and asking me questions about my life. Something about the interaction had me convinced that, for her, the scheduled touching of our mouths was, in fact, not a big deal. And, somehow, that made me a bit more confident that maybe, for me, it would be the same.

When the day of the big scene finally arrived, I woke up resolute to smooch her good. I told myself, as I’d told my parents weeks before, that it was “just acting.” And throughout the day, in the moments when I could feel panic creeping in, I’d chase it into a corner of my mind, like you would a mouse too fast to catch, just stupid enough to be contained.

We rehearsed the scene, going through all the dialogue and blocking but leaving out the kiss. I suspected that David and Michael were worried about wasting it on a bad take. I thought that maybe they knew that I might have only a handful of kisses in the tank.

It was only with lights up and the camera good to roll that I realized I just couldn’t do it. It was only when cast and crew were ready for the “real thing” that I noticed that the fear I’d held captive all day had escaped and was now running furious victory laps inside the walls of my brain. It didn’t matter that I had fought admirably — the battle was over. The problem was that I was the only one who knew it.

But just then, as the scene was about to get underway, my mom told David and Michael that she wanted to talk with me privately for a minute. She walked me outside and we found a bench. She told me “You don’t have to kiss her” in a voice that said a whole lot more: Not only did I not have to kiss Molly, but we could actually go home right now if I wanted to because this whole thing was worth continuing only if it remained fun. We could hop in the car and return to our real life, where 12-year-olds generally experience their first kisses in dark movie theaters with other 12-year-olds.

We walked back to the set together and told the the crew that I couldn’t kiss Molly. Everyone understood completely, and we quickly got back to work, filming the scene without the big consummatory finale. Instead of the kiss, I simply brushed Molly’s hair behind her ear. Over the years, as the movie's reputation snowballed from critical and commercial bust to reverently worshipped cult classic, I’ve been told by a few people that this understated romantic gesture is one of their favorite little moments.