Free The Summer of Me & You by Rae Hachton Page B

attention, I quickly pulled my eyes away from her before she caught me staring.
    “Okay,” he clapped his hands together. “Who can name an American film director?”
    People began spouting the obvious names that we'd all heard of before.
    “Great,” he said. “But did you know that New Wave cinema began in France? So—can anyone name a French director?
    “Truffaut,” Kayleigh said with confidence. I swiveled around.
    “ Godard ,” I countered, gazing directly at her.
    “Oh,” she spun around in her seat. “You think he's better?” So now she had something to say to me?
    “I know he is.”
    “Why are you even in this class?”
    “Why are you?” Kayleigh had spent most of her time doing theater. I had no idea she was into filmmaking, but maybe she'd only been in theater because it was the next best thing, since the school didn't offer cinematography classes.
    The teacher hopped up on to the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. “You two do know they were friends at one point, right?”
    “Yeah, well we aren't,” Kayleigh said. The way she kept saying that bugged me. I didn't want to be her friend. I wanted more than that. It was like she was deliberately torturing me to see how far she could take it. It was obvious how much she liked me, since she had to make it a point to remind me and everyone else that she didn't.
    “It was a sour friendship,” I told him. Here was our perfectly good summer going to waste because she'd decided to ignore me, avoid me, pretend not to want me. What did she want from me? She knew I liked her and it was like she was rubbing it in.
    “Not at first,” the teacher said. “They made some good films together.”
    “That's opinion. Define your idea of good .”
    Another guy in the class spoke up, “I really liked Breathless. It was a good film.”
    “Never knew there were so many Godard fans,” Kayleigh rolled her eyes.
    “There's that word good again.”
    Kayleigh shot a glare my way, “Oh, you didn't like King Godard's film?”
    I kicked my feet upon the desk, twisting a pencil. “Actually yeah, I loved it.”
    “Interesting,” she tossed her hair back, peering at me through those damn glasses, “because Truffaut wrote it.”
    I leapt out of my seat, hoisted myself up and over a desk that was in my way, and traveled across the room to her. I jerked out a chair, turned it backwards so that the back of it was facing in her direction and sat down, the way that guys do. I leaned in, as though she and I were the only ones in this class. “Just because he wrote it doesn't make it his. Ever heard of the auteur theory? Perhaps you should look it up. Godard speaks about the danger of wanting to become an auteur—the writer and director of your own film.”
    She narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh, that's real interesting given the fact that it was Truffaut who introduced that entire idea. Must've been when they were really good friends.”
    I leaned in closer.
    “There's always someone who writes the film and someone who directs it. The director puts himself in the film, thus becoming just as much the author as the one who wrote it.”
    She became huffy. “So you're saying it's okay for someone to steal someone else's work, someone else's vision?”
    Our eyes gazed into each other.
    “No! You've got it all wrong.” My hand smacked the top of the desk she was sitting in. She jerked back. “Words on pieces of paper isn't a work, or a vision. It's the director who takes it, shapes it and transforms it into what it is. The author of the film is the one who directs it, not the one who writes it or puts the words on the page. This is filmmaking— cinematography , not scriptwriting 101. Maybe you're in the wrong class.”
    “Guys, guys, guys ,” the teacher leapt off his desk. “You're not the only two in this class.”
    I took a deep breath and exhaled realizing how passionate I'd become about my own thoughts. I'd blocked everyone else out. Everyone but Kayleigh. I ran