Free The Director's Cut by Janice Thompson

things fall apart, I might look composed on the outside, but I’m mush on the inside.”
    â€œI never would have known.” He gave me an admiring look. Seemed like I was seeing more of this side of him lately. Interesting.
    â€œI’d take your place any day,” my sister said between bites.
    I sighed. “Beni, there’s more to the job than most people know. I don’t just have to direct the actors and actresses. I have to make sure the set design is perfect.” The intensity of my voice rose, and my words were more rushed. “I have to work closely with the costume department to make sure everyone is looking the way they should be looking. Same with hair and makeup. I have to communicate with all of the department heads on a regular basis to make sure we’re on the same page. Not to mention the producer and the advertisers. And then there are the kids. I have to make sure they’re on the set only a certain number of hours per day, and having their lessons with their teacher the rest. That means everything has to be scheduled down to the minute.”
    Jason looked sympathetic. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about. You’re the director, and a great one at that. You’re accustomed to telling people what to do, and they do it—not just because they respect you as a person but because they respect your position.” He shrugged. “That’s got to feel good.”
    â€œSometimes. But I guess I’d just rather have their respect as a person, not a director. When I’m not hollering out directions, people just pass me by like I’m not even there.”
    â€œImpossible.” His gaze lingered, and a hint of a smile creased the edges of his mouth. “I defy anyone to pass you by.”
    Suddenly all the noise in the commissary seemed to come to a grinding halt. For a moment, I could hear only his words: “I defy anyone to pass you by.” They rang out loud and clear, flooding my heart with joy. And surprise. And intrigue. And hope.
    His face lit in a boyish smile, and all of a sudden it was just the two of us sitting in the studio commissary, eating lunch and talking about the things we had in common. Everything around us faded to sepia tone. No, scratch that. Sepia tone was highly overrated and rough on the eyes. I’d never understood that whole faded-edges thing, either. Better make it mood lighting—soft whites shimmering through transient gels positioned overhead. Or maybe a lovely beach scene in the background. Digital, of course.
    One thing was for sure. If Jason had been filming this scene—if the camera had zoomed in close enough—he would surely have noticed the shimmer of tears in my eyes. And though they surprised me, I could no longer deny the fact that they reflected feelings simmering just below the surface.
    Oh, mama mia! Now what?

I spent Tuesday night arguing on the phone with my brother, who claimed he’d been too sick to finish floating the Sheetrock in my entryway that day. Too drunk was more like it. From the sound of things, he’d passed “sick” about four beers back. So, once again, I tackled the chore by myself. For hours I worked alone, until my body just couldn’t take it anymore. By the time I tumbled into bed at midnight, the dust had clogged my airways, causing me to cough and sneeze nonstop. Lovely. Nothing like a director with a head cold.
    Wednesday dawned bright and sunny. I awoke, rolled over in my bed, and whispered up my usual “Dear Lord, please let this be a good day” prayer. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t deep and spiritual, but it was all I could muster after such a long night.
    When I tried to sit up on the bed, my arms and legs didn’t want to cooperate. Well, not without pain, anyway. And what was up with my shoulders? Strange. They were almost as stiff and sore as my neck, which refused to turn. And then there was the issue of my