Page 41 of The Truths We Burn

Knowing I’ll have to lie to Rook about one very, crucial detail.

We can never, be together.

And when he finds out why?

This secret we created is going to end in unmitigated catastrophe.

Rook

“No, no, you have to finish it. This is the best part!” Her hand grabs at my forearm, pulling me back down to the makeshift pallet on the floor piled with blankets she insisted she needed.

“I’m developing cataracts the longer I sit and watch these,” I grunt, hoping when she says it’s almost over she’s telling the truth.

The mob is going about it all wrong. If they want to torture people, they don’t need to do it with rats and knives. Black-and-white films without sound are more than enough to make someone talk, just so they could put an end to it.

For two months, I’ve watched more movies than I have in my entire life. I’m so close to telling Sage we could watchSixteen Candlesfor the third time if she turned off Charlie Chaplin.

“Wait for it, wait for it,” she says, sinking her nails into my skin as she gets more excited. “Tomorrow the birds will sing. Be brave. Face life.” She reads the words as they appear on the crackling screen.

The old film camera was a breath away from falling apart and hadn’t been made for clear pictures apparently. The entire time I felt like I was looking at it through a static TV.

“That’s what we were waiting for?” I ask, raising my eyebrow with bored eyes, teasing her.

She grins, smacking me on the chest with some force behind it. “You’re such an ass! This is golden! If only one of Charlie’s movies could be played in history, everyone would agree,City Lightsis it!”

“Quentin Tarantino would possibly disagree.”

“Ugh, men and their bloody movies with explosive cars.” She rolls her eyes, turning her body to face me as she crosses her legs, and I prepare for what is about to come. This is a thing I’ve noticed she does, and truthfully, it isn’t the movies that bother me. I’m frustrated by the fact theydon’tbother me.

How I’ve allowed myself to sit through these, not paying attention to a single thing, just so I can watch what she’s about to do now.

I’ve allowed myself to care.

“This is real satire, the ability to move people without even using words, Rook! Period films didn’t need to rely on the emotional impact of color to invoke emotion, to captivate an audience. They didn’t need the crimson blood or the golden jewels. They had soft candlelight reflecting off glossy silks and satin dresses. Old Westerns, where I swear you can taste the sandy dust blowing in the wind, the sun glinting off shiny spurs, sepia-filtered cigarette smoke, and passionate embraces. People were enthralled with the motion picture, with the feelings…” She drags off, waiting for her next thought about the cinema to hit her, moving her hands in tiny circles as if she’s trying to show her brain how to speed up the process of collecting thoughts.

“So you’re saying you’d rather watch these thanThe Outsidersor that one with all the school delinquents?” I offer her a line, giving her another thought to run away with.

The bun in her hair had been tossed in is falling down her head, loose pieces bouncing as she speaks.

“The Breakfast Club. You’d think you’d remember it by now. I’d rather not choose—I love both. But that was a different time for film altogether. The fact that up until me you’d never even watched some of these is a tragedy, an actual tragedy. Old Hollywood is the foundation for every movie made since the age died out. They can change lives and shape societies. I mean,Jawsbirthed an entire generation terrified of the water and gave them a fear they’ll carry with them forever. A low-budget horror movie made one of the greatest directors of all time a household name. Speaking of low-budget,Rocky, a monumental franchise to just about anyone with eyeballs, was only made for a million dollars and went on to win Best Picture! Do you not see the power of a great story? Of a great movie?” She waits for me with bated breath to answer, not even realizing how she is rambling. Behind this lake house, she’s spoken more about the things she’s passionate about than she has in her entire life.

I take my bottom lip into my mouth, tasting the dried blood from earlier with my father, and look her over in my t-shirt and stripey leggings.

Her usual fashionable skirts and matching blouses are nowhere to be seen. In their place is whatever shirt I’d worn that day. I love getting to strip her down out of those statement pieces to a matching panty-and-bra set.

I’d spent all of this time noticing little things about her. Learning her.

Still not understanding the reason behind having her nails the same color for a whole month before changing it.

“So movies, the scripts, that’s the future for you, yeah? LA? Hollywood?”

She breathes, looking over at the rolling credits. “The scripts are for theatre, which is an entirely different love for me. I adore being onstage, embodying a character’s emotions. Chameleon myself into whatever the play needs me to be. I’d love to do that in college, ya know? Get my degree, then graduate and maybe shift to on-screen acting, eventually reaching the point of making my own films or at the very least directing.”

There is a sadness in her voice, one I’ve come to recognize every time she speaks about what lies ahead of her in the future. Like she’ll never do it, like she isn’t capable.

This place had taken her and clipped her wings before she even knew she had them.

“Sure, I could go to New York, fall in love with Broadway. Make a career directing in the concrete jungle. But no matter how hard it tries, New York isn’t Hollywood. There is no Walk of Fame or years of history embedded in the golden ages. Everyone is an actress or a filmmaker there, but actually doing it? Succeeding at it? What other dream could you have?”