The Cutting Room Floor Read Online Free Page A

She tries to change the subject.
    “Not bad,” I say. “I made a young man very happy. I am Wingman,” I say, striking my best superhero pose.
    “Oh yeah?” She laughs.
    There’s the sound I was waiting for. The sound I needed to hear.
    “I was afraid Jonah’s girl would drop him for you at first sight,” she adds. “Not a smart move choosing Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious as your wingman.”
    “Guys don’t think about shit like that,” I say. “Why? Is that how you see me—tall, dark, and delicious?” I pull her closer and give her my best smoldering look.
    “That’s how everyone sees you.” She punches my arm and breaks my hold on her, reminding me that this flirtation is completely futile. “Well, D.” She stands up, signaling that it’s time to go. “It’s a school night.”
    “Okay, Mom.” I take her hint.
    “See you in the a.m.”
    I give her a two-finger salute.
    “Good night, Dez.”
    “’Night.”
    I head across the lawn, home to my mom and my stepdad, Bernie. They’re curled up on the couch watching Letterman. Or, to be more accurate, they’re going at it in front of Letterman.
    God, my eyes. My eyes!
    “Hi there, buddy.” Bernie sits up quickly, looking like he just got busted with weed or something. “How was your night?”
    “Good, good.” I stare at the TV, trying not to make eye contact. “I’m beat though, going up.”
    “Okay, sweetheart,” Mom says, smoothing down her hair. “See you in the morning.”
    I try to shake away the disturbing image and make a beeline for my room.
    Actually, I have to say, Bernie is cool as shit. I was relieved when he and Mom got together—especially after years of all the tools sniffing around her. And since Bernie is a cop, I feel like I can finally let my guard down at home.
    Inside my sanctuary, the curtains flap in the breeze from the open window. I see Riley in the gap between them. Just as I thought, she hasn’t gone inside. She’s still sitting on her porch, her shoulders all hunched over. She starts to shake.
    I turn away because it gives me physical pain to see her like this. To know it’s my fault. I know I’ve got to stop. I’m just not sure I know how.
    I close my window and try not to think of Riley outside.
    Instead, I grab one of my many video cameras. My room is a shrine to cinema. I have vintage film reels and old studio lights scattered around. The walls are covered in hundreds of movie tickets and posters of my favorites, like Reservoir Dogs , Fight Club , and The Godfather . Mr. Pink, the Fight Club dudes, and Don Corleone are all staring at me now. They shake their heads in disgust and tell me I’m whipped over a girl I’ll never have.
    I ignore them and go to work on the film—the piece we’ll be submitting to the festival next month, the piece that could get me into the film program at Columbia. In the viewfinder, images move across the tiny screen, but nothing registers in my head.
    Riley’s still out there.
    I put down the camera and grab my notebook. I start to outline the scenes we need to shoot tomorrow, but soon my outline turns to doodles and chicken scratch.
    She’s still out there.
    I sit on my bed and put my ear buds in, closing my eyes as the music fills my head. The Kings of Leon do nothing to take my mind off Rye.
    The Godfather tells me to make her an offer she can’t refuse.
    I tell him to shut his mafia-ass up.
    I go to turn off the light. It reminds me of the game Riley and I played when we were kids. Rye used to be deathly afraid of the dark, but she was too embarrassed to tell her parents. Even then, she tried to be tough. I, in my infinite ten-year-old wisdom, came up with a plan to help. I told her that she could signal me with her lights when she couldn’t sleep. And when she did, I’d go to my window and stand guard—watch her room—to be sure nothing happened.
    Rye would flick her lights when she needed me. Slow, fast, fast, fast. Slow. It was our version of Morse code.
    I