A huge swim meet is in town. Roving bands of teens and parents and their friends clog the beach sidewalks, each sporting their own light purple or hot pink or deep blue T-shirts emblazoned with logos that shout out pride from small towns from far away that I will likely never visit. Younger siblings tag along, some bored, some enthralled. In my movie, they will make a perfect swirling background, a backdrop in perpetual motion.
When the girl and her dog head to the beach with a vague mission to rub the sticks together that will give off the spark to rekindle a friendship, these happy, healthy family groups push past her, hesitate in front of her, pause next to her to pat her dog’s head. They make the girl feel uncomfortable in their wholesomeness, their togetherness. All scare her dog, except one little girl with curly blond hair. She whispers to the dog, kisses the top of her head, and the dog is calmed by her. In my movie, the audience will wonder about her symbolism based solely upon her looks.
When the girl meets the boy who wants more than her friendship, the boy to whom she gave more than friendship until it fell apart over a simmering something she clearly caused but still cannot define, the boy stirs it all up again, insisting all will be okay if she can just see his point of view. The girl pats her dog in a successful attempt to keep tears from freely falling, because the boy doesn’t see them shining in her eyes when she looks up at him as he explains and explains. In my movie, the audience will wonder why the girl paid for a dinner that ultimately ended with her walking away from the night, alone and friendless. “Maybe she didn’t know it would end that way,” someone in the audience will whisper to a friend.
The girl will go home later that night and wonder how it is she is back where she started in this place–alone and feeling friendless. In my movie, the audience will know–be absolutely sure–that this is a turning point for the girl, and how great it will be later in the movie when the girl realizes it, too.
Thursday is my Friday. This is what Thursday night looks like as my “weekend” begins–blurred and beautiful. In my movie, the audience will almost feel the caress of the cool breeze that makes the girl hug her dog close to keep them both from shivering. In my movie, the audience will sigh at this scene and be completely spellbound to find out what happens next.