CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I’m holding back tears when I leave the house. It’ll ruin the makeup Mika did for me. And I can’t walk into the festival with mascara running down my face, bringing attention to myself. Thank god I decided against heels, because I have to run to get to the university in time. Beams from searchlights cross and uncross in the sky. I follow them until I hear the sound of a crowd, along with live music playing. It doesn’t take long to find the festival. You can’t miss it. Dozens of white tents rise from the quad, connected by strings of light. A velvet rope blocks me from getting inside. At the entrance, a man in a gold vest asks for my ticket. I hand it to him, and gather myself as I step beyond the ropes and into a sea of brightly lit tuxedos and cocktail dresses.
I’m glad Mika made me dress up tonight. It’s like I stepped through a television screen into an award show. Red carpets run between the tents, covering the grass. Someone behind a silk-lined table smiles and hands me a schedule. I skim through it. Main films are showcased in the auditorium, but smaller student-made ones are being shown outside in some of the larger tents. I hurry down the carpet, looking left and right, until I find it—tent number 23. Based on the schedule, Tristan’s film should already be twenty minutes in. But when I enter through the slit of the canvas, the screen is off and everyone’s sitting around, chatting. When a couple guys in black shirts and headsets brush past me and I find no sign of Tristan, I figure they’re having technical difficulties. Thank goodness. I wipe my forehead and look around for a seat. The first two rows are pretty much filled up, but the rest are starkly empty. Doesn’t seem to be a large turnout. I’m glad I came to support him then. There are maybe fifteen people in the audience. The schedule shows another film playing at the same time in the main theater. I’m guessing everyone’s there instead.
There are a few empty rows in the back. But I don’t want to appear as though I came alone. In the second to last row, there’s an older gentleman with wispy gray hair and a dark leather jacket, sitting in the middle by himself. He’s wearing tinted glasses. I find a spot near him, leaving an empty seat between us.
Five minutes go by but no film. The audience is growing restless. A few people get up and leave. I turn to the man and ask, “Excuse me, sir, did they mention when the film is supposed to start?”
“Soon,” he says. “But that was a half hour ago.”
“I see.” I frown and check the schedule again.
“Don’t worry. It’s normal in the industry. Everything runs late. So you could say we’re right on schedule.”
“Do you work in film?”
The man smirks. “No, I stay far away from that. I’m only here for the musical aspect.”
“Musical?”
“The documentary,” he says to clue me in. “You know this film is about the Screaming Trees, don’t you? The rock band.”
“I know who they are,” I say, maybe too defensively.
He smiles. “Thought you might have walked into the wrong screening. From my experience, most people your age have never heard of them.”
I can’t tell if he’s being condescending. “I’ll have you know, I came tonight just to see this film,” I say.
“Really?” He scratches his cheek, looking genuinely surprised. “You must be a real fan.”
“Of course I am.”
“Where did you learn about them, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“My boyfriend. He introduced me to them. He knows all their music.”
“Is that so? And where is he?”
“He—” I go quiet, unsure of what to say. “Couldn’t make it.”
“Well, that’s too bad.”
I want to say more about Sam. But there’s no time because the lights dim, and everyone rustles around in their seats, facing forward. The tent goes quiet, and I hold my breath as the film begins.
The sound of an engine rumbles over a black screen as the film fades in to an old town street view through the windshield of someone’s car. A denim-sleeved hand hits the dial of the car stereo, turning on the music. The second I recognize the guitar playing, a static shock moves across my skin, sending goose bumps up my arms. It’s the song “Dollar Bill,” a track from Sam’s favorite album, the one we waited in the rain for him to get signed. As the film changes to the next scene, I’m hit with another song that makes Sam swim in my mind again. And then another one. I knew I was here for a documentary on the Screaming Trees, but I wasn’t prepared to listen to a curated playlist of the last three years of our lives.