This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,67

can we start off with you just walking in? Okay, Pot Sticker, act 1, scene 1.”

I whack Priya’s homemade clapboard once, and we’re off.

Amah walks in the side door, shimmying down in a geriatric approximation of a model on the catwalk, and oh my God, the struggle to keep myself from bursting into laughter is real.

Priya carefully schools her face. “That was wonderful, Mrs. Wu, but can we take that again, where you just pretend that I’m not here? You don’t have to smile or anything; a neutral expression is actually best. And feel free to slouch a bit, like you’re already a little bit tired.”

“Buyong ting xiong,” I offer in Mandarin. It feels like payback to be able to tell her not to stand up straight.

“Okay, okay, I act natural.”

It requires about four takes for Amah to stop looking up at the camera when she walks by, but eventually Priya gets her B-roll, and we switch to taking close-ups in the kitchen. Around lunchtime we call it a wrap and head upstairs to our home kitchen to make some peanut butter sandwiches and go over our footage. Which is awesome. Somehow, the way Priya framed things, pulling in tight to the food, to the actions, makes our dumpy, badly-in-need-of-renovation restaurant look artistic, even cinematic.

“You’re a genius,” I proclaim. “This is amazing. I can’t wait until tomorrow. You said your brother and Lauren can come, right? So we can shoot some of the black-and-white scenes?”

“Yeah, I just need to go out today and get the last few things for a waitress uniform.”

I review the script to think of any additional props I need to get. I should bring my laptop down so we can shoot some scenes where Mr. Regular is working while he’s eating. And then there’s the scene where the waitress is really tired and he offers her an aspirin, so I should probably bring a medication bottle or something…

I blink. Turn one or two more pages. Flip back.

I turn to Priya. “What happened to the scene where the waitress has a headache?” It was the most dialogue-heavy scene of the script and honestly the one I felt most proud of.

Priya takes a sudden interest in the microphone attachment to her camera. “We-eell, remember when we talked about not needing so much dialogue? It just seemed a little forced, a little too on the nose. Plus, we only have seven minutes. It’s a super-compressed timeline. I mean, our deadline is in three weeks.”

Basically, she says a lot but doesn’t actually answer my real question, and I can feel a sourness in the back of my throat. “Why didn’t you tell me you cut it? I thought we were coproducers.”

“I’m sorry! I honestly thought we had talked about it when I edited the final script.” She finally at least looks at me, pursing her lips the way she did when she was trying to placate the kids she used to babysit. “You know what, just because we don’t film it this weekend doesn’t mean we can’t add it in. Let’s just see what our run time is.”

I stuff the last of my PB&J in my mouth before I say something I regret, as if I could chew up my hurt and swallow it like the obedient daughter/student/friend I am. God, I know that Priya just wants what’s best for the film, but… it was my favorite part, their first real bonding moment before the food connection. It was kind of Mr. Regular’s “Save the Cat” moment, the little character-building act that made the audience think, gee that Mr. Regular’s a swell guy.

Priya’s still fiddling with her microphone, swearing under her breath when it won’t stay right where she wants it to be and casting me occasional little worried glances.

She cares about what I think, I realize. If I really wanted to, I could fight for the scene to stay in.

But if Priya couldn’t see it when she read it, it probably wasn’t good enough. The thought settles in my chest like a heavy stone, solid and shameful and immoveable. I’m not a good enough writer. We’ll hopefully get into the festival mostly on the strength of Priya’s genius with the camera, but with no help from my shitty script.

Priya finally puts the microphone down and fiddles a bit with her video program, tagging the shots that she thinks will make the final cut. Every once in a while, she asks me if I like one shot better than another,