Reel (Hollywood Renaissance #1) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,3

of performing someday on Broadway, for him. For this. There’s an acceptance letter in my desk drawer to a great theater program. My ticket out of here. My passport out of what has become hell. Rutgers can pay for a fresh start, far away from here; from them. From this wicked we staring at me with lying, tear-drenched eyes.

It feels like they’ve taken everything, but they haven’t. I have a lot.

I have opportunity.

A weird calm falls over me. It doesn’t dull the throbbing, pulsing pain in my chest, or ease the churning nausea in my stomach—I’ll throw up when I make it to my room—but it does give me the strength to do what needs to be done.

Leave.

Quote

“Jazz washes away the dust of everyday life.”

* * *

-- Art Blakey, Renowned Drummer

1

Canon (Present Day)

I blink when the lights come up in the Walter Reade Theatre, brightness assaulting my eyes after nearly two hours spent sitting in the dark. The packed room seems to draw a collective breath and then release it as thunderous applause. And then they stand. I’m sure some folks stay seated, but I only see a roomful of people standing, clapping for the documentary I poured the last three years of my life into. Warmth crawls up my neck and over my face. I will myself not to squirm in the director’s chair set center stage. It’s not my first time screening a documentary at the New York Film Festival, but I’ll never get used to the attention. I’m much more at home behind the camera than in front of an audience. I’m like Mama in that way.

I hope I’m like her in a thousand ways.

Charles, the moderator, clears his throat and shoots me a grin, mouthing I told you so.

I roll my eyes and concede his point with a dip of my head and a wry smile. He predicted a standing ovation for Cracked, my documentary examining America’s war on drugs, mandatory minimums, and mass incarceration, and contrasting the current largely suburban opioid crisis.

My usual lighthearted fare.

I gesture for everyone to sit, and for a few seconds they ignore me, until in small waves, they take their seats.

“I think they liked it,” Charles says into his handheld mic, causing a ripple of laughter through the theater.

“Maybe.” I look out to the crowd. “But I’m sure they have questions.”

Do they ever.

For the next hour, the questions come in a quick succession of unrelenting curiosity and mostly admiration. A few challenge my largely critical stance of the government’s so-called War on Drugs. I’m not sure if they’re merely playing devil’s advocate, or actually believe the points they raise. Doesn’t matter. I enjoy a good debate, and don’t mind having it with 300 people watching. It’s a great chance to further clarify my points, my beliefs. And maybe learn something in the process. We aren’t usually one hundred percent right or informed on anything. Even if I don’t agree with someone, I never discount the opportunity to learn something I hadn’t considered.

When I’m sure we’ve exhausted this discussion and I can start thinking about the mouthwatering steak I’ve promised myself, another person approaches the mic set up in the aisle.

“One last question,” Charles says, pointing to the freckled guy with red hair who’s sporting a Biggie T-shirt.

“I’m a huge fan of your work, Mr. Holt,” he begins, his blue eyes fixed and intense.

“Thanks.” I ignore my stomach’s protest. “’Preciate that.”

“As much as I love your documentaries,” he continues, “I miss your feature films. Did the experience with Primal put you off directing movies?”

Shit.

I do not talk about that disaster. It’s been discussed enough without me ever addressing it publicly. Everyone knows not to ask me about that movie. And this little joker has the balls to ask me now? After a standing ovation at the New York Film Festival for the hardest documentary I’ve ever made?

“Some stories should be told by other people,” I say, keeping my tone flat and shrugging philosophically. “You find the stories you’re supposed to tell and move on if it becomes clear a story is not for you. It’s not personal.”

“So I think that does it,” Charles says. “Thank you all for—”

“But it was personal,” Redhead cuts in over Charles’ attempt to shut him down, pressing on despite the color flushing his cheeks. “I mean, you were dating Camille Hensley and when you guys broke up, she had you fired from the movie. Does it get more personal? Do you have advice for us young