Boy Proof by Cecil Castellucci

Author:Cecil Castellucci [Castellucci, Cecil]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, United States, People & Places, Schools, School & Education, Performing Arts, Interpersonal Relations, Los Angeles (Calif.), Emotions & Feelings, Identity (Psychology), High Schools, Adolescence, Motion pictures, Motion picture industry, Identity, Film, Identity (Philosophical Concept)
ISBN: 9780763627966
Publisher: Candlewick
Published: 2005-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

I am sorting through a bunch of contact sheets, selecting the shots I want to blow up into prints.

So far, I like: The pile of elf ears. The production assistants sifting the snow from the rafters. My mother with a gruesome look on her face as she does her vocal warm-ups between takes.

I take the eyepiece magnifier and start on the second set. It’s from the Buns Not Guns show. I mark a circle around a girl puking into the toilet in the crumbling bathroom. She looks so young, fresh-faced, like a baby. Her throwing up is like a coming-of-age story.

“What’s this?” Max says.

“Contact sheets,” I say, pointing out the obvious. I don’t look up at him. I scan the next sheet.

“Can I look?” he says.

“Knock yourself out,” I say.

“These are amazing,” Max says.

I ignore the compliment.

“That warehouse space where the show was is an art gallery, too,” Max says.

“I read their manifesto,” I say. “It was kind of idealistic.”

“At least it’s an alternative to doom and gloom. It’s action. The concept is simple. Buns. Not. Guns. It’s something you can get behind,” Max says. “I like the idea that you can provide food instead of weapons; it’s something hopeful. I mean, I do stuff that sometimes seems like it’s a big waste of time.”

I’m intrigued. I look up from my eyepiece for a second.

“Like what?” I ask.

“I volunteer at the library to help a kid with his reading and math.”

“The drop in the bucket theory,” I say. “If everyone contributes a drop, then soon enough the bucket will be full.”

“Exactly,” Max says. “I knew you’d get it.”

I look back at my contact sheet.

My eye hits an image of Max, magnified and just for me. He looks classic. Out of time. The picture could be from any era. He is looking right at the camera, right into the lens with those smart eyes. Behind Max is the blur of the crowd, moving like a frenzied mob, like an animal. In all that chaos his eyes managed to look right at me.

I don’t circle the picture.

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