"As soon as a 'mise en scène' turns into a sign, a cliché, a concept (however original it may be), then the whole thing—characters, situation, psychology—become schematic and false." (Andrei Tarkovsky)

...

HIJO DE PUTA.

Motherfucker.

Here I was, on a Tuesday morning, surrounded by a bunch of Bushwick Bros, fuming in the ninth row of Film Language II. How fucking cliché.

"Ve," Mami had said. "No pasa nada, mija."

Mami just didn't understand.

It was all a li'l joke.

But wait until I got a hold of him. If I could track him down... Oh, Beckett was going to regret it. I hadn't even begun to imagine bodily injuries; I was too preoccupied imagining the mental damage of ripping his whole personality to shreds. Verbally, it'd be a chest wound or a major artery caught by a bullet or a headshot: Liam Beckett dying on a sidewalk in Brooklyn.

In Bushwick. Maybe.

I'd tell him the truth: his whole "character" is offensively boring, his skills barely adequate, undoubtedly useless, his ideas shallow and unoriginal—everything he already knew deep, deep, deep down. He was a dime a dozen, truly, on any street in any major city, practically invisible if he'd been in LA. His only edge was a honey-smooth dirtiness accredited to being raised in Florida.

New York had swallowed him and spit him back up. Mercilessly. So I deserved to be punished, ¿verdad?

My leg is pumping up and down. My teeth grinding.

Que se jode.

There's a guy across the aisle with his ironic Carhartt laid over an empty seat. There's another guy a few seats down and a row behind me, dark-rimmed glasses and a short beanie knitted SUPREME. There's a guy nearly directly in front of me with ringed fingers, a curly head of hair and a piercing in his left ear.

No puedo creer...

Professor isn't much less of a Bro. Maybe a decade older, but with rolled-up sleeves, faded ink tattooed down his forearms, Converse. Something about a syllabus, he's saying.

Click. Click.

There's another guy about five seats down, on my right, with a tattoo on his forearm of the Lamb of God. Mustache.

Lights are dim overhead. The projector screen is a dark grey. Off. His shadow looks warped.

Click.

My own doodles had gotten grotesque, I'll admit. I'd decorated my Film Language syllabus with cracked skulls and (anatomically-correct) bleeding hearts and bulging, bloodshot ojos. I fully intended on throwing it away, regardless of any sketches, but I felt myself growing attached to its mood. Dark. Erratic. Sour.

I'd tell Beckett his art was lazy.

Click. Click. Click.

"...beginning with a basic for you guys..."

There's another guy diagonally behind me I keep glimpsing awkwardly—slouched slightly, a five o' clock shadow, a tuft of curly hair swept back by a black bandanna, tapping his Timbs.

"Uhm... Deja?"

I can't bother to be flustered when I hear Professor Figueroa. I was the only woman in the lecture, wasn't I? Claro que si, it was probably muy fácil remembering from a brief glance at his roster before class began. Perhaps a lesson: watch, boys, let's corner and attack. I'm surrounded.

"What?" I ask, sharply. It wasn't my fault.

Did I want to be here? No. I hadn't even taken Film Language I.

"...you know... mise-en-scène?"

Qué lindo. Do I know? I almost snort. They really believe I don't know anything. Because I'm a woman in Film fucking Language.

Click.

My lips press to keep a nasty response back. If only I could describe the Mise-En-Scène of this lecture, Professor. I'm not participating, I'm simply observing. Its unwelcoming aura.

"It's your overall mood," somebody says. "Characters. Props. Setting. Costume. Lighting. It's your vision of Time and Space."

I scoff. But when I swivel, he's twirling a pencil between his fingers, a Timb propped up on his knee and a snarky grin I wish I hadn't seen.

Because I feel myself sparking again. My pulse spikes. My blood boils a bit. My jaw clenches ever so so so slightly. There's a sensation in my fingertips—every day I get closer to inflicting physical harm.

"Yeah," Figueroa nods. "Nice."

Vaguely, I imagine chucking my iPhone at him. Maybe a pen lodged in his skull. Maybe a syllabus crammed down his throat to keep him quiet. Is your name Deja? I wanted to ask, but I simmer instead, crossing my arms over my chest, sulking down an inch, and facing Figueroa.

Fucking Beckett.

I refuse, purely for Liam. I won't give him any satisfaction of my unwilling participation in Film Language. Nope. Nunca.

I'd tell him he's a fraud.

Shit I had stockpiled: choppily cut hair and worn flannels and leather jackets and New York Yankees merch and a stick and poke of a film reel on his arm and a trashy attitude I clashed with so easily.

He's always been an attention whore—a loud-mouthed bullshit asshole from Jacksonville. His whole act was overused; desperate for validation, begging for a compliment, overly sensitive but extremely criticizing. Liam fucking Beckett.

Would Beckett know I'd shown up?

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

He probably already knew.

Fuck him.

Click.

"Psst." His whisper-hiss, an inch behind me, serpent-soft, heat unraveling against my ear dully. He's leaning. "You know you're in the wrong class, right, babe?"

Click.

My whole hand clenches before I drop my pen. My jaw locked. My vision blurry. Hay no... Did this cheap-ass-Timberland-wearing-walking-Bushwick-transplant just insinuate I didn't belong in Film Language II? Did he really...

Inhala. Exhala.

Por que te enojes muy rapído?

Tranquila.

Everything foggy and quick. I ignore him. I find myself digging my iPad from my tote bag quietly. I prop it up. I swipe and I pull open Gmail, student address permanently remembered.

Para: [email protected]
De: [email protected]

Film Language II?
—

Here I am, sitting in the ninth row of Film fucking Language...

...

**HI. Thanks so much for ready, bbs ❤️
I'm hoping to update weekly on Fridays!