A few days later, I have mail. Not e-mail, real mail, so rare these days, which makes it an incredible treat.
I lock the mailbox, hurry upstairs and open my prize. The handwriting on the envelope looks vaguely familiar, and when I open it up I see why: it’s a letter from an old friend, a former Collierite, currently studying at USC.
Miranda—I’ll cut right to the chase.
You don’t know what’s been going on these last few months. We need you out here, and we need you bad. We’re in the Heart of Hollywood; the MPAA has so much control it’s ridiculous. Indie directors and screenwriters are screwed like you wouldn’t believe. Dropping the f-bomb in a PG-13 film and getting away with it is considered a victory. And yet people complain that the MPAA is getting too loose, that their standards are slipping…which is in all likelihood the reason for the crackdown in the first place.
I know you’re busy, I know you’re working hard at NYU, but please, Miranda, we need someone like you. You’ve rebelled in the past, and you have a history with USC. You spoke at the film festival and blew everyone away. Please come out here, just for a few weeks. We need someone who’s got the heart, and if your speech at the festival was any indication, you’ve got heart to spare. We’re all at our wit’s end. We need a lobbyist, and I remember how passionate you can be when you care about something. You know how to get a crowd going. We’ve suffered defeat. We’re lagging. We need a rebel. We need a kick-ass woman like you.
I sent you this in a letter instead of an e-mail for two reasons. First of all, I know you love getting mail, and yes, you might consider that to be sucking up, but frankly I’m beyond caring, as long as it gets you out here. Second, there can’t be any records of our group activity anymore. We have to be careful. So if you do come out here, don’t make it public. Tell Conor and Adrienne, if you must, but no one else.
Miranda, I am begging you—no, not begging. I’m simply asking you, filmmaker-to-filmmaker, but more than that, Collierite-to-Collierite, if you will come out here. I can’t keep this group going on my own, and people are starting to drift—they don’t see the point, they think there’s no use in fighting. But there is, and I know you know that. Please help me. You’re my secret weapon. My Woman in Black. (Don’t tell me you don’t remember that.)
And for the love of God, Miranda, hurry. Our resistance is crumbling. (Did that appeal to the former drama student in you? I hope so.)
Missing you (as always),
Cooper Riley
I read and reread the letter, analyzing from every angle and squeezing every last drop of meaning that I can out of it. My instincts are screaming at me to go, to pack up and get on the next flight to California. Adrienne would approve. I know she would. She’s always telling me to “hang the bloody consequences.” If I go, she will cover for me here until I get back.
But Conor…no. He won’t like this, not at all. And neither will Callahan. In fact, if I showed this letter to Callahan, he would have a stroke, a heart attack, and an aneurysm all at the same time…and then he’d burn the letter and give me a three-hour lecture on why rebellion must be treated with caution.
“It’s meant to be a subtle buildup, not a siege,” he’s always telling me, when I recount my glory days as a Dead Poet.
Hang consequences, Miranda! Go! Go to them! No, don’t…you’ll never get work again if you do.
The conflict bats in my head like a tennis match. I can’t go. I can’t. But oh, God how I want to.
If you do this, you will regret it for the rest of your sorry career, my inner Callahan warns me.
If you don’t do this, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life, Adrienne’s voice counters sharply.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
I fish in the kitchen drawer until I find Adrienne’s cigarette lighter. It’s red, a dark, rich red, with silver carvings down one side. It fits perfectly in my hand. I’ve never held it before now.
I stand over the sink with the letter in one hand and Adrienne’s lighter in the other.
Do it.
I can’t!
Do it.
I can’t!
You can’t go. Burn the damn thing. Stop torturing yourself.
The little yellow flame dances in front of my eyes, teasing me, flirting with me. It’s hungry. It wants that paper.
Burn it. Now!
The resulting blaze lasts only a few brilliant moments—it is, after all, only one sheet of paper. I turn on the water and watch the crumbling remains of the burned letter slide down the garbage disposal. It’s not until I turn the water off and see a drop fall onto my sleeve that I realize I’m crying.
Gone. It’s gone, it’s over, I made my choice and there’s no turning back.
