Me And Earl And The Dying Girl Part 22

"I'm the director," I said. I was really starting to lose focus. I felt the distant rumblings of a major freak-out coming on.

"I have to run. I'm so happy you're doing this!" she exclaimed.

"Yeahhhh," I said weakly.

"You're the best," she said, hugging me. Then she ran away.

"Burp," I said, when she was out of earshot.

The exploding turkey had an expression on his face, like: "G.o.ddammit! I'm exploding again?"

Earl had even less of an idea of how to do this project than I did. However, he was much better at articulating that.

"The f.u.c.k," he kept muttering as I was trying to describe the project to him.

"Look," he finally said. "You agreed to make a film for somebody. Now what the h.e.l.l do that mean."

"Uh, I guess . . . It means . . . Huh."

"Yeah. You got no idea what the h.e.l.l it mean."

"I feel like I sort of do."

"Well, spit it out, son."

We were in my kitchen and he was rummaging through our food, which put him in at least a neutral mood, if not a good one.

"I mean, if we were painters, we could just paint a picture of something and give it to her as a gift. Right? So let's just do the film version of that."

"Where the h.e.l.l do Pa Gaines keep the salsa at."

"I think we're out. Look-what if we just did a one-off film? And gave her the only copy? That works, right?"

"Son, that don't give oh, hot d.a.m.n."

"What?"

"What the h.e.l.l is this."

"That's-lemme look at it."

"This smell like a donkey's hairy-a.s.s d.i.c.k."

"Ohhhh. This is goose-liver pate."

"There ain't no salsa, I'ma eat this s.h.i.+t."

As I've mentioned before, Earl gets very fired up about the occasionally gross animal-derived foods purchased and refrigerated by Dr. Victor Q. Gaines. I say "purchased and refrigerated" because Dad never eats them right away. He likes for them to spend a lot of time in the fridge, so that the rest of the family has a chance to become aware of them. It's a habit that Gretchen may hate more than anything else in the world. However, Gretchen's extreme dislike is balanced by the almost-as-extreme appreciation of Earl. Earl expresses his appreciation by talking about how disgusting the food is while eating it.

"Son. We still have no idea what the film gonna be about."

"Yeah, that's the hard part."

"Yeah."

"Uhhhh."

"Like, we could make the David Lynch film that we was gonna make, and just give it to Rachel, and that's her film. But I don't think we want to do that."

"No?"

"h.e.l.l no. That'd be weird as h.e.l.l. We'd be like, Yo, Rachel, watch this crazy-a.s.s film about lesbians running around and hallucinating and s.h.i.+t. We made this film especially for you."

"Huh."

"Like at the beginning, it's like, 'For Rachel.' It's like we're saying: Rachel, you love David Lynch. You love freaky-a.s.s lesbians getting they freak on. So here's a film about that s.h.i.+t. Nah. That don't make no sense. Now what the f.u.c.k is this."

"No, no, don't eat that. That's dried cuttlefish. That's like Dad's favorite. He likes to wander around with part of it sticking out of his mouth."

"I'ma take a little bite."

"You can like nibble it once, but that's it."

"Mmm."

"What do you think?"

"Man, this taste stupid. This taste like some kinda . . . undersea . . . urinal."

"Huh."

"It taste like dolphins and s.h.i.+t."

"So, you don't like it."

"I did not say that."

"Oh."

"Yeah, it's like seventy-five percent dolphin s.c.r.o.t.u.m, twenty-five percent chemicals."

"So you do like it."

"This is a dumb-a.s.s piece of food."

I had to agree with Earl: We couldn't just do any film. There had to be at least some kind of connection to Rachel's life. But what connection could that be? We sat in the kitchen and we brainstormed a bunch of them. All of the ideas were stupid.

They were really stupid. You're about to see exactly how stupid. I mean, my G.o.d.

"Are you done eating that?"

"What?"

"You shouldn't finish that, Dad's gonna want some."

"The h.e.l.l he will."

"He will."

"It's so nasty. Son, it's so nasty."

"Then why are you finis.h.i.+ng it?"

"Takin a bullet."

I knew our first plan was a mistake when Jared "Crackhead" Krakievich waddled up to me in the hall and addressed me as "Spielberg."

"Hah yih doin, Spillberg," he shouted, grinning hideously.

"What?" I said.

"I seen yer maykin' a mewvie."

"Oh yeah."

"I dinn know yih made mewvies."

"Just this one," I said, probably too hastily.

"I'm call yih Spillberg fruh now on."

"Great."

It was the first shot fired in a nightmarish barrage of attention that would continue all day.

Mrs. Green, Physics 1 I.S.: "I think what you are doing is so . . . touching and . . . remarkable, and just really touching."

Kiya Arnold: "My cousin died of leukemia. I just want to say. I'm so sorry about your girlfriend. How long y'all been together?"

Will Carruthers: "Hey f.a.ggot! Lemme be in your gay movie."

Plan A was: Get the well-wishes of everyone at school, synagogue, etc., and put them in a film, and have that be the film. A get-well film, basically. Simple, elegant, heartwarming. Sounds like a good idea, right? Of course it does. We were completely seduced by this idea. We were morons.

First Problem: We had to get the footage ourselves, meaning we had to reveal ourselves as filmmakers to a hostile world. Originally, I asked Madison if she would get the footage herself, i.e., if she would hang out in a cla.s.sroom with a camera instead of me and Earl. This led to me saying that I sort of didn't want people knowing I was making a film for Rachel, which made her upset. That led to me saying that I didn't want people to know about my feelings for Rachel, which made her upset in a different way that I did not, frankly, understand. Anyway, she insisted that I get the footage, and said "Oh, Greg" about seventy times until I quietly freaked out and ran away.

So we made plans to film in Mr. McCarthy's room after school, and reluctantly told a couple of teachers about it, and with disturbing speed all teachers had found out about it, and told their students, and also it made the morning announcements every day in a row for like a week.

So yeah. This was possibly the death blow to the invisibility I had been cultivating throughout high school, and then gradually losing since becoming friends with Rachel. I used to be just normal Greg Gaines. Then I was Greg Gaines, Rachel's Friend and Possibly Boyfriend.

That was bad enough. But now I was Greg Gaines, Filmmaker. Greg Gaines, Guy with a Camera, Following People Around. Greg Gaines, Perhaps He Is Creepily Filming You Right Now Without Your Knowledge or Consent.

f.u.c.kbiscuit.

Second Problem: The footage was not very good. The teachers all ran way too long, first of all. None of them said anything that could be edited down. A lot of them started talking about tragedies that had happened in their lives, which besides being unusable made things fairly awkward in the room after they were done recording.

As for the students, 92 percent said some combination of these things:

* "Get better."

* "I have to say I don't know you that well."

* "I know we never hung out very much."

* "You're in my cla.s.s, but we've never really talked."

* "I actually don't know anything about you."

* "But I do know that you have the inner strength to get better."

* "You have a beautiful smile."

* "You have a beautiful laugh."

* "You have really beautiful eyes."