Chapter Twenty-Nine

I'm riding high after Maeve's and my Zoom class—she absolutely killed it, and I know she'll get this grant. I'm riding so high, in fact, that the party I attend that night as I track Charlie's flight feels amazing. I even manage to charm and be charmed by some billionaire when he pauses the bullshit to tell me about his gay daughter and how much movies like this meant to her. Charlie, brave soldier he is, arrives at our hotel a little past noon on Friday, our premiere less than ten hours from then. I apologize to him for the crunch, but he shrugs it off and starts caffeinating.

And once Charlie is in France, everything becomes very real. I wish they'd given us more of a break before the screening, but at least I'm not having a panic attack when I walk into the theater where Oakley in Flames will make its world premiere at eight forty-five that night. I feel present. I can smell the expensive perfume and champagne and really soak it in—my movie got into a prestigious festival. It might get bought this week.

On top of it, I feel so me. My hair is looking tousled and bad boy, plus blonder because Charlie and I did the stupid lemon bleach on our tips when he was supposed to be taking a nap this afternoon. Combined with heavy makeup that emphasizes the angle of my cheekbones, dark rose lipstick that hugs the curves of my lips, and eclectic silver necklaces, bracelets, and rings accessorizing an otherwise figure-cutting black suit, I look incredible. Hell, with my lacy black bra in full view and my black pumps, I've never felt happier with a look nor looked hotter. It's perfect.

And as much as I want to fixate on Maeve, on the fact that she didn't say anything to me after the lecture, the fact that I don't know if Ashlee and the department are going to give her that grant, I push it away. I push it away and head on to the red carpet alone. Take pictures alone. Ignore the questions about where my professor girlfriend is. It's going to be okay.

One last breath and I step into the theater. I beeline right to Charlie, Mason, and my family, who are conveniently clustered in an area near the front of the stage where we'll do a QA later. Mason stuns in a shiny silver suit, her black hair cut into a sharp bob. Charlie went for a standard black suit like me.

Gwyn springs into action first, pulling me into a hug before even Mason gets the chance. And Mason likes to hug.

"Are there any graphic sex scenes in this?" Gwyn whispers to me.

I laugh. "Sensuality, no sex."

Mason throws an arm around me. "I have a cameo, and our characters fuck," she says, straight-faced.

Charlie just opens his mouth slightly. "I—I'm pretty sure you guys are invalidating my sex scene…"

I turn to Gwyn, who's just been staring in horror at us. "It's about sex workers, but no, no on-screen sex. Promise." I swear, for all that Gwyn is an LGBT+ champion ally, she's as prudish about my work as my parents are. Still there to support every second but doesn't want to see her sister simulate sex. Like, I get it, but also weak.

Charlie squeezes my shoulders as Mason and my family take their seats. "How you feeling?"

That pang does hit. Something about Charlie knowing everything just gets me. "Trying to focus on the positive."

"The film's incredible, and I'm not just saying that because I'm second-billed."

I smile and kiss his cheek. "I can't wait for people to fall in love with you again."

He smiles back. "I love you, Sulls."

"I love you too."

Minutes slip away. Charlie and I take our seats, him offering me a worn box of Sour Patch Kids I can only assume he kept from the airport. I decline, but after I give my brief introduction, having a piece of candy to suck on while I wait for my heart to slow down turns out to be lifesaving.

I lean my head on Charlie's shoulder as the movie plays. Try to zone out and not focus on the laughs or gasps I hear as it plays. In fact, I do a pretty bang-up job not looking at myself as I watch, especially considering I'm already semi-self-consciously worried that being my own director made me the film's weakest link. I focus on Charlie, on the other wonderful queer people who weave this film's fabric. I even think about Luna, how infectious her energy was on set. How it reflected what she was going through, how she was discovering her own sexuality as we made this film together. We've never really spoken about it, but I'm tempted to get her thoughts during the after-party tonight. We hugged on the way in, and she, Romy, and Wyatt picked seats somewhere toward the back.

Shit. I did this. I found this incredible, poignant, funny, fresh script. I had a vision in my head and turned that vision into a reality. It's a real feature-length film that was deemed good enough for Cannes. A full house of industry people and movie lovers from all over the world are watching it right now. If all goes well, I can look up at a billboard while driving along the 405 and see the movie I made advertised to local moviegoers. My unabashedly queer, unabashedly anti-police, unabashedly rebellious movie. Watching it is like falling in love with my own work, falling in love with myself all over again.

And when the credits roll, the room bursts into applause. I force myself to rip my eyes off the screen and look at the audience around me. People on the edges of the front row are standing up. My family stands. Mason stands. Charlie stands, forcing me to my feet as he slams his hands together. He looks me right in the eye too, mouthing, You're amazing, as the applause plays to a crescendo around us. My insides gets looser, but it doesn't quite bite the edge off the nerves that are still wriggling inside me in anticipation of the QA.

"And we welcome back to the stage, executive producer, director, and star of Oakley in Flames, Valeria Sullivan!" the emcee says.

Charlie lets go of me, I take one last deep breath, and step into the lights.

I take my seat in one of the little director's chairs they have set out. Three in total, quickly filled by Charlie and Mason, costar and EP who made this movie happen. It feels strangely like the three of us have sat down in my living room late at night/early in the morning after some other fancy Hollywood event. If we just had margaritas, it truly would be just another riff session between the three of us. But no, I'm looking out at the audience, past my family and the smattering of familiar faces. There are so many faces I don't recognize. Faces who came to see my film and enjoyed it without knowing me. It's kind of incredible.

No, it is incredible.

"Congratulations to all of you," Victoria, the French butch lesbian emcee, says.

Another round of applause swells around us. There's only one mic (always a technical glitch), but it doesn't even faze me.

"This movie is so fun, isn't it?"

Mason takes the mic. "In the worst way possible, of course."

The audience chuckles.

"Let's talk about that. This film has an undercurrent of something very sinister and dark from queer history. Queer sex workers in this story, like Charlie's character, really exist. Disappearances like Eddie's are ripped from the headlines. What drew you to the subject matter, and then how did you choose to speak on it?"

I take the mic. My heart is beating hard, but for a moment, I feel like I'm back in a college classroom. Talking up here, it's a giddy sort of déjà vu. Big themes and creative vision flow so seamlessly from my thoughts to my lips. Everyone in this audience paid to hear me talk and I'm finally confident enough to give them their money's worth.

"I think the tragic part about what queer sex workers go through is that it's not ripped from the headlines. No one in the general public really knows about these people's vulnerability. I wanted to do my part to bring that to light. And with this script in particular, I was drawn to the bond of solidarity that formed between my character and the character of Leon. This idea that these male strip clubs heavily discriminate based on cis-ness and race and are horribly sexist, yet when one of these ‘privileged' white cis gay men goes missing, only a queer woman and a trans man love him enough to find him? I loved the focus on the marginalized within an already marginalized community through our protagonists, and I loved that the film showed the kind of love and connection that can exist within these fraught spaces. Especially because these characters are facing an external enemy that kind of hates them all in the same way."

"Plus, you know, mysteries are fun," Mason says, taking the mic from me.

I laugh along with the audience. "It was also fun. The dialogue was whip-smart. Getting those deadpan deliveries has been the most fun thing I've done as a director so far."

"I like the idea that you'll never actually improve and that will remain your best moment," Mason teases. I give her the lightest push on the arm.

"Thanks for believing in me," I return.

"I have to say," Victoria says. "The queer perspective here was pitch-perfect."

I blush. "Thank you."

"Obviously this is personal for you, but did you do any research to make sure you were portraying things as accurately as possible?"

I look to Charlie and Mason. Mason shrugs.

"I did try to find lesbian gaze film theory, but Mason told me to just not zoom in on breasts."

"Just my tits," Charlie says.

"Even you didn't have a body close-up," I say. "No, honestly, I just wasn't ever interested in body parts. I always loved watching bodies and figures move through space, so I tried to keep the shots wide as much as possible. And hey, it's a team effort. Mason's input is in the shots, my incredible DP Brendan Kim translated my vision so perfectly, and even camera assistants like the lovely Luna Roth, who's somewhere in the audience, would give me their own take on the non-cis male gaze."

I wonder if Maeve would agree with what I'm saying. If she were ever forced to write a paper on me, what she'd say about this film. What she'd say about the films I hope to make in the future. My chest aches hoping this film is good enough for her. Even though I might never know if she saw it.

"But we did have to rein you in," Charlie teases. "You did want to just randomly have ‘Pinball Wizard' in this movie."

The audience laughs. They're being way too nice to me. "It would've added to the trippiness of the scene."

"It"—Mason puts a hand on my shoulder—"has never made sense outside of Tommy."

Maeve made that comment once. That it only kind of worked in Rocketman.

The QA wraps up. I return to my seat, looking back as people exit the theater. I'm— I hate to say it, but I'm on fire. My answers were insightful and witty, I nailed exactly what I wanted to convey about the film. After whether consciously or not treating teaching like a distraction, it turns out it was exactly what I needed. Every minute in the classroom adjusting to a new audience and expressing new thoughts has improved my communication. Taking every bit of Maeve's constructive criticism and praise has sharpened my thoughts themselves. I feel on top of the world. I feel like my thoughts matter. I feel capable. I feel like I deserved to make this movie and to take up this space. All because of a confidence Maeve gave me. I feel—

I feel like my heart's dropped to my shoes.

I'm standing in a theater in Cannes, my shoes digging into the movie theater carpet, and my tongue's coated in sugar, and my blood's buzzing from a QA, and I'm staring at Maeve.