Robin and Ruby by K. M. Soehnlein

remembers Calvin’s screenplay.
    He opens another beer and carries it to his bedroom. On the wobbly card table that substitutes as a desk, he finds the dog-eared page where he last left off.
    INT. NIGHTCLUB, NEW YORK CITY—AFTER MIDNIGHT
    Synthesized music, bright flashes of light, but we only see one table on screen. In a booth, seated, CARTER looks back and forth between BENNETT and AGNETHA, who sip their cocktails and smoke. (Characters must shout to be heard.)
    BENNETT
    I’m bored. Where’s my nose candy?
    CARTER
    Don’t pressure me, you pretentious fucks.
    AGNETHA
    You’re a tyrant. You bore me.
    CARTER
    Boredom is a neurological impossibility. Scientists have shown that what you experience as boredom is actually the motivational part of your brain shutting down. Boredom is fear .
    BENNETT
    (sarcastic)
    I find that scary.
    AGNETHA
    The hell with this, you cocksuckers.
    CARTER
    We could go back to my place, snort blow, and play truth or dare.
    The script arrived in the mail earlier this week, a sloppy pile of type-written sheets thickened in spots with Liquid Paper and a cover page announcing “ Entering and Breaking , by Calvin Kraft.” The role Calvin had in mind for Robin was Carter (“overeducated and handsome”), a twenty-year-old rich kid who seemed a lot like Calvin: too smart for his own good, letting insults fly whenever he opened his mouth, then retreating into sulkiness.
    The first time Robin met Calvin was when he showed up at the apartment on 71st Street to take Ruby out. That night, Robin had plans to meet a friend, but he lingered out of curiosity and to satisfy his mother, who wanted his opinion on the new boy in Ruby’s life. Calvin turned out to be one of those tall guys who carry themselves with a stoop. His blond hair hung greasily across his eyes; you wanted to push it out of the way. His mother insisted Calvin call her Dorothy, saying, “Even my children call me Dorothy. I haven’t been Mrs. MacKenzie for years.” There was some awkward small talk, the four of them suffering through introductions. Then Robin mentioned that he was on his way to the movies to see Amadeus. “They say Milos Forman’s film-making is outstanding,” Calvin said, pronouncing the name “ ME-lowsh ,” and then, in what Robin would come to recognize as Calvin’s characteristic ability to recalibrate featherlight small talk into cutting insult, he continued, “There’s no way I’ll see it. The subject matter is retrograde, no matter how contemporary they try to make it. Film’s supposed to look to the future. Opera’s a dead art for dead souls.”
    Dorothy gasped in shock.
    “Uh-oh,” Ruby said, a giggle in her throat as she took in their mother’s reaction.
    Dorothy was a devoted subscriber to the Met, and there wasn’t a milestone in Robin’s life that wasn’t marked by the background crescendo of an aria on the turntable. There might have been one playing at that very moment, perhaps something from Mozart meant to send Robin off to the movie.
    A year later, Dorothy had yet to warm to Calvin, though Robin had forgiven him the blunt first impression, especially since Ruby seemed contented enough. She seemed to take some rebellious pleasure in the way her boyfriend didn’t kowtow to their mother. It had been so long since his sister had dated anyone. (Had she ever, seriously?) Calvin and Ruby spent a lot of time together, though they didn’t display a whole lot of physical intimacy. And besides, Robin found Calvin amusing, despite his pretensions.
    So Robin had invited Calvin to visit Carnegie Mellon with Ruby and Dorothy to see him perform. He’d been cast as Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof . Before the show, knowing his family was in the audience, he’d been nearly sick with nerves. The director had complained that Robin was sometimes too self-conscious onstage, and so that night he decided to try something new, to underplay rather than go for broke. Onstage, he could feel the other actors