The Great Divide

2. Post-Production

The media room, no matter the season, was always stuffy and hot. It was like the room was its own box inside of campus with no windows or vents to circulate air. To make matters worse, it smelled stale inside, as though the janitors neglected to clean it when they made their rounds. The musky, sticky odor was an association my brain tied to James which both caused me amusement and annoyance. Anything reminding me of James was an annoyance.

James was watching the interview on a television screen; Derek Gorman's handsome and balanced features stood out on film. Even his half-witted responses to my questions seemed to carry more weight while watching him speak. Now, as I stepped further into the media room, I was even more annoyed.

James didn't look up when I plopped down on the dingy, threadbare couch beside him. I sunk into the ancient cushions, like I had a hundred times before, and tried to ignore the feeling of familiarity flooding through me. The couch was gross; this was a fact. And the person next to me was just as repulsive.

During our freshman year, James and I had been assigned to work together to complete a project for journalism club. As it was now, I was interviewing, and he was recording, and, even back then our personalities clashed. It became evident right away we were doomed from the start. Over the course of the project, while we tried to work together to create a realistic representation of the city we lived in - quite the endeavor for two fifteen-year-olds - the hostility between us grew and swelled until it exploded. And, then, James did the one thing I would never forgive him for, the one thing I could never forget.

"I don't understand what it is everyone sees in him."

Tilting my head so the memories slid away, I said, "Perfect bone structure, maybe?"

James wrinkled his nose and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his thighs. "Perfect bone structure can't compensate for a complete lack of originality."

Conversely, I leaned further into the couch, my head resting on its back. "I think fifty percent of this school's population might disagree with you. Maybe even a few guys."

James scoffed, a noise both familiar and irritating, much like an alarm clock. "You were the one who said his head was basically a vacuum."

"And I stand by those words," I chirped. "But look at him."

For the first time that evening, James altered his head towards me. "Didn't peg you as superficial, Ren - at least, that superficial."

I met his gaze. "Please, you know I only dream of being with someone who lives on the other side of the river."

James returned his head to the television. "We're not all the same, you know."

A dry laugh caught in my throat as I slammed further back into the couch. James - and all the rest of the Westlaker's - were all the same. It wasn't a matter of opinion. Each and every one of them thought they were better than us, those who lived on the east side. The two populations stood out on campus; it was nearly impossible to mistake which side was home to any individual student. It was like two gangs walked the hallways.

"How much do we have to edit?" I asked.

James shrugged. "Not much. Unless you want to edit out Derek saying 'um' in every sentence."

I forced a dry laugh. "The world deserves to hear Derek in all his glory. Not to mention, that sounds incredibly time consuming. I don't want to watch you cut film for hours."