Establishing shot: A young woman.
Short, skinny. More of a girl really.
Early twenties. Nerdy glasses. Tight shoulders.
A classroom, crammed
with desks of orange and blue.
She bites her lip, considers…

Our Cast:
Tennis-muscled arms. Millennial man-bun.
Limbs laced with ink. The Bro.
Unnatural blonde. Red lip. Heels–
and looks– that could kill. The Femme Fatale.
Cocky smile. Soothing baritone.
A copy of Sartre, cover worn. The Poet.

A matter of weeks. A handful of conversations;
quick, uncertain. In front of her,
The Bro, The Femme, and The Poet
plan an outing for drinks. How awkward,
to be present but not a part. Apart.
It is only on the way out,
the school bus a blur in the background,
that The Bro asks, “Hey, you coming?”
Cut to her face. Realization.
She was invited all along.

A montage:
Performing Chappell Roan with The Bro
in the hallways. Students glance, bemused.
“He’s never done this before.” She smiles.
They sing louder.
The Femme Fatale, hands full of cookies.
“I made these at 2 AM for y’all! Peanut free.
I’m allergic.” A pause. A glance.
“Always had to eat lunch in a closet.
Nice to have… friends.”
The Poet’s smile when she asks about his siblings.
Admits he worries, but adores
their unapologetic queerness.
As he speaks, something in her shoulders relaxes.

May:
A close shot, inside a car. Packed tight.
Mattress, clothes, posters, books.
Fade to their faces. Some folk song plays;
something hopeful, but sad.
Her brown eyes blink back tears
at the wheel.

A purple bedroom. The girl, new haircut but still
the same, her lip white from pressure,
neck clenched tight.
But her hands are on a keyboard.
A pointer hovers, clicks.
Submit Application.

Teaching: The Sequel. Coming Fall 2025?