Basim is nowhere in sight, and the hoop of barbed wire wrapped around my heart cinches even tighter with this realization as I shade my eyes with one hand and rapidly scan the horizon. The strip of gravel leading to the concessions stand is smothered by millions of yellow flowers while the ticket booth squatting beside the main road shows off its sides pockmarked with splotches of weathered grey and rotten black. Our car sits closer by with a skirt of dust clinging to the bottoms of its doors, and I run over and peer through each of its windows: nobody sits inside, and both of our cell phones rest in the cupholders in front. I also check that no one is curled up in the foot space in back and pop the trunk as well, hating the memories that prompt this extra step.

“Basim?”

I shout first, then slam the trunk shut. And as both sounds echo across the desert of pebbles in front of me, I watch the edges of the drive-in lot for movement, peering through the walls of dull, dark shrubbery becoming elms and oaks towering overhead. Farthest away is the movie screen, a drab white rectangle floating against the cloudless afternoon sky: dozens of undecipherable signatures and a sloppily-sprayed purple campfire cram themselves inside its bottommost tenth.

Several questions zip past as I inspect the opacity crowding around me. If you’re going to trek all the way out here to leave your name on something, wouldn’t you want to make it legible? And what if someone traveling down the main road spotted our car and decided to make a detour? Or maybe Basim wandered off and stumbled upon something that he shouldn’t have? The first time we came here, we found a dozen syringes sprinkled between the struts of the movie screen and vowed to give that end of the property the widest berth possible, but some promises aren’t as airtight as others. I contemplate twisting my way through curtains of spiderwebs and piles of broken glass, and it’s an evenly-matched cruelty on par with last night’s video call, this morning’s unveiling, and an afternoon filled with tetanus shots and missing-person reports.

“Basim?”

I shout again as I scan the horizon a second time, my free hand scrunching into a fist as I press the other against my brow. All ten fingers are dyed an irrefutable shade of blue, and every nail is nibbled down to the raw pink flesh underneath: five scalloped edges dig into my palm, and this pain keeps the sloshing in my gut and the shimmering in the corners of my eyes from swallowing me whole. I wonder if Basim made it all the way to the ticket booth but decide to stick close to where I last saw him and circle the concessions stand. The gravel crunches beneath my boots speckled with ink, and I keep my eyes locked on the green, praying for a sign. There used to be strips of orange on top of the greyish ground in front, rows of rusted poles that carried the speakers for each of the cars, but their numbers have dwindled into a handful of survivors huddling on the edges of the property, each of our visits marked by one less post.

“Hey, Basim. You in there?” 

I knock on the door of the projection booth next and rattle its knob: locked, just like last time. Then, I walk to the tiny window on the opposite wall, grip the sill with splattered hands, and hoist myself up to peer inside. My shadow spills onto the floor. A halo of curly hair darkens busted concrete, standing water, and a crowd of empty beer bottles. I study these remnants and land on my feet, wondering if we’re not alone out here and who I should call first.

“Basim!” 

There’s movement beneath the left side of the movie screen, and Basim steps through the wall of green with a clump of yellow shining on the front of his shirt. I should be breathing during the time it takes him to shuffle towards me, relieved that none of my worst-case scenarios have come true, but my hoop of wire only tightens as I watch Basim approach.

“Where were you?”

I ask this once he’s within earshot, and Basim glides past me without glancing in my direction: he’s focused on the bench built into the wall of the projection booth, and I immediately give chase. The shimmering lining my vision triples in speed as I sweat through my sports bras and sweater and struggle to fill my lungs with air.

“Basim. Where were you?”

I repeat my question with a wheeze, but we walk in silence until Basim reaches the bench beneath the projector window. He turns around and holds out his right hand, his eyes fixed on the pile of buttercups threaded through his fist.

“I found these behind the screen,” he says.

“You went behind the screen?”

My eyes latch onto Basim’s face as he stares at his flowers, struggling to wring any happiness from him standing here instead of me finding him sprawled in a pile of weeds with a rusty nail through his shoe or laid out on a stretcher with a white sheet over his face.

“I thought we agreed to never go behind the screen.”

I say this as slowly as I can while Basim’s eyes scrabble across every centimeter of his buttercups. The weather’s still warm enough for grasshoppers, and their staggered chorus mixes with a faint breeze tickling the topmost branches of the trees, making a sound like an ocean roaring hundreds of miles away.

“What did we say about going behind the screen, Basim?”

“It’s dangerous,” he says softly.

“And if something’s dangerous, what do we do?”

My hands are balled at my sides, then they’re tucked into my soaking armpits, then they’re hooked into the pockets of my dress pants: I’m fidgeting, looking up at Basim and waiting for him to answer as his eyes chatter and the rest of his face droops like a mask fashioned from setting plaster.

“What do we do, Basim?”

I rip the flowers from his hand. Basim tries to snatch them back, but he only ends up with a pile of green stalks while I keep the heads and petals falling like feathers from a savaged pillow. I think of all the parents and police officers swooping onto this spot and staring down at me with that name dripping from their lips like venom, and I clench my fists even tighter.

“What do we do, Basim?” I shout, the yellow downpour intensifying.

“I don’t remember…”

“You remember that you come find me and ask me if it’s okay, or you stay where you are until I find you. What you don’t do is wander off and make me think that you’re lost, or hurt, or fucking dead!” 

I shove my pile of petals into his chest, and he stumbles backwards as they flutter to the ground. A few crushed heads stick to the front of Basim’s shirt as I turn and stomp away, eyes trained on the concessions stand. I firmly plant one foot in front of the other as I walk, but it feels like I’m wading through a crumpled watercolor painting as the trees in the corners of my vision bleed into the blank September sky overhead. Staring eyes lurk in the shadows below, and the field of goldenrod in front of the main road stretches onward to brilliant infinity. A premise just as scary as finding Basim bleeding out hits me at this moment: this is how things are, and they will always be this way.

I throw myself onto the bench built into the side of the concessions stand and press my palms against my eyelids. And despite the bursts of red and orange filling this private darkness, certain visions refuse to leave. Last night’s video call: the smears of pixels and tinny screaming that was my extended family being so proud of me, that name poking through the choppiness like a needle left forgotten in a pile of sewing scraps. This morning’s meeting with Mrs. McKay: nothing but smiles and a cream-colored suit as she sat behind her desk and watched me sign my certificate, that name slicing through her joyful tittering like a whiff of shit in a disinfected bathroom. And the unveiling outside the Guidance Office right after: Mom and Dad laying their hands on my shoulders, so proud to see that name etched into glass for all eternity.

The pen I took with me snapped in half as I stood there and watched, ink bluer than midnight soaking my fingers and dribbling down the front of my sweater and pants. Mrs. McKay and my parents all rushed off to call the custodian and find me some paper towels, but that name lingered in the air after they left and remained after everybody returned. Mom kept the certificate I signed in her purse as she hurried away, and I missed my chance to redeem myself and smear that name into a navy oblivion.

“‘Pretty Girls Make Graves’?”

Basim is standing somewhere to my left. He stares at me and waits, and I refuse to pull my hands away from my eyes and give him an answer. He gives me another Smiths song after a couple more seconds, and my vow of no eye contact and furious silence holds strong.

“‘I Am the Walrus’?” He says inquisitively, as if trying a new mode of attack.

“I’m not playing, Basim.”

“You could give me a song, and I’ll play.”

“I said I’m not playing,” I snap, sucking in the water dribbling from my nose.

We both decide on the soundtracks for our afternoons, and I’m choosing silence too.

“Are you angry, Shaban?” Basim asks as a single sole scrapes against the gravel.

“Yeah. I’m pretty pissed off.”

“Is it about me?”

“Yeah.”

The wind kicks specks of grit against the backs of my hands and rattles the trees surrounding the drive-in. It’s the last week of summer vacation, and Mom and Dad let me stay out till nightfall: I won’t have to start the drive back home for at least four more hours, but even retracing that route in my mind grinds a sea urchin into the bottom of my stomach. 

A taller, skinnier body than mine drops onto the bench beside me.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

I sniff loudly and pull my hands away from my eyes, inspecting the midnight-blue splatter running down my chest, stomach, and crotch. 

“What were you doing behind the screen?” I ask.

“There’s a bunch of light back there. And I wanted to bring some over to show you.”

I turn to my left, squinting at Basim and the white rectangle floating behind his head. The bouquet I tore from his hand lies in a puddle of green and yellow shreds nearby. 

“It’s pretty bright out here already.”

“The light’s a lot better back there.”

Basim holds out a single petal for me to inspect. And whether it’s the sunbeams warming our legs or the tears still wobbling around my eyes, the yellow slip pinched between his thumb and index finger appears to be aflame.

“Where’d it come from?”

“Probably the projector, and all the car headlights.”

“And all of it’s just sitting over there?”

“Light doesn’t go away, Shaban.”

Basim presses the petal against his chest, staring down at it like a worshipper falling into prayer. A cozier, cuddlier type of warmth spreads across my chest despite my internal protests, and I smile and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

“You can definitely make a worse first draft than that, Basim.”

“You can too,” he says right away. “What about ‘Pretty Girls Make Graves’?”

“‘Ugly Dudes Fill Urns.’”

I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve seen Basim smile: if he’s pleased, he’ll drop his eyes even lower than usual and hum to himself. He sounds happy with this revision, and the bitterness between us instantly evaporates as we begin another round of First Draft: his first move was “Pretty Girls Make Graves,” and I suggest “Extra Kings” in return.

“‘Not Enough Queens,’” Basim says instantly. “‘I Am the Walrus.’”

“‘You Are the Narwhal.’”

I crack myself up with this one, biding my time as I scrounge for another title for Basim. He’ll only play if it’s music that he likes, and I often struggle to follow him down his electronic rabbit holes.

“Um. ‘Last Donut of the Night.’”

“‘First Pastry of the Dawn.’ ‘Come Back from San Francisco.’”

The first person to not have a title ready for revising, or a revision that isn’t blatantly worse than the original, loses. I’ve never won against Basim, but any of our previous six-hundred rounds could have been the one if I was only quick enough, or more willing to dig through the Belbury Poly Wikipedia page. 

“‘Go Forth to Sacramento.’ ‘Car Chase Terror.’”

“‘Parking Lot Anxiety.’ ‘Long-Forgotten Fairy Tale.’”

Basim’s tactic is two tracks per artist whereas I’m jumping about as randomly as I can.

“‘Rapidly-Remembered Diatribe.’ ‘To Cure a Weakling Child.’”

“‘To Curse Some Hulking Crone.’ ‘Vicar in a Tutu.’”

“‘Minister in a Muumuu’ or ‘Caliph in a Cummerbund.’ And what about ‘Fight Test’?”

Exhilarating in my double draft, I lean back and wait for Basim’s answer. And when it never comes, I twist towards my opponent, wondering if the worst two days of my life will end with my greatest victory. Basim’s face is turned away from mine, his gaze fixed on a spot directly underneath the movie screen.

“You alright?” I ask, my joy cooling as both hands instinctively curl over my lap.

“There’s a bunch of people coming over here.”

I freeze, immediately going over our options. If it’s kids from the high school, we’re sprinting to my car. And if it’s adults from anywhere else, it’ll be the same mad dash but twice as fast.

“Who are they?” I whisper.

“They look old.”

I carefully slide a palm across my left leg, making sure my keys are in my pocket before leaning forward and glancing at the spot Basim is watching so intently. The landscape is empty besides two orange posts leaning to the left. The edges where white darkens to green produce no new shapes as the movie screen blazes against the horizon.

“I don’t see anyone, Basim.” 

“It’s really bright out, but I can still see them.”

My answer doesn’t change Basim’s expression. Saying “I don’t see anyone/anything” usually results in him scrunching his brows together, thinking for a couple seconds, and agreeing and turning back to me, but today is not one of those days as his eyes stay narrowed.

“What do they look like?” I ask, hoping that follow-up questions will break this illusion.

  “It’s a bunch of men, women, and children. And they’re all dressed really funny.”

“How so?”

“Like they’re from a Smiths video or something.”

“So Eighties?” I ask, watching the empty lot alongside Basim. “Or earlier?”

“Earlier.”

It’s the same pebbles and weeds as before, but now I’m imagining rows of mini-skirts and leather jackets marching towards us while battalions of perfectly-sculpted beehives and pompadours bob in front of the trees. I even throw in a transparent paisley shirt for the hell of it.

“And what are they doing now?” I ask.

“They’ve stopped walking, and now they’re staring at us.”

“Great…”

I question Basim on whether this crowd seems friendly or not, and he says that he can’t read their faces through the light. They shuffle to a halt in front of the projection booth, and only one of the men is moving toward us now. I touch my keys a second time as I ask Basim to describe this brave new guest of ours, and he says he’s young, short, and tan with curly black hair.

“What’s he wearing?”

“Sneakers, jeans, and a blue polo shirt.”

“Very fashionable. He sounds like a real Cold War Catch.”

I tuck errant curls behind both of my ears as Basim watches our audience of one.

“I think they might be a woman,” he says softly. “I can’t tell.”

“You’ve got quite the imagination, Basim.”

“You can’t see him? He’s giving off so much light.”

“I can’t see him, Basim. What’s he doing now?”

Basim slowly turns his head towards me but stops halfway, his profile glowing against the green in the distance. A speck of plaster clings to his right eyebrow as his gaze lingers on a spot an arm’s length ahead of us and one foot above our heads.

“He’s over here now,” Basim says. “And he’s looking at you.”  

An itch creeps beneath my sports bras and sweater, and I slowly straighten up before clearing my throat and scanning the patch of vision in front of me: half of the pebbles lie in shadow while the other half gleam like fallen stars; shaggy treetops fill the background, and the air in between is the same hue as the smeared-over claw scratching at my ribs.  

“I’m quite the looker,” I mutter.

Basim turns his head some more, and his eyes come to rest on my left cheek.

“Am I glowing too?” I ask, tossing on an incredulous smile. “How’s my aura?”

“Really big. Now he has his hand on your cheek.”  

Instantly aflame, I freeze as a massive cloud passes over the sun: the gravel becomes a bed of sapphires, the trees walls of aquamarine seaweed, and the sky a tapestry of well-worn white and indigo. Even the movie screen darkens and becomes a rectangle of snow bathed in the rays of an early, wintery dusk. Meanwhile, the air cools as I look up and to the right, unable to find anything inside this encroaching blueness: no eyes, no smile, not even the outline of a face as a sudden breeze drags a half-dozen dried leaves past our feet.

“And now?” I whisper, teetering between eagerness and dread.

“He’s gone.”

A sound slips out from in between my lips, followed by the rest of the air inside my lungs. I stare at Basim studying me, and I realize my nose has started running again; I clear my throat and stare down at my hands as the cloud passes overhead and the world reignites. Everything brightens except for the ink coating my fingers.  

“Or she. I couldn’t tell.”

We both sit in silence as sunbeams ricochet against the scabby yellow wall behind us. The top of my head grows warmer as I study my hands, and I wonder what it would be like to be a wall, or a bench, or an ink-splattered sweater lying crumpled on the ground, or even a shaft of light brightening this scene: I think I’d make a much better tableau than a human being. 

“Did they look happy?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Cool.”

I choke on this single word as I struggle to strain hope from reality. The hot September air could be the warmth of a palm on my cheek, or the brush thrashing in the distance the pinch of fingers gently tugging apart my curls. Something cold and wet strikes the patch of gravel between my feet, and it might be a pair of shining eyes and an eager smile leaning in closer.

“Is everyone else gone?” I choke.

“Yeah. They went back into the trees.”

I glance at the right side of the lot, wondering what lies on the other side of the green.

“You think they’re trapped here?”

“Maybe.”

“Seems like a pretty awful place to be stuck for all eternity,” I mutter, eyes glued to the bushes. “The only thing to do is look at a blank screen. And watch whatever fuck-ups show up.”

I look to my left, framing Basim’s face against the white rectangle glowing in the distance. The thin row of names along its bottom has been smeared into a single strip of color from years’ worth of sun, rain, and snow. Same for the forest of poles planted in this field of gravel, whittled down to a handful of leaning, corroded obelisks. And all those people that once saw a show are a translucent crowd with nothing better to do: families reduced to fuzz, couples shaken into static, and solitary types shaved down to wobbling patches that can be quickly blinked away. 

Before, it was hundreds of headlights pointing towards a silver sun as its Technicolor beams stamped thousands of silhouettes on rear windshields like an atom bomb burning shadows into scorching-hot pavement. Moms and dads politely sit in front while their brats roughhouse in the back and spill popcorn all over the floor; couples fuse into one shape as the girl’s head rests on the boy’s shoulder or his hand casually lies on top of her thigh. And throw in a couple loners too, encased in their own bubbles of glass and steel, surrounded by the ache of everyone wondering what they’re doing by themselves before quickly looking away. Seen but never heard, spied upon but rarely understood. If only someone was brave enough to try.

“You know why I’m all dressed up, Basim?”

“No.”

He stares straight ahead, not bothering to confirm that I’m wearing more than my usual jeans and hoodie: tan sweater, pinstripe pants, and black leather zip-up boots. The pool of ink on my chest looks like I’ve been shot and revealed to be something inhuman, an alien hearty enough to survive mortal wounds but only skilled enough to fashion disguises skin-deep at best. I scratch at the corner of my mouth as I go on slowly and stiffly:

“They had a little ceremony at the high school today. They put me on one of those big glass plaques outside of the Guidance Office for the Academic Hall of Fame.”

“Which one? Fives on your APs, or perfect ACT score?”

“All fives: U.S. History, European History, and Anatomy,” I say, raising three fingers. “Mrs. McKay was there to give me the certificate to sign, and my parents watched me pull off the tape covering the name. We even had a video call with my family in Istanbul last night.”

“Was it fun?”

“It was fine.”

I rub both of my eyes, cowering from the screaming brightness of the pebbles, the trees, and the movie screen with only a thin row of illegible signatures along its bottommost tenth.

“They wouldn’t stop using my old name. Nobody back home knows about my new one, and Mom and Dad didn’t say anything about it last night. They kept using it this morning in front of Mrs. McKay, and she knows about it but didn’t say anything either. It was printed on my certificate and carved into that hunk of glass hanging next to the Guidance Office…”

I lower my fingers and rest both hands on my lap, cupping them into an empty blue nest. 

“I wanted to sign the certificate as Shaban, but there were too many people looking at me. And seeing that old name carved into that pane of glass, I wanted to smash it to pieces but all I did was stand there and snap the pen I was holding. They tried cleaning up the ink, but I went to the bathroom and checked: the blue stuff went all the way through my sweater and all my bras and into my skin above my heart. And I thought, ‘Looks permanent.’ A year of progress wiped away with a video call, a sheet of paper, and a single pen stroke.”

“That’s why you wanted to hang out here?”

I turn towards Basim and find his eyes locked on the bouquet I had tossed to the ground. He’s thinking, his hands in the same configuration as mine; a single yellow petal rises from in between his thumbs and index fingers.

“Yeah, but there’s no alone time out here either. There are tons of eyes out here too.”

“Maybe they’re lonely, being out here forever?”

“And they’ve never seen anything like us before?” I ask with a snort.

“Maybe. There’s one person out here who likes you.”

Suddenly alight again, I blush as Basim stands and shuffles towards the pile of flowers. He stops with it between his feet, as if deliberating between putting it back together or stomping it into smaller pieces. I watch him, wondering which option I’d take and if that phantom in the blue polo shirt would watch or try to join in too. 

Who were they, in the ancient past when drive-in movies reigned supreme? Did they have someone to hold as the screen flickered and the speakers on the sticks chattered, or did they sit apart, either in rapt silence or sneaking in sardonic quips whenever possible? Or did they sit alone and dutifully absorb everything before driving home and reenacting the movie for their cat, or their beloved seated in a living room with the curtains drawn?

The action scenes are ten times more gripping and the costumes twenty times more glamorous with the front door locked and lamps burning instead of studio spotlights. And if these movies are stumbled upon years later as late-night filler on television, are they quickly flipped aside or watched again beginning-to-end? Do they pale in comparison to that first time, or are they studied intently to bring back those long-forgotten feelings of an aching heart rising inside of a parched throat and the fluttering of an incoming grin?

“If you wait a couple more years, nobody will know who that person is on the wall next to the Guidance Office,” Basim says, reaching down and grabbing several flowers from the pile. “And whatever name they’re calling you in Turkey will get old too.”

“True.”

“Nothing lasts forever. And the stuff that does sucks.”

“Very true. ‘All those people, all those lives, where are they now?’” I sigh.

Basim straightens up and stares at me, clutching the yellow blooms against his chest like a nervous suitor. He watches me, humming softly, and I wait, watching his anticipation grow before giving Basim his prize with a world-weary smile, sway, and half-sung song:

  “And don’t you think that’s better than ‘Each of these folks, each of their gripes, why don’t they just fucking move on?’”

“It’s a lot better. Second drafts are always better than the first.”

Basim stops and refocuses, seeing someone standing behind my right shoulder, and I don’t turn and look, already knowing there’s another pair of eyes watching us. The movie screen shines behind Basim’s head, and I wonder what sort of show we should put on the next time we’re here. Maybe it’ll involve a ladder and a can of spray paint? Or maybe we’ll really wow them with an impossible feat, like a pair of hands scrubbed clean of that inevitable shade of blue?

“Agreed. But what about ‘Stay Another Season’?”