Son of Stone

32

A t the appointed time for Ben’s birthday party, Stone and Arrington had a pizza delivered and repaired to the master suite, where they watched Peter’s film, rapt.

Halfway through, Stone put down his glass of beer. “He did this by himself?”

“He and the other boys,” Arrington replied, “but knowing Peter, I’m sure he took the weight of it on his own shoulders.”

“I didn’t know he had acted in it, too.”

“Neither did I. He’s good, isn’t he?”

“He is, and so is everything else. Now I see why Leo Goldman at Centurion was so impressed.”

They continued to watch until the final fade-out, then Stone put on some music. “You know that Peter sent his screenplay and the DVD along with his application to Yale, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Arrington said.

“When Leo called me and wanted to buy the film, I insisted that he return his copies to me and keep absolutely quiet about the film, but now I don’t think it can be kept quiet. They’ll see it at Yale, and word is bound to get around that the thing is, well, brilliant.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yes.”

A faint throbbing could now be felt from three floors below.

“The party seems to be at its peak,” Stone said.

“I’ve told them to have everybody out of the house by eleven,” Arrington said.

“I hope there’s still a house left by then,” Stone said.

Early on Friday morning Stone got the two boys into the car and started for New Haven. Ben had stayed the night before. They reached New Haven in plenty of time, and Stone followed the map that Peter had printed out from the Internet. They found the administrative offices, and took seats in the waiting room. Ben was called in first for his interview.

“Peter,” Stone said, “your mother and I watched your film last night, and we thought it was absolutely terrific.”

“Thank you, Dad.”

“You remember our conversation about Leo Goldman liking it, and how I asked him to keep it a secret?”

“Sure.”

“Somebody at Yale, maybe more than one person, has seen it by now, and it may be difficult to keep it quiet.”

“It had occurred to me that that might happen,” Peter said, “but I thought my chance of being accepted here would be better if they saw it.”

“I expect that’s right, but you might see if you can find out how many people have seen it and ask them to keep quiet about it.”

“I can ask, I guess,” Peter said.

Forty minutes passed, and Ben came out of his interview. “They’ll be ready for you in a minute, they said.” He plopped down beside Peter. “Whew!”

“Was it tough?”

“Not exactly, but they sure had a lot of questions. They didn’t like it that I hadn’t done any sort of audition, but they seemed to like it that I want to study production and get an MBA. They have a program for that.”

“Good,” Peter said.

A woman came and took Peter down a hall to a large office, where two men, one of them the dean of the school, and a woman waited. Introductions were made, and they all sat down at a small conference table.

The woman began. “Peter, please tell us why you want to study at the Yale School of Drama.”

“For the past seven months,” Peter said, “I’ve read up on about fifteen schools, and I concluded that Yale has the best program. It’s as simple as that.”

“Do you know anyone who has attended here?” she asked.

“No, but I know that Elia Kazan trained here, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the best possible recommendation.”

“Have you read his autobiography?”

“Yes, twice,” Peter replied.

“You’ve indicated in your application that you want to study both acting and directing. Why?”

“My intention is to direct, but I’ve enjoyed the acting I’ve done in school productions, and if I’m going to direct, I’ll need to understand how actors think and how to work with them. I’m interested in everything you teach here, but I suppose I have to concentrate on something, so I chose acting and directing.”

“You understand, don’t you, that this is a professional school, and that it’s very time-consuming, so you won’t have an opportunity to take a lot of college courses simultaneously.”

“Yes, I understand that, but by the autumn I will already have taken all of the standard liberal arts curriculum, and I’ve done most of the reading required to get a BA.”

The three exchanged a glance. “I see,” the woman said. “Who are your favorite writers?”

“Mark Twain and Jane Austen,” Peter replied without hesitating. “In the theater, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, and Noel Coward.”

She smiled. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard an applicant mention Coward,” she said, half to herself. “What have you read that you would most like to direct?”

“I’d like very much to make a film of Pride and Prejudice,” he said. “I know it’s been done, but it seems to get redone every generation or so.”

“What would you like to direct onstage?”

“My own plays,” he replied.

“Have you written any plays?”

“My screenplay was originally intended for the stage, but my faculty adviser cautioned me against that.”

“Why?”

“Since the script is about two students murdering a teacher and getting away with it, I think he thought the school’s board would be reluctant to see it performed with parents present.”

That got a laugh from all three. The dean spoke up. “Since your film doesn’t have titles yet, I didn’t realize that you had acted in it, as well as directing, until I saw you this morning. Did you find that difficult?”

“Not as difficult as I had feared. I already had all the dialogue in memory, so I didn’t have to worry about that. It was mainly a matter of organizing the setups and preparing in advance so that I wouldn’t waste scene time.”

“You seem to have shot everything in existing light,” the dean said. “Why?”

“Because we had only two lights to work with. I used them, but it’s probably hard to tell where.” Peter cleared his throat. “May I ask a question?”

“Of course,” the woman said.

“How many people here have seen my film or read the screenplay?”

“Just the three of us,” she replied. “We watched it together.”

“My father is very concerned that if the film is widely seen that it might attract a lot of attention, and he doesn’t think I’m ready for that. I tend to agree with him, so may I ask that you not discuss the film with anyone else and that you return the screenplay and DVD?”

The dean answered. “I think that’s a very reasonable request, and we will give you our promise to do so, until you’re ready to have it more widely seen.”

“Thank you,” Peter replied.

“Do you have any other questions, Peter?” the woman asked.

“I don’t think so; I found answers to most of my questions before I got here.”

That got another laugh.

“Anyone else?” the woman asked her colleagues, but both men shook their heads. “I just want to mention one thing, Peter,” she said. “Do you know that we have places for only two hundred students in our program?”

“Yes, I do, and I appreciate how difficult that must make your decisions. I hope I’m accepted, but I certainly understand why I might not be.”

“Thank you for coming to see us, Peter,” she said. “We notify all our applicants at the same time, so you’ll get a letter in due course.”

Peter shook their hands and thanked them, then left the room.

When he had left, his inquisitors all chuckled.

“He’s lying, of course,” said the man who had not spoken during the interview.

“About what?” the woman asked, surprised.

“About his age,” the man replied. “He’s not eighteen; he’s at least thirty-five.”

They all had a good laugh.

Stone saw Peter coming down the hall and looked at his watch. He had been gone for only twenty minutes. The three of them got up and walked out to the parking lot. “That was quick, wasn’t it?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I was in there twice as long,” Ben said. “How did it go?”

“They were all very nice,” Peter said.

“Had they seen your film?” Stone asked.

“Yes, all three of them. They promised not to discuss it with anyone.”

“Did they like it?”

“They didn’t say.”

They found a restaurant and had lunch. Stone thought the boys were unusually quiet.