When the Screen Went Dark
1By seven, our outdoor movie screen stood above the community center lawn like an enormous white envelope. I had spent the afternoon helping my cousin Selin arrange chairs. Now I stood beside my careful rows, holding the seating chart against my chest. This was my first evening volunteering, and I wanted everything to stay exactly where I had put it.
2Before the movie began, a cold gust lifted the corner of my chart. The screen bulged. Beyond it, clouds erased the last strip of gold above the buildings. Mr. Vega, the event director, checked the weather alert on his phone and announced that everyone needed to move into the center. Around us, chairs scraped and families gathered their bags.
3I reached for a chair. “We should stack these first,” I told Selin. Another gust snapped the paper in my hand. She pointed toward the open doors. “Leave them. We’re supposed to go inside.” I followed her, but I kept looking back at the crooked rows.
4From behind the lobby windows, we watched the rain arrive. One drop struck the glass. Then three. Then the lawn vanished behind silver lines. I pressed my palm against the cool window. Outside, a loose program slid beneath a chair and disappeared. The screen shuddered, and the lights on the lawn blinked out.
5For several minutes, people stood with folded arms, watching the windows. Then Selin found a deck of cards in her bag. I pulled two lobby tables together. “Who wants to learn a game?” I asked. Soon, wet sleeves rested beside small piles of cards, and laughter rose over the drumming roof.
6The movie never started that night. When Dad arrived, I was explaining the rules to a younger player. My seating chart had dried into a wrinkled square in my pocket. I left it there and finished dealing.