in the school, fifty in each class of tenth-, eleventh-,
and twelfth-graders, and it was satisfying to see myself listed there even though
I was still number 50, the new last rank for our grade.
After breakfast, when I walked into Media Convergence class, a number of the usual
students were gone, cut from the show, and others had been switched in. Burnham sat
at a desk near the back, next to Henrik, and after a moment’s hesitation, I took a
seat beside Janice, near the front.
She put a hair binder in her mouth and reached up with both hands to twist her blond
hair into a sloppy bun. “Kill me now,” she said, wrapping the binder in place. “I
ran into this guy from acting? He hears we’re doing the coolest gender flip thing.
I want to be Hamlet.”
While she chatted, a few other students came in, and then Mr. DeCoster appeared carrying
a metal coffee mug. He paused at the door to speak to his earphone, and Paige edged
in around him.
“Okay, everybody,” Mr. DeCoster said. He pointed to a couple of big tables that were
pushed together. “Circle up the chairs around here. Time to talk.”
We all scooted our swivel chairs toward the tables, like swarming racer bugs. I ended
up with Janice on my right, and Burnham next to her. Mr. DeCoster pulled his chair
up across from me and slid a shallow cardboard box onto the table. Inside was a jumble
of seashells, twigs, and stones. Today Mr. DeCoster wore a silver and turquoise bolo
tie over a black shirt, and he looked a lot cooler than usual.
“First of all, let me congratulate you all on making the fifty cuts,” he said. “I
couldn’t be happier you’re still here. We’ve combined a couple sections to adjust
for the cuts, and you’ll notice a few other changes, too.” He gave the box a little
shake. “Take one and please introduce yourself, with your art.”
Paige, on his right, selected a dainty, pearly shell shaped like a spiral, and told
us she was from Houston and danced. Henrik, it turned out, was a percussionist from
Berlin, Germany. The group also included a playwright, a painter, a singer, and half
a dozen others. The singer, Mae, asked if Mr. DeCoster knew anything about Ellen,
and he reported that Ellen was home with her family. I glanced at Janice, who gave
me a sad little smile. On my turn, I chose a small, black stone and kept it short:
Doli, Arizona. Filmmaker.
When Burnham introduced himself—Atlanta, Interactive Media and Game Development—he
smiled at everyone else except me, and I got an uneasy feeling that something was
wrong.
After introductions, Mr. DeCoster spoke up in a louder voice. “Up until now, we’ve
focused on learning specific, hands-on editing skills,” he said. “They had value for
everyone, whether they were staying on the show or getting cut. Now it’s time for
a different focus. Your next assignment is to create something that’s bigger than
you are. Something at which you’ll fail.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he reached for his coffee and said nothing more.
Students started looking around the table.
“Like save the world?” Henrik said, laughing.
“That would work,” Mr. DeCoster said.
Paige fiddled with her shell. “Dance can save the world.”
“You could fail at that,” Henrik said.
“Or not, you sad little drummer,” Paige said.
Burnham pointed his finger at Henrik and smiled. “Burn.”
“The answer is yes, your project can be dance,” Mr. DeCoster said.
“How about a computer game?” Burnham said.
“Fine,” Mr. DeCoster said.
“Are you serious? He gets to play a game?” Henrik asked.
“Burnham designs games,” Mr. DeCoster said. “It’s not the same as playing them.”
“I fail at it a lot, too,” Burnham said. “In fact, most of the time.”
Mr. DeCoster swept his attention around the table. “This is a good time for experiments
that don’t work. For fun. For the things you used to dream up
and twelfth-graders, and it was satisfying to see myself listed there even though
I was still number 50, the new last rank for our grade.
After breakfast, when I walked into Media Convergence class, a number of the usual
students were gone, cut from the show, and others had been switched in. Burnham sat
at a desk near the back, next to Henrik, and after a moment’s hesitation, I took a
seat beside Janice, near the front.
She put a hair binder in her mouth and reached up with both hands to twist her blond
hair into a sloppy bun. “Kill me now,” she said, wrapping the binder in place. “I
ran into this guy from acting? He hears we’re doing the coolest gender flip thing.
I want to be Hamlet.”
While she chatted, a few other students came in, and then Mr. DeCoster appeared carrying
a metal coffee mug. He paused at the door to speak to his earphone, and Paige edged
in around him.
“Okay, everybody,” Mr. DeCoster said. He pointed to a couple of big tables that were
pushed together. “Circle up the chairs around here. Time to talk.”
We all scooted our swivel chairs toward the tables, like swarming racer bugs. I ended
up with Janice on my right, and Burnham next to her. Mr. DeCoster pulled his chair
up across from me and slid a shallow cardboard box onto the table. Inside was a jumble
of seashells, twigs, and stones. Today Mr. DeCoster wore a silver and turquoise bolo
tie over a black shirt, and he looked a lot cooler than usual.
“First of all, let me congratulate you all on making the fifty cuts,” he said. “I
couldn’t be happier you’re still here. We’ve combined a couple sections to adjust
for the cuts, and you’ll notice a few other changes, too.” He gave the box a little
shake. “Take one and please introduce yourself, with your art.”
Paige, on his right, selected a dainty, pearly shell shaped like a spiral, and told
us she was from Houston and danced. Henrik, it turned out, was a percussionist from
Berlin, Germany. The group also included a playwright, a painter, a singer, and half
a dozen others. The singer, Mae, asked if Mr. DeCoster knew anything about Ellen,
and he reported that Ellen was home with her family. I glanced at Janice, who gave
me a sad little smile. On my turn, I chose a small, black stone and kept it short:
Doli, Arizona. Filmmaker.
When Burnham introduced himself—Atlanta, Interactive Media and Game Development—he
smiled at everyone else except me, and I got an uneasy feeling that something was
wrong.
After introductions, Mr. DeCoster spoke up in a louder voice. “Up until now, we’ve
focused on learning specific, hands-on editing skills,” he said. “They had value for
everyone, whether they were staying on the show or getting cut. Now it’s time for
a different focus. Your next assignment is to create something that’s bigger than
you are. Something at which you’ll fail.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he reached for his coffee and said nothing more.
Students started looking around the table.
“Like save the world?” Henrik said, laughing.
“That would work,” Mr. DeCoster said.
Paige fiddled with her shell. “Dance can save the world.”
“You could fail at that,” Henrik said.
“Or not, you sad little drummer,” Paige said.
Burnham pointed his finger at Henrik and smiled. “Burn.”
“The answer is yes, your project can be dance,” Mr. DeCoster said.
“How about a computer game?” Burnham said.
“Fine,” Mr. DeCoster said.
“Are you serious? He gets to play a game?” Henrik asked.
“Burnham designs games,” Mr. DeCoster said. “It’s not the same as playing them.”
“I fail at it a lot, too,” Burnham said. “In fact, most of the time.”
Mr. DeCoster swept his attention around the table. “This is a good time for experiments
that don’t work. For fun. For the things you used to dream up
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