You Look Different in Real Life

footage of Nate. The scenes everyone loved and laughed over were mine. Rory came across as odd but charming and memorable. But there was Felix, with his own quiet story in the background.
    I realize now that by starting his blog, Felix took it upon himself to continue telling it.

TEN
    L eslie calls me on Saturday morning. They’re not shooting today. Lance’s back is killing him and Kenny’s got a family commitment, and she sounds almost happy about it.
    “I’m going to check out the Walkway Over the Hudson while I’m unencumbered,” she says. “Do you want to come with me?”
    I remember when I was eleven and Leslie took me bowling. Just her and me. It made me feel Chosen. “Sure.”
    An hour later, Leslie and I are driving east from town in her rented SUV. She’s wearing black yoga pants, hiking boots, and a faux-fur leopard-print hoodie. This is adeparture from what I now realize is her “shooting outfit” of jeans, boots, long-sleeved tee, and a fleece vest. What she’s wearing now seems more casual, yet still carefully arranged.
    “I’m so glad you were able to do this with me,” says Leslie.
    “Was I the first person you called?”
    “You mean, out of the five of you?” She looks sideways at me, a little pained. “Well, yes, you were the first person. If you hadn’t been able to come with me, I may have called someone else. Or maybe I would have come alone. It’s hard, being here without any friends around.” She glances at me again, and when she does, I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in her aviator-style sunglasses. “But I consider you a friend.”
    I know I’m supposed to say I think of you as a friend too , and then I remember all the things they wanted me to say on camera and I never did, so I go ahead and say it. Leslie smiles but keeps looking at the road.
    We grab the last open spot in the Walkway parking lot. Before Leslie gets out of the car, she reaches into the backseat and grabs a camera bag along with her purse.
    “I’m just going to get some B-roll while we’re here. You don’t even have to be in the shot. In fact, I don’t want you to be. Okay?”
    I nod, but can’t help feeling disappointed. I’d imagined our walk to be camera-less, but now it’s like she’s invitedalong a friend I can’t stand.
    We walk past some food trucks and a display detailing the origin of the Walkway—how it was an abandoned railroad trestle over the Hudson River until they raised a gajillion dollars to turn it into a pedestrian bridge. Leslie shoots the display for a few seconds, then moves on. We walk a little farther, and once we’re out on the bridge, under the wide, clear sky and over the shimmering river, Leslie takes a deep breath.
    “Oh, I miss this kind of water,” she says, moving to the railing and leaning over.
    “You’ve got the ocean in Los Angeles,” I say.
    “I don’t like waves. They’re loud and always seem angry. Plus there’s all the stuff like seaweed and jellyfish. No, I’m a lake and river kind of girl.” She takes out the camera, shoots for about a minute, panning from one side of the river to the other. A commuter train moves along the eastern bank, a silver snake against lush green. “You know, when I was a kid, we had a summer house on one of the Finger Lakes. I waterskied all over that area.”
    “Where did you grow up?” I ask, trying to remember if that was in her bio.
    “Connecticut,” she said.
    “I know so little about you,” I say, “while you know so much about me.”
    Leslie considers this. “True. What do you want to know?”
    I think for a moment. “What were you like in high school?”
    Something not-so-happy travels across her face. “I was a total jock. Field hockey and volleyball.”
    “Were you good?”
    “Very.”
    “I totally wouldn’t have guessed that, but now that I think about it, it makes a lot of sense.”
    Leslie smiles now. I didn’t mean it as a compliment.
    “You probably had a million friends,” I add, not wanting this conversation to end.
    She laughs. “Hey, that’s one of my tricks. Asking a question without it being a question.” Then she grows suddenly quiet, her forehead falling so easily into the shape of her frown line, and looks down at the camera. “I don’t know why I never thought to do this before.”
    Now she holds up the camera and offers it to me.
    “What are you doing?” I ask, even though I totally know what she’s doing.
    “Here. Take it. You know how to use