Apt Pupil Page #7

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TODD:

Forget it. I can't concentrate.

He pulls off his headphones in disgust and hands the rifle to

his father. Dick takes it and begins to reload it for him.

DICK:

I know your upset. So am I. So is your

mother.

TODD:

These honors classes... they aren't as easy

as I thought they'd be. I totally admit it,

I didn't prepare enough. I'm sorry.

DICK:

Well, fine, but now is not the time to slack

off. You got a chance to finish at the top of

your class--

TODD:

Nobody wants that more than I do, Dad.

DICK:

Well you haven't been hitting the books very

much.

TODD:

I know...

DICK:

And seeing as you're not playing soccer this

year it's not like you don't have enough

time--

TODD:

That still bothers you, doesn't it?

DICK:

(with difficulty)

No, son. If you weren't enjoying it, then

you shouldn't play.

TODD:

I think it bothers you and you're not telling

me.

Dick decides to take a shot himself. He readies himself and

fires.

DICK:

That was lousy. Here.

(gives the gun back to Todd)

I want to see your grades come up, buddy.

That's all that bothers me. And if you say

you need more time to study, then that's what

we'll do. The first thing is to cut out all

the time you spend reading to Mr. Denker.

It's a nice thing to do, but it's not helping

our school work a bit.

Dick is looking at his son, unsure if he has just seen a

contortion of rage on his son's face. But Todd is cocking the

rifle and...

DICK (CONT'D)

Hey, Todd. You still with me?

TODD:

Yeah... no. Dad, don't do that. Please.

Don't punish Mr. Denker for something that's

my fault. I mean, he'd be lost without me--

DICK:

He'll be fine without you. He was fine before

and he'll be fine after. There's nothing

wrong with wanting to help people, but you

gotta make sure you got yourself squared away

first. That's what matters.

Todd turns to face his father, and speaks to him with a new

seriousness.

TODD:

Dad, am I like other kids?

DICK:

Not by a long shot.

TODD:

Then trust me on this. Don't lose faith in

me because I blew a couple of exams. I will

get my grades back up. In fact I've already

started. Three days a week I go over to

Freddy Tremain's for extra help. He's a wiz

at trig. But please, Dad, whatever you do,

don't punish a helpless old man for something

that's my fault.

Pause.

DICK:

Did you practice that in front of a mirror or

something?

Todd smiles. Feeling his father caving in, he aims the rifle and

squeezes off a round. Dick keeps his eyes on Todd as he shoots.

DICK (CONT'D)

Hey, he's not...?

TODD:

(it takes him a second)

...No.

DICK:

Just checking.

(thinks for a moment)

All right... We'll give your way a shot. If

you think you can do it, if you really do,

and your serious, then... okay.

You really like the old guy, don't you?

TODD:

I'm making a difference in somebody's life.

It's that simple.

Todd aims the rifle down range and pulls the trigger. The gun

jams. Todd tries to move the lever but it gets stuck.

DICK:

Okay, okay.

(takes the rifle)

Don't ever force it. Watch.

Dick begins to methodically unjam the gun.

INT. DUSSANDER'S KITCHEN - DUSK

TITLE:
NOVEMBER 1984

Dussander looks shabbier than in previous scenes. His clothes

and hair reflect an increasing disregard for personal

appearance. He goes to the basement door and, leaning carefully

over the steps, retrieves a fresh bottle from his stash, stored

precariously on some shelves leading down to the basement. He

comes back to the counter and cracks the bottle open. Todd's

irritated voice booms in from the living room.

TODD (O.S.)

Don't get too drunk. We still have a little

while.

Dussander mumbles contemptuously and then speaks so Todd can

hear him.

DUSSANDER:

You don't have to do that, you know.

INT. DUSSANDER'S LIVING ROOM - DUSK

Todd has built a fire, probably the first fire Dussander's

fireplace has seen in twenty years. The room is bathed in a

warm orange glow as the winter sun sets outside. Todd uses the

poker to adjust one of the logs.

TODD:

Screw you. I'm doing this for me. This

place is freezing.

Dussander comes back in with his drink and settles into his easy

chair, which has been positioned in front of the hearth.

DUSSANDER:

Yes, it must be fifty degrees outside. I'm

sure to you it seems positively frigid.

TODD:

Why didn't you pay your gas bill?

DUSSANDER:

It slipped my mind. I will attend to it

tomorrow.

TODD:

Slipped your mind. I noticed it didn't slip

your mind to stock up on a new case of

bourbon.

DUSSANDER:

Leave me alone.

Todd finishes with the fire and sits on the floor a few feet

away.

TODD:

All right, so finish your story, because I'm

still not clear. You cook up this stew, and

you bring the prisoner in, and you let them

smell it, and suddenly they tell you

everything?

DUSSANDER:

Oh, don't misunderstand me. Certainly with a

pistol pressed to their head, a prisoner

would tell us everything we wanted to know,

sometimes more. But mine was a much more ...

elegant method. Remember, it had been months

since they had smelled real potatoes

simmering over an open flame, and boy, when

that delicious odor hit their noses their

mouths would drop and out would pour an

account of every minor infraction their

friends had committed, I mean it was

magnificent...

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