INT. CLARA‟S HOUSE/KITCHEN
- MORNINGCLARAPeter???The next morning. French toast sizzles in a caste ironskillet.Once a showpiece Victorian, this sagging home is nowdilapidated and devalued -- a prime example of the downfall
of Detroit. We‟re in a kitchen of peeling wallpaper and
g floorboards, but Clara‟s done what she can with it.
The small dinette is set for two, orange juice on the table.
She‟s manning the old gas stove like a pro. In the daylight,
we get a better look at her...Even in her holey sweatshirt Clara is beautiful. Uniquely so,with freckles covering the delicate features of a ballerinaand dark green eyes that at first glance are all fight and atsecond all sadness, like the strong cry of a cello.She glances at a wall clock, serves up breakfast. Again:
I‟m up, geez.
WONDERLAND, "It Begins" by Whit Anderson1.
And in plods her brother, exhausted and lugging a soccer
duffle. In the daylight, we see that he‟s big for his age,
effortlessly cool but with an angst and anger only 16-year-olds can get away with. He stops at the sight of breakfast.
Seriously? What is this,commemorative French toast?He dumps his bag, b-lines for the coffee pot.CLARAJust eat; it took me an hour.After a second Peter gives in, brings his coffee to thetable, sits. Clara watches him; the kid looks exhausted.
How‟d you sleep?
He shoots her a look, doesn‟t want to talk about it.
PETER Fine.She backs off. He butters his breakfast.
Do you have my tournament money?CLARA