Author: Laurie Faria Stolarz
Category: Suspense
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Uncle Peter doesn't say much, just nods his head, taking it all in. He's wearing the Celtics T-shirt I bought him last season--that and a pair of torn-up jeans and a Red Sox cap, like any one of my buddies. He's only a couple years younger than my dad, and looks so much like him in some ways--same wavy dark hair, same light blue eyes, same
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squarish jaw--but he also couldn't look more different. My dad looks harder, duller, a lot more tired. I wonder if that's what working in the restaurant does to you.
"Well then, that settles it," Uncle Peter says finally. "You've gotta win this thing. No other way about it."
I nod, thinking about my basically nonexistent cast. "Can you help me?"
"You came to the right place." He gets up and leads me into his studio, where he's got all his equipment set up. We spend the next couple hours talking about digital video machines versus Hi8's. He shows me features I'll need to shoot my movie--stuff like image stabilization and a 12:1 optical zoom. Then he has me adjust the lighting for the studio as a test, and makes me explain the benefits of close-ups, point-of-view angles, and extreme long shots.
"When you first get there," he says, "you'll wanna get an extreme long shot of the place--so we can see how massive the bitch is."
"Right," I say, "and I'll want to save extreme close-ups for when people get totally freaked out."
"You're really good at this stuff, you know that?" he says, nodding at my lighting setup.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Thank that eye of yours. You can teach technique, but you can't teach vision." I smile, pumped that I got it right. "Come back tomorrow," my uncle says. "It's getting
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late. I don't want your dad to think you were kidnapped by a pack of beer-guzzling aliens." He cracks open another cold one. "This stuff is shit for you, you know."
I nod, smiling wider. It's just so weird--so weird because for once I got something right.
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DERIK
IT'S WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, last period of the day, and I'm preparing storyboards in the library for my movie. Mimi, a.k.a. Halloween, is helping me since it seems this is a free period for her, too. Plus, it doesn't hurt that she seems to know the hospital like the back of her spider-tattooed hand.
Normally I take off during freebies, but I need to get this done, and I've already told my parents that I'm gonna be late for my shift--that I need to stay after school today for extra help with math. My mother could see right through my BS. She even threatened to call my teacher to see if I was telling the truth. But I doubt she will--the diner's an absolute zoo on Wednesday afternoons. There isn't even time to take a whiz, never mind make a phone call.
"Do you know how many tunnels there are?" I ask, glancing at the Danvers State map.
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"Lots," Mimi says, sketching out a long dark one. "All the buildings connect underground through tunnels."
I nod, remembering that I read that somewhere--how the workers used the tunnels to transport the patients between buildings, but sometimes patients snuck down into them on their own, looking for a way out, only to get lost underground. I heard about this one whack-off who got lost down there for over a week. When they finally found him, the dude was buck naked, huddled on the ground, and rocking back and forth, whispering shit-- something about his dead sister Suzy and how she wanted him to play hide-and-seek with her.
"What else do you want me to sketch?" Mimi asks, snapping me back to reality.
I point toward the front of the main building. "I was thinking that one of the interior shots could be of all of us sitting in the reception room, just shootin' the shit, getting to know each other, getting to know all of our characters right from the get-go."
"But we're not going to be characters, right?" she asks, tugging at her black Halloween hair. "Isn't the whole idea of reality TV that we're supposed to be ourselves!"
"Well, yeah."
"So what's with all the planning? Don't you want your film to look natural?"
"Definitely, but I also wanna go in prepared--do the research, check out maps, make sure I get all the shots I want."
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"I guess that makes sense," she admits.
"Planning it out ahead of time can help you think about stuff like mood," I continue, remembering everything my uncle taught me last night. "Like what kind of mood you want a particular scene to have. I mean, if I don't think about this stuff now, it's just gonna look like a bunch of kids playing around. Even reality shows plan stuff out. At least we're not going in with scripts."
Mimi nods, taking it in, making me feel like I actually know what I'm talking about. And maybe I do for once. Maybe I've got a good chunk of the movie already planned out in my head--what I want to happen, how I want the cast to look, and how I'm banking on everybody's fear. At first I actually considered staging some scary stuff, like pretending to have some of my equipment go shitty on me, or rigging a door to shut when no one's really expecting it. But then I decided that those things would be lame--they might even screw up my chances of winning. Plus, we're talkin' Danvers freakin' State here. I mean, how can anyone not get scared?
Together, me and Mimi make up a slew of story-boards--for footage in the basement, the A and J wings, and in the art therapy room. But then she gets all weird on me, scooting back in her chair and shoving the storyboards in my direction like she's got something serious stuck up her ass.
"What's with you?" I ask, pushing the storyboards back.
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Mimi shakes her head and looks away, her face all saggy like she's totally freaked.
I try to hide my smile, but I can't help it. I mean, if someone like Mimi's scared, I can only imagine how creeped out everybody else is gonna get.
"I thought you were into this stuff," I say.
Mimi continues to avoid eye contact, picking at what's left of her black nail polish.
"You're not backing out on me, are you?" I ask.
She shrugs and continues to pick.
"Come on," I bitch. "You're all I've got so far. You can't bail on me now."
"I'm not bailing," she says, finally meeting my eye. "I have to go there. Before they tear it down. I have to see what it's like."
"Are you honestly saying you've never been there before?" I mean, Halloween, of all people?
She shakes her head. "Not yet."
"So how come you know so much about it?"
"What do you care?"
"Just asking," I say, sensing that I've hit a nerve.
"Well, I gotta go." She stands from the table and pushes the storyboards even closer to me--like she wants nothing more to do with them.
"You're still coming to the meeting tomorrow night, aren't you?" I ask.
"Don't worry," she says. "I'll be there. With gloves on." She grabs a pair of those fingerless mittens from her bag
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and puts them on over her lame-o spider tattoo. Then she takes her stuff and leaves, making me wonder why she's being all weird and mysterious. Making me realize that there's a lot more to Halloween than I thought.
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GRETA
TONY JUST WON'T LET UP. He's sitting in Mr. Duncan's director's chair, ordering me around like he's Steven Spielberg. It's the last class of the day, a free period for Tony and me, and, considering our drama-rat status, Mr. Duncan doesn't mind that we hang out in the theater-- since this is where we end up every day after school anyway, rehearsal or not.
"It could really be a good opportunity for us," Tony says.
He's talking about this independent film project that Derik LaPointe is trying to rope us into. In a nutshell, Derik wants to film a movie at the old abandoned mental hospital in Danvers.
In another nutshell, Tony is sexy as hell, but he can be unbelievably relentless at times. When he gets his mind wrapped around something--like the time he wanted us to audition for American Idol even though neither of us can
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sing, just so one of us
could meet Simon, since Simon's got all the connections--the boy just doesn't give up.
"Just think how this could jump-start our careers," Tony says.
Like me, Tony is an actor. But, as the writing on his T-shirt says, what he really wants is to direct. He's forever telling Mr. Duncan just where to put his clipboard, his director's chair, his spotlights. I wouldn't be surprised if he's already got visions of taking over Derik's project as well.
"If Derik wins," Tony says, "his film will be shown on national TV. Just picture it: us, on RTV with millions of people watching. We'll be getting auditions left and right."
I smile, somewhat taken by the image. I mean, this could be so much bigger than just another high school production, than just another stint with the community theater.
"Yeah, but what about the whole cheese factor," I say, snapping to my senses. "I'm a quality actress. Not some reality TV bimbo."
"Of course, babycakes, you're the best. Nobody's arguing that for a second," Tony says, in an effort to soothe me. "But you also can't argue the merits of reality television. It's made a lot of careers."
"Ten seconds of fame, more like it."
"Well, that's ten more seconds than what we've got right now."
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"Okay, fine," I say, rolling my eyes. "Let's say we agree to this gig. What do you think the chances are that Derik LaPlaya LaPointe is actually going to win?"
"No matter, sweet cheeks," Tony says with a shrug. "Because even if he doesn't win ... his film is going to be viewed by real industry people--the same people we're trying to connect with. Even if the film's a flop, just think of that exposure. I mean, look at what happened to Elisabeth Hasselbeck."
"Who?"
"That chick from Survivor." Tony rolls his eyes. "The Australian Outback. I mean, maybe she didn't win, but she's now got a sweet spot on The View."
"Big whoop."
"It's a start," Tony says. "I mean, just think about it-- maybe those industry people won't want Derik's film, but maybe they'll want us."
I pause a moment and look at his deep brown eyes, at his irresistibly crooked mouth, and the three o'clock scruff on his chin. "Do you want me?"
Tony smiles, taking my hand and pulling me onto his lap. "Do you even have to ask?"
"Have I ever told you how sexy you are when you're trying to convince me?" I purr into his ear and then kiss him full on the mouth. He tastes like mint. "So what does one wear to a mental hospital?"
"What else but a naughty nurse's outfit."
"Oh, really." I laugh. "Wouldn't you just love that?"
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"I'm ready for my sponge bath."
"Well, don't forget your rubber ducky." I cup my hand around Tony's neck and kiss along the nape.
"We'll be walking red carpets before you can say Oscar," Tony whispers.
The clincher. I spit the gum from my mouth and go at him full force. We topple back in the director's chair, landing smack against the stage floor.
But soon we're interrupted.
"Excuse me?" a female voice says from just behind us.
Tony and I pause from smooching to look up at her-- Liza Miller, Salem High's next valedictorian. She looks more perfect than usual. I mean, it's bad enough that she has supermodel strawberry blond hair without a trace of dark roots, that her boobs are Victoria's-Secret-catalogue worthy, and that she stands five feet ten with the tiniest waist I've ever seen. But today there's a beautiful desperation about her, a vulnerability in her eyes--the kind I try to capture whenever I'm doing a poignant scene.
"Sorry," she says. "I was just looking for Mr. Duncan."
"He's in class," I say, climbing free of Tony.
"Oh." More disappointment; she purses her lips and looks downward into her hands, making me want to file the gesture away in my improv box.
"Are you an actress?" I ask her. "I mean, I know you've never acted here, but--"
"No." Liza shakes her head. "But I was hoping to get involved in some way."
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"It's March," Tony says, getting up. "Drama's over for the year."
"Isn't there anything I can do?" she pushes. "How about for next year? Isn't there any design stuff I could get a head start on? Isn't there some crew that does that sort of thing?"
"Mr. Duncan hasn't even decided what the production is for next year," Tony says.
Liza picks at her fingernails, refusing to budge. It completely weirds me out. I mean, I don't even think I've heard the girl speak during my four full years here. She's too busy studying.
"Hey, you know, if you're interested in acting," Tony continues, "Derik LaPointe is looking for people to star in his film."
My mouth drops open. I shoot Tony a menacing look--the one I reserve for my most villainous scenes. I mean, what is he thinking? I won't be upstaged by some blondie bookworm actress wannabe.
"Derik LaPointe?" she asks, piqued by the idea. Her eyebrows arch in curiosity.
"He might not need anybody else." I sigh.
"I don't know," Tony says, oblivious to my evil eye. "You should definitely ask."
"Will there be a lot of rehearsals?" Liza asks. "I'm pretty busy as it is with my studies and all, and I hear you guys practice a lot."
I open my mouth to tell her about all the hours
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required for just one measly production--all the weekends eaten up by memorizing lines, and all the weeknights we slave here getting each scene just right--when I hear Tony say that this gig requires no rehearsals whatsoever, that it'll only take up one night of her life--this Friday--and that it's a great opportunity for all involved.
"Tony!" I snap. "She said she wanted to do stage crew. Maybe this isn't the right thing for her."
"No," she says. "This sounds perfect."
"Yeah, I think you'd be great," Tony says, sucking up. "You have a great face." He makes a box with his fingers as though filming her face, and then pulls his pocket organizer from inside his coat pocket--Mr. Ever Reliable--to retrieve Derik's phone number. He jots it down on a slip of paper for her.
"Thanks so much," she says. "You saved my life." At that, she turns on her heels and leaves, stage right.
"What's with the look?" Tony says, just now noticing my scowl.
"Drool much?" I ask him.
"Only drool for you, babealicious." He pulls me close and plants a big fat juicy one on my cheek. "She's got nothing over you."
More like eight sexy inches in all the right places, not to mention shampoo-model hair, flawless skin, and movie star looks. "I want to be alone," I say in my best Greta Garbo accent, pronouncing the word want like vont. (Note: Greta Garbo is my hero--the most beautiful, most
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talented, and most powerful actress of the twentieth century. It's true--and sad, if you ask me--that most people my age don't even know who she is. But that doesn't stop me from trying to clone myself into her.)
"Well, I vont YOU," Tony says, Greta-Garboing back, trying to make his voice all raspy and deep. He snuggles into my neck, tugs slightly at my curly (Garboesque) brown tresses, and then wraps his arms around my slightly larger-than-size-ten middle. "Nobody's as sexy as you," he whispers.
I'll have to admit, it does help to lift some of my stupid insecurities. After all, I'm the talented one, right? I'm the one who's been acting since she was a toddler, who got a part in a toilet paper commercial when she was only twenty-four months, who studied with Claude LeBoeuf in Woodstalk this past summer. Plus, let's face it, not all A-list actresses are supermodel gorgeous, right? Right?
Yeah, Greta, right.
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DERIK
WE'RE GETTING TOGETHER tonight to plan things out. I told my parents that I'm meeting some people from school for a class project, so they really can't give me any crap-- especially since I arranged to meet the crew here, at the diner, where I'd be taking my dinner break anyway.
At about five past seven everybody starts showing up--first Greta and Tony, these two drama rats from s
chool, and then Mimi. At about 7:20, I really start to sweat it, checking myself in the door's glass reflection, making sure my pants aren't too baggy, that my shirt hangs just right, that my hair doesn't stick up too much.
Because I'm still expecting one more person.
Liza Miller.
The most incredible girl in school.
I first noticed her during our freshman year--standing on the curb, waiting for the bus, this long and twisty reddish-blond hair hanging down past her shoulders,
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reminding me of ribbon candy. I think she caught me gawking at her because she paused from her book to look up--right at me, standing barely five feet away.
I tried to smile, to think up something cool to say, but then I noticed the title of the book she was reading-- something written in German or Dutch or I don't know what. But it was way over my head. And so I just stood there, sort of dumbstruck--literally--watching her watch me.
"Is there something wrong?" she asked, wiping her cheek like she had food on her face.
I shook my head, noticing how her sweater matched the color of her eyes--an electric shade of green. I tried to think up something smart to say about it, but then she moved away, back toward the bus circle, probably skeeved out.
But that wasn't the end of it.
The very next day I got the lowdown on her--how she's a complete and total brainiac, only interested in books; how she doesn't give anyone, save the ball-busting teachers, the time of day; and how she doesn't date. Period.
Normally I accept a challenge when I heat of one. But every time I got close to the girl--to try and talk to her-- I totally froze up. I mean, what do you say to a girl who's got her face in a book every time you see her? Who sneaks her lunch into the library, instead of eating in the cafeteria, so she can squeeze in some extra study time? The girl who sits in the front row of every class she's ever been in,