Freaky in Fresno

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  “You guys okay?” I ask.

  “Girls should not fight like that,” Gwen says. She pulls a hankie from the bib of her overalls and wipes the side of my face. “Not to be sexist or anything, but that was incredibly unladylike.”

  From the corner of my eye, I watch the convertible disappear down the road. “My cousin and I have never been accused of acting ladylike when we’re together. Even when we used to get along.”

  “Hard to believe you two ever got along,” Jake says.

  “Yes, it is, Jake.” I feel wrung out. “Yes, it is.”

  With that, the four of us follow each other through the arched front doorway of the concession shack, while my ears continue ringing from the . . . well . . . whatever the heck just happened.

  chapter 6

  I’m trapped in a clear plastic bubble of shock, and everything feels too loud and bright as Jake and I set about cleaning the snack counter. We sanitize the hot dog maker and shine every inch of glass and chrome in the whole concession area. The two of us spend almost an hour exclusively scrubbing the soda machine without speaking.

  Underneath my stupor, I’m still seething with anger toward Lana. I cannot believe she got exactly what she wanted: driving off with the Skylark all to herself.

  When Wes walks back in with an armload of bags filled with candy, he has an amused look on his face and seems distracted. Jake and I try to explain the strange anomaly with the movie screen, but he just shakes his head.

  “I knew Gwen and Brad were going to be a nightmare.” He opens the glass door and calls out toward the projector shed, “You two are a nightmare!”

  Gwen’s voice streams back. “Just a few more hours to get everything online.” Which is exactly what they’ve been saying all day.

  “See,” Wes says as he begins unloading the candy into the glass case. “No poltergeist. Just ordinary incompetence combined with a poor work ethic.”

  “You don’t understand,” I say. “Jamie Lee Curtis was there, but not as she appeared in any of her slasher movies. I mean, Freaky Friday is not the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Jamie Lee Curtis.”

  “The ultimate scream queen,” Jake says.

  “That’s exactly what I said.” I flash him a grin, but the way Jake looks at the ground reminds me of our near-kiss 2.0. Why must I mangle everything?

  Wes says, “Let’s just hope the projector is rolling properly by showtime.” He clears his throat. “Speaking of which, Ricki. I’m wondering if you happen to know your aunt’s favorite film. I’d love to have it cued up as an after-party bonus movie following tomorrow night’s double feature.”

  “I don’t really feel all that well,” I say, because if we’re going to have a post-show flick it definitely should not be The Wizard of Oz. But also, I genuinely don’t feel well.

  As we go back to cleaning, Jake keeps asking if I’m okay and giving me worried looks. And to be honest I’m worried about me too. Something is definitely wrong.

  I am absolutely to-the-bone tired and I keep getting vaguely confused. Like, I’ll have my hand on a tall stack of cups and suddenly forget if I’m in the middle of lining them out in rows or if I’m supposed to be gathering them up in a tower. Or I’ll start cleaning out the inside of the popcorn maker, and the light gleaming off the metal makes me feel so claustrophobic and panicky that I need to run outside for some air. Then I forget what I came outside for.

  I ask so many odd questions and end up undoing and redoing things so many times, Jake and Wes eventually begin taking over every task I start before I get a chance to mess it up.

  Finally, after I’ve dropped a tall stack of oversized popcorn buckets for a third time, the final traces of calm euphoria leave Wes. He growls with frustration as he tries to catch the cardboard pails rolling along the tiled countertop and asks Jake to please just drive me home already.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Jake as he helps me into his Bronco and buckles my safety belt. “I know there’s still so much work to do. I’m just all fogged in right now.”

  “We need you healthy and at your best for tomorrow.” Jake walks around the front of his vehicle, and I marvel at how cute he looks through the windshield. Opening the door, he shoves his bangs out of his eyes and I struggle to remember what’s so important about tomorrow.

  As he climbs in the driver’s side I say, “Wait, tomorrow’s Friday? I can’t miss the grand reopening!”

  “No, you can’t.” Jake starts the engine and pulls out of the Starlight. “Who else am I going to impress with my old-school Wolf Man costume?”

  “Wolf Man?” My brain goes blank for a moment as we drive.

  I picture the two of us standing in front of a big, white screen, talking about horror movie costumes. And then I remember the moment had something to do with an embarrassing attempt at a kiss. “That’s right,” I say. “The Wolf Man and I almost kissed.” I pinch my fingers together and hold them up. “We were this close!”

  Jake’s face goes red and I scramble to remember if I was the one trying to kiss him or vice versa. He is so cute! It must’ve been me trying to kiss him.

  But then I remember it was him trying to kiss me and proudly announce, “But I ducked!”

  “Heh, yeah,” Jake says. “Twice.”

  I realize I’ve just reiterated our most awkward experience and cover my face with both my hands. I really need to stop talking now. I drop my head against the side window of his Bronco and can hear my loud snores just before releasing consciousness.

  When I wake up we’re already at my house. I’m so unsteady, Jake has to help me climb down from the passenger seat. He keeps an arm around me as we make our way up the walkway to my front door, and it feels as if my wooziness is now from being so close to him. I really, really want. To. Kiss. Him.

  “You smell good,” I say.

  My mom flings open the door just as I’m puckering up and closing one eye to take aim. In my mind I’m getting ready to plant a kiss directly onto Jake’s lips. Except I’m moving in slow motion, and as I watch helplessly, his face moves farther out of reach. He’s trying to hand me over to my mother, but I won’t let go of him.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Mom asks in a concerned tone as she wrestles me off of Jake’s arm. “Wes called from the drive-in and said you weren’t feeling well.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying to wave her off. “Jake-Jake-Jake-Jake . . . Jake, you are a thank-you boy!”

  I reach out to pet his face and he laughs. Squeezing my hand, he says, “Ricki, you are a you’re welcome girl,” which makes no sense, but he’s already turning away and walking back to his red Bronco.

  “No, but . . . Friday is coming!” I call after him, trying to convey a lot of very important information about our first kiss and magic and the drive-in. “Jake!” I repeat, “Friday is coming!”

  He gives me a thumbs-up as he climbs into his truck. But I don’t think he understands.

  I start making loud kissing noises in his direction and Mom says, “Okay, Ricki, that’s enough of that,” as she practically carries me inside.

  I’m discouraged but at least things can’t get any weirder between Jake and me.

  Mom shifts into Nurse Mom mode and says, “Let’s get you all fixed up.”

  My mother always rates between “adequate” and “quite decent” on the mothering scale, but when I’m even the slightest bit sick, she pops solidly into “world’s best” mom zone.

  She tells my dad to fend for himself, and locks Zelda away in the bathroom while explaining in a high-pitched baby voice, “Sowwy, but my other baby girwl is sick.”

  Me feeling queasy right now is Mom’s time to shine.

  I’m barely inside my bedroom when I find myself tucked into bed in my comfiest flannel jammies with a spoonful of mystery medicine sliding down my throat. The ringing in my ears gradually stops, and my perfectly darkened room gently hums with a humidifier blowing a soft cloud of mint mist into the air.

  My head finally stops spin
ning and my thoughts turn to how unfair it is that Lana gets to keep the Skylark. I desperately want to tear off her fake makeup mask and show the whole world what a big, selfish phony my cousin truly is.

  I can’t believe we were ever besties, or that Aunt May thought things between us were fixable. I wish Lana and I weren’t even related. From now on, I plan on seeing as little of my cousin as humanly possible. In fact: I’ll have no problem completely avoiding her all summer.

  Into my darkened room, I actually growl a sarcastic, “See you at Thanksgiving, cuz,” just before rolling over and going to sleep.

  chapter 7

  The first thing I notice when I wake up the next morning, before I even open my eyes, is that the soothing smell of mint has been replaced with a thick, fragrant odor. The sickly sweet scent is so dense it actually makes me start coughing.

  Why would Nurse Mom dump perfume into my humidifier?

  My eyes try to fly open, except . . . they don’t. They’re stuck closed as if they were glued shut while I slept. I manage to get my right eye unglued, but my left eyelid is stuck shut as I look around my room.

  Through the haze of sleep, I realize that the smell and gluey eyelids aren’t the only things that’ve changed. The morning light that usually shines from the window to the right of my bed has shifted so now the sunbeams are coming from the window near the foot of my bed. Except that I don’t normally have a window near the foot of my bed.

  I squeeze my eye closed again. That must’ve been some very strong medicine Nurse Mom slid down my throat last night.

  Maybe that explains the odd sensation of having something heavy resting on my chest right now. I picture Zelda sitting on my front and baring her teeth at my face as she watches me sleep. That Chihuahua is so terrifying, just imagining her on top of me makes me panic and blindly flail at my chest.

  Except that my body seems to have shrunk in the night and I’m actually grabbing at air. Where has my chest gone?

  My right eye flies back open and I use my fingers to pry at my left. My eyelashes are so stiff they feel like they could draw blood. Panicking, I tug hard on my upper left eyelid, trying to force my eye to open, and my upper eyelashes peel off my eye in one long stream.

  I hold up the long strip of lashes and scream like I’ve just pulled an insect out of my eyeball. Which is basically what I’ve done. I drop the multi-legged parasite and slap at it until I’m sure it’s not alive.

  Hyperventilating while I look around, I discover that another major thing has changed while I was sleeping. That is: my whole room!

  Gone are my posters of Alfred Hitchcock and The Thing, replaced with a series of silver-framed mirrors in all different shapes and sizes. My long shelves, which are normally occupied by realistic-looking monster masks, have morphed into neat displays of makeup on each and every available surface area.

  Across from my bed sits an oversized desk with an assortment of large, white lightboxes aimed at a clear acrylic chair on wheels. Stacks of wide compacts are piled high, and white canisters holding bouquets of brushes surround a perfect army of lipsticks standing in creepily even rows.

  Instead of blood and gore everywhere, my room is suddenly pink and white and delicate-looking.

  I scream in horror.

  “MOM!” I call as I begin to hyperventilate.

  I hear angry mumbling coming from the next room. I sit straight up in bed and call faster and louder, “MOM-MOM-MOM-MOM-MOM—!”

  Finally, thick footsteps come stomping toward my door.

  But instead of my mother, Aunt April bursts into the room. Her hair is a snarled mess and her eyeliner is smeared all the way down to her cheekbones.

  “What the heck, Lana?” Aunt April is so angry I’m stunned into silence. “It’s insanely early! Unless you are injured, go back to sleep!”

  I hug the pink blanket up to my neck and stare at her.

  “Are you injured?” she demands.

  I shake my head, and she takes a step closer, looking at my face intently.

  I wince as she scowls in anger. “You fell sleep without washing off your makeup?”

  “What?” I’m so confused.

  “What on earth were you thinking, Lana?”

  Aunt April’s look of disgust makes my insides wither. I hold the blanket tighter around my neck. Why is she acting like I’m Lana? She must be drunk.

  “I can’t believe you’d risk a breakout the night before Digifest! Seriously, Lana. Your complexion is our livelihood.” She spins on her heel to leave. “Go wash your face!” Aunt April slams the door and I hear her footsteps marching all the way back down the hallway.

  I have so many questions right now.

  Looking around at the photos and pictures on the walls, I know I’m in Lana’s bedroom, although I barely recognize it without the Ghost World movie poster and underground comic décor I remember from the last time I was here.

  Now, in addition to the elaborate vanity table, Lana’s room is littered with strategically placed mood candles and bland, semi-inspirational wall art. Her shelves are packed with glass perfume bottle sculptures, and a giant, glam, old-Hollywood-style light-up mirror is centered like a holy icon.

  I get the willies so bad I have to jiggle my arms to fend them off and give a shuddering “Aaaaaaaaghblahblah” as I shake my head to clear it.

  I have zero clue what I’m doing in Lana’s bedroom. And why did Aunt April freak out over face washing instead of me being in her daughter’s bed? And if this is all some elaborate prank, then where have my boobs gone?

  I clutch my new A cups and have a terrible thought.

  I’m possessed.

  Or worse, I’ve taken possession. Which means I’m the evil one.

  My mind whirls with horror movies like Invasion of the Body Snatchers and The Thing, but in those situations I’d just be some monster or alien right now and my body wouldn’t have changed at all. This is more like the opposite, where only my body has changed.

  The horror movie Thinner comes to mind, where a guy makes a wish to lose weight and then can’t stop, but I’ve always been extremely body positive and would never wish away my C-plus cups. Besides, even that poor Thinner guy’s curse had a more gradual weight loss effect. I seem to have dropped at least fifty pounds overnight and even my rib cage feels like it just . . . shrank.

  I think of the voodoo that put a dying murderer into a three-foot-tall Chucky doll in the cult classic Child’s Play. But as crazy as things seem right now, even I know that’s too far-fetched. I’m not into voodoo, also not a murderer. And I may be small now, but I’m hardly doll-sized.

  I eye the desk covered with perfectly arranged bottles and brushes and recognize it as the spot where Lana films her makeup videos. I creep out of bed and make my way toward the vintage glam mirror dramatically framed with round light bulbs.

  The heaviness in my chest gets even worse when I stand up and hug one arm tightly around my mini-middle. I reach up to rub the eye that didn’t peel apart in my hand but feel a sharp eyelash and immediately drop my hand back down.

  As I approach the waist-high desk, I push the rolling acrylic chair out of the way and brace myself. This is it.

  Without looking, I reach over and click on the light bulbs, take a deep breath, and wait a beat before moving so I’m facing the brightly lit mirror.

  I’m disoriented for a moment because instead of my own reflection, I see a very realistic and lifelike image of Lana.

  She’s a complete mess, but she looks hyper-realistic. Like, when I blink, she blinks her lopsided, crazy-looking lashes, and when my mouth falls open in shock, Lana’s lipstick-smeared mouth does the same exact thing in the mirror.

  We both close our mouths and give a gulp. Numbly, I raise a hand to wave, and the wild-looking Lana reflection waves back at me.

  I think of the powerful jolt the two of us got in the Skylark back at the drive-in while Freaky Friday clips flashed onscreen. I fully believe that the Starlight is magic, and that Aunt May’s pink S
kylark is an ultra-special vehicle, but none of this can be real.

  I lean forward and the Lana in the mirror leans closer too. The heaviness in my chest shifts to a sense of hopelessness. Out loud I say, “This isn’t happening,” and Lana’s lips move with mine.

  I reach up to touch my face, which is when I notice my nice, strong, functional hands have grown long, manicured nails overnight. I give my left hand a few shakes, as if that will release the foreign pink nails from my fingers, but they’re a part of my new, graceful-looking Lana hands.

  The hopeless feeling in my chest expands like a balloon until it reaches my head.

  This is real.

  And that is when my legs give out a little.

  In desperation, I grab for something to hang on to. But the clear acrylic chair I lunge for rolls away and I’m left grabbing at a waist-high display of small bottles.

  The room starts to go dim as my flailing arms send lotions and creams sailing in every direction.

  clatter

  smash

  crash

  Bottles explode as they hit the floor, and the cloying scent is released into the air in fragrant waves that grow more and more overpowering.

  I can’t breathe.

  My mind swirls as I fall to the floor, gripping a bottle in each hand.

  I struggle to hang on to consciousness:

  How did I wake up in Lana’s bedroom as LANA?

  And what is the deal with this heavy feeling in my chest?

  Why do I feel so hopeless and depressed right now?

  Actually, scrap all of that:

  Can I please, please, please just be dreaming right now?

  Maybe if I close my eyes and rest a minute, I’ll wake up among the comforting gory masks and horror-show movie posters of my own bedroom.

  And with that thought, the screen of my mind flickers and goes completely dark.

  * * *

  When I open my eyes again, Aunt April is leaning over me with a look of concern on her face.