Vanishing Acts

by Leslie Margolis

  “That was a killer, though,” said Finn. “I’ll bet you did great today.”

  “You’re too sweet.” Lucy leaned into him and they bumped shoulders.

  Forgetting her bizarre behavior, she was right about one thing: Finn was being totally “artificial sweetener”—the kind that makes my teeth ache. Clearly he wanted something. But before I could figure out what that might be, we turned the corner and I forgot all about my brother.

  I was too shocked. I’d passed by Second Street a gazillion times before, but at the moment, I didn’t even recognize the place. The entire block had been transformed into a winter wonderland. I’m talking igloos and icicles, twinkling lights and snow people. Like we were in the middle of December—in Alaska. Obviously it was all fake, or at least manufactured. I could hear the hum of three snow machines working overtime.

  But the block-long snowstorm wasn’t the only thing odd about the scene. All the regular cars parked on the sides of the street were gone, replaced with two crisp rows of silver, futuristic-looking vehicles—something between an army jeep and a semitruck. Except they were propped up by crystal-clear glass so they seemed to float three feet off the ground.

  “Does anyone know what this movie is about?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I read up on it last night,” said Lucy. “It’s about a futuristic, post-apocalyptic world where only a handful of teenagers and some grown-up zombies and an army of giant rats have survived, and there aren’t enough resources for all three groups, so they’re fighting it out, and—oops, my phone is vibrating.” Lucy pulled her phone out of her back pocket and read the screen. “Sonya just texted me. She and Beatrix should be right over there.” She pointed to a crowd of about twenty people across the street. Beatrix and Sonya saw us and waved.

  When we joined them, Sonya said, “Took you long enough!”

  I checked my watch. “We came here right when school got out. It’s not even four o’clock.”

  “We’ve gotta stick to the outside edge so we actually have a chance of being seen on camera,” Sonya said.

  “And of seeing Seth.” Beatrix pointed to one of the trailers parked across the street. “I think that’s his dressing room.”

  “How can you tell which one is his?” I asked, since all six looked identical to me.

  “I’ve seen other people come out of the other five. Plus, it’s set back from the street and it’s got the most security,” she said, and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t look now, but that’s the director.”

  Of course when someone says “don’t look now” I have to look, and it’s a good thing I did, or I would’ve missed seeing Jones Reynaldo.

  He was tall and skinny with faded black jeans and a matching faded black shirt—like his clothes had spent too much time in the wash. Come to think of it, with his dark, wildly curly hair and his pale skin, it looked like he’d spent too much time in the wash, too—on an extra spin cycle. He wore dark glasses to match the cloudy day.

  Jones walked by us quickly and stopped in front of a props person (or at least some guy in a black T-shirt that read “Props” on the back).

  “What’s your name?” Jones barked.

  The props guy was skinny and blond, already nervous looking. But once Jones approached, his shoulders seemed to shrink closer to his chest. “I’m Zander?” he asked, like he wasn’t exactly sure.

  “Zander who lost the inflatable crowd?” Jones asked.

  “Yeah—about that. I’m so sorry. I feel terrible.”

  “Sorry doesn’t bring back a crowd of thirty,” barked Jones. “Do you know how hard it’s going to be to corral real live extras? And are you the guy who built these snowmen?”

  Zander looked behind him, as if hoping Jones were talking to someone else named Zander. “Uh, yeah,” he said finally.

  “And what were your instructions?” asked Jones.

  “To build four large snowmen,” said Zander.

  “Yes—to build four large snowmen,” Jones repeated. “Then why, may I ask, are there four pathetically tiny snowmen on this set?”

  The guy flinched. “Sorry. I’ll fix it.”

  Jones stalked off. Everything about him reminded me of a playground bully, all grown up.

  “He’s intense,” said Lucy.

  “That’s one way to put it,” I replied.

  “I read that they wanted him to direct one of the Harry Potter movies, but he turned them down,” Sonya whispered.

  “Why?” asked Lucy.

  “He doesn’t do franchises. That’s what he told them, anyway,” said Sonya.

  “Wow!” I replied. This seemed impressive, although I’m not sure why.

  Just then, Jones seemed to notice our crowd for the first time. He began heading our way, until a tall blond woman in a short black dress stepped in front of him. “Reynaldo Jones. Is that you?” she asked.

  Jones stopped short in his tracks, flinched with his whole body, and looked up at her. “It’s Jones Reynaldo, as I think you know. Just like it was yesterday, Mrs. Weasel. And the day before.”

  “And I’m Jenna Beasely. Just like I was yesterday, and the day before, and for my whole entire life,” said the woman.

  So this was my parents’ friend. I didn’t remember having brunch with her, but she did look vaguely familiar.

  “Beasely. Of course. I don’t know why I always do that.” Jones smirked in a way that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

  My friends and I exchanged glances. This was getting interesting.

  “What time are you wrapping here?” she asked.

  “Impossible to say, since we haven’t started shooting.” Jones’s voice sounded as chilly as the pretend weather. “And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that we have permits to shoot well into the night, and it’s only four o’clock now.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of your permits,” said Jenna. “And of the fact that you violated the terms last night.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to call the police on us,” said Jones.

  “Actually, I did. And if you go a minute past eight o’clock tonight I’ll shut this movie down faster than you can say ‘Brooklyn.’”

  “Brooklyn!” he shouted.

  “Don’t test me!” she warned.

  “Just kidding. Sheesh. Where’s your sense of humor?”

  “I’m much funnier when I’m not kept up all night because of some ridiculous movie shoot,” she argued.

  “It wasn’t all night,” said Jones. “And we’re allowed to work until eleven tonight. We just got an official extension.”

  “Says who?”

  “The mayor’s office.” Jones smiled smugly, as if daring her to disagree.

  Jenna pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll call right now to verify that.”

  Jones held up his hands and trembled in an exaggerated way. “Oooh, she’s got a cell phone. How frightening!” he replied sarcastically.

  Meanwhile, Jenna punched in the numbers with such force I feared she’d break her phone.

  “She’s pretty upset,” I whispered.

  Sonya huffed. “Some people don’t appreciate how lucky they are.”

  Jones stalked off. Jenna went back into her house, which was directly behind the trailer my friends had pointed out earlier.

  Soon a woman dressed in black jeans and a red T-shirt approached. She had a giant megaphone and used it even though we stood all of two feet away.

  “Will the new inflatable crowd please follow me?” she bellowed.

  I raised my eyebrows at my friends.

  Sonya shrugged. “At least she said ‘please.’”

  “Hold it! Stop right there!” the megaphone woman yelled, pointing to our group. “You look like minors.”

  “We are,” Beatrix piped up. “But we have release forms.” She collected all of ours and handed over the small stack.

  The woman rifled through them, then had everyone walk to the corner of Prospect Park West.

  As soon as we got there, Bea
trix grabbed my arm and whispered, “Omigosh, that’s Brandon Wilson!” She pointed to a short guy stepping out of the trailer opposite Seth Ryan’s.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “He was in Seth’s last two movies. Remember?”

  I squinted at the guy. His hair wasn’t straight or curly, just puffy. And the color wasn’t exactly red or brown, but somewhere in between. He seemed pretty pale, at least from far away. I tried to picture him in a vampire costume. Then dressed as a dog. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “How cool!”

  “Think we should ask for his autograph?” asked Lucy.

  “No way,” said my brother.

  We watched Brandon talk to Jones and then head back into his trailer.

  Then we saw Jones check with Zander on the progress of the snowmen.

  Next we watched someone come around and adjust a bunch of lights. I figured they’d need us to do something sometime soon, but everyone ignored us for the next thirty minutes.

  “Being an extra involves a lot of standing around,” I said to Lucy as someone finally came over and asked us to cross the street. Then we had to stand around there while a group of props people, led by Zander, built new and better snowmen.

  Finally, twenty minutes later, Jones barked at us through a megaphone. “Extras—please walk to the end of the block and mill around inconspicuously.”

  “I don’t do a lot of milling,” I whispered. “I think I’m going to be conspicuous.”

  “Shh!” said Beatrix.

  We all shuffled over. It’s hard to walk in a big crowd, and harder to act natural when you know there are cameras rolling. “Okay, got it. Now go back to where you started and do it again,” Jones said. “This time with more feeling.”

  After doing this same thing six more times, I started worrying about my dogs. They had to be dying to go out. Maybe volunteering to be an extra had been a giant mistake.

  I had a lot of homework tonight, too. Not to mention a history test tomorrow, and twenty pages still to read about the Trail of Tears. I didn’t know if we’d been standing around for a long time or if it just seemed like that because I was so bored.

  I checked my watch. Yup—it had been a long time.

  Suddenly, Jones yelled into his megaphone again.

  “You! In the green hoodie!” I looked down at my sweatshirt. It was green. I looked around. No one else in the crowd wore a green hoodie. He’d singled me out. But why? I had this feeling like I’d just failed a big test, and the most important information on it was don’t talk.

  But now it was too late. Jones Reynaldo stopped right in front of me.

  “Will you stop checking your watch? You’re ruining this entire scene. Now we have to shoot all over again.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “It’s just—is this going to take much longer?”

  “Yes!” he said. “Now get back to your place and stop looking so bored.”

  I moved back to where I’d been standing, but I could only follow half of his instructions because I’m just not that good of an actor. “Well, um, how much longer?” I asked. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I had to know. There were dogs depending on me!

  Jones turned around and glared at me. His entire face turned red as he lowered his megaphone and approached. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Maggie Brooklyn Sinclair. It’s nice to meet you.” I held out my hand. He stared at it like I’d offered him up a rotten fish.

  “You think I care?” he huffed.

  “Well, you did ask.” I put my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. I didn’t like this guy.

  Now that he stood so close, I saw he had a few pieces of straw stuck in his hair. Anyone else, I would’ve told them about it. But Jones? I was afraid to say anything. The guy was seriously angry, and I was seriously intimidated.

  “All I meant was, who are you to be interrupting my shoot?”

  “Oh,” I said. “I guess I’m an extra. But when I signed up I didn’t think it would take this long. I only have so much extra time. Ha ha . . . And I’m sort of, well, out of it.”

  “What are you saying?” he asked.

  “That I have to go.”

  “What?”

  I wondered if he was hard of hearing. Maybe I should ask to borrow his megaphone?

  “I have to—” I started to repeat myself, speaking louder this time, but he interrupted.

  “You can’t leave. I’m not finished with my scene. And no one walks off a Jones Reynaldo set.”

  “But I really have to go.”

  “Then I’m throwing you off! Quit wasting my time! Get out of here!”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, with all sincerity. Yes, this guy was rude; yes, he was a bully, but I didn’t want to mess up his movie. I tried to explain. “If I’d known how long this would take when we started, I never would’ve—”

  “Why are you still talking?” he screamed, grabbing his hair. “I said leave. I never want to see you again. Just vanish.”

  I giggled. I just couldn’t help it.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “You said ‘vanish,’ “ I said. “And your movie is called Vanished—right?”

  “Right,” he said slowly, not quite believing.

  “So it’s funny, is all.”

  Jones stared at me like he wanted to strangle me.

  Then he threw his clipboard on the ground and stomped on it, reminding me of the last time Beckett’s moms told him he couldn’t have any more cookies.

  Throwing a tantrum over a cookie I could relate to. Especially since one of his moms is such an awesome baker—a pastry chef at one of my and Finn’s favorite restaurants. (One that, incidentally, does not serve brunch.)

  But this? I didn’t know what else to say.

  Jones screamed, “You’ll never work in this town again!”

  This made no sense whatsoever, but it kind of freaked me out. And sometimes when I’m nervous or confused I can’t help but laugh.

  Unfortunately, this seemed to be one of those times.

  I felt the laughter bubble deep in my stomach. It traveled up into my throat; I couldn’t help it. And then it came out.

  Yup. I laughed. In Jones Reynaldo’s face. Seeing him so irate with all that straw in his hair? The contrast was too much; it just made me laugh harder.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  I tried to explain myself between fits of giggles, but it wasn’t easy getting the words out. “Well, I’m actually going to work. You see, I’m a dog walker, and I—”

  “I don’t care!” he shouted, pulling at his hair with both hands. “Just get out of my face and don’t come back. I never want to see you again!”

  Well, the feeling was mutual, but I didn’t say so. I turned to my friends and said good-bye. Lucy waved. Finn just shook his head—half embarrassed, half trying not to laugh himself.

  Beatrix and Sonya backed away like they were afraid to be associated with me. Probably they were worried they’d get thrown off the set for just knowing me, and I didn’t blame them. I knew how important this was to them, and I didn’t want to stand in their way of seeing the amazing Seth Ryan.

  If they got to see him, that is.

  In truth, we’d been standing out in the fake snow and the real cold for over an hour, and all we’d seen was Jones Reynaldo. And that Brandon guy. And my parents’ friend Jenna. And a scared props guy named Zander, and the megaphone lady, and a bunch of other crew members.

  As I headed down the street, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

  In the window of the trailer—the one with all the security guards—someone waved.

  His face seemed so familiar. One I’d seen on TV and in movies and in every magazine there is. He was Seth Ryan.

  Except the strange part was, he seemed to be waving at me.

  “Hey?” I half asked as I waved back, figuring this must be some big misunderstanding. Like, maybe he was merely Seth Ryan’s look-alike.

  Except when he smiled at me
, I knew for sure, because Seth Ryan’s smile is unforgettable.

  So, that was weird enough, but he seemed to be motioning for me to come closer.

  At least it looked that way. I glanced over my shoulder, figuring there must be someone behind me—Jones or another actor or someone else involved in the movie.

  But no—this side of the street remained empty.

  I turned back around. Not only was Seth still there, he’d also leaned out of his window. “Hey, can you come here for a second?” he asked.

  “Sure.” I moved closer. “You do mean—”

  Except I didn’t get to finish my sentence. Because before I knew it, someone grabbed me by the arm and yanked me away.

  Chapter 7

  Twenty minutes later, I fished my keys to Isabel’s apartment out of my backpack. Through the closed door I heard someone yelling in French.

  “Excusez-moi, où est la salle de bains?”

  Then in English, the same voice asked, “Excuse me. Where is the bathroom?”

  French again: “La salle de bains est au bout du couloir à gauche.”

  And English: “The bathroom is down the hall and to the left.”

  I wondered whom Isabel had over and why they were so loud.

  Then once I stepped inside, I realized the voice came from a French language tape blasting at full volume. Isabel is moving to Paris in a few weeks. Not forever—just for six months. Which is good, because I’d miss her, and I’d especially miss her dog, Preston, my favorite Irish wolfhound, and, coincidentally, the only Irish wolfhound I know.

  Isabel is our landlady. We live three stories above her, and I’ve known her since forever. She used to be a big Broadway actress. Now she’s simply big in every other sense: size, voice, hair, and general presence.

  Today her apartment was even messier than usual. There were six old suitcases stacked precariously in the center of her living room, a mountain of clothes piled nearby. Not to mention three overflowing laundry baskets—two filled with laundry and one filled with porcelain cats.

  “Isabel?” I called.

  “Est-il va pleuvoir?” her tape blared. “Is it going to rain?”

  People spend too much time talking about the weather, I think. I mean, it’s just there, and we can’t control it. So what is there to say? Learning how to talk about it in two languages is doubly boring.