by Libba Bray
“Hop in,” I said. “Door’s open.”
Connor stepped back and appraised the car for the first time. A fresh wave of humiliation washed over me. “Wow. This is some car. Are your parents really religious?”
“They have unusual taste in cars.” And houses. And clothes. And lives.
“Well, it’s different,” he said cheerfully, leaning forward so I could get a whiff of that clean smell. “Let’s see what this puppy can do.”
“Right,” said Dee. She peeled out into the warm spring night with Connor’s “whoo-hoo!” sailing on the air. Car lights blinked all around us like Christmas Eve, and even though it was only April, it felt every bit like my favorite holiday had come early.
Café Vortex was definitely jumping by the time we got there. At first the manager didn’t want to let me in. Something about the camera and thinking I worked for some ambush news show.
“Don’t you know who this is?” Connor asked. Manager Man crossed his arms and didn’t budge. “This is Kari Dobbins. She’s gonna be going to the NYU film school, man. She’s, like, a camera genius, and she wants to get a few shots of your club.”
The boy was smooth. Manager Man gave me a critical once-over. “Dobbins. Hey, you’re not related to that kid Theo who keeps bugging me to book his sorry band, are you?”
My stomach clenched. Every time I thought I’d run ahead of my family’s rep, it was waiting around a corner to sack me.
Connor came to my rescue, slipping the guy a five-dollar bill. “Dude, don’t you want the Vortex to be famous? Come on, man. Let her in.”
The manager pocketed the .five and opened the red velvet ropes for us. I loved the way Connor could make things happen. He squeezed my arm on the way in. “Okay. Make me proud, Dobbins. I’m out a fiver.”
A crush of dancers was tearing up the floor in front of the stage, and Robin’s Hoods hadn’t even started yet. There were a lot of out of towners, fans following the band from gig to gig. The guys were decked out in zoot suits. The girls wore 1940s dresses complete with heels and little white anklet socks. It was like a scene out of a movie. Inside the club’s dark cave, I moved over by a big column and pointed my lens toward the dancers. Flying legs and arms darted in and out of focus—great practice for my Sweet Sixteen’s action sequences. Hot swing pounded from the club’s speakers. Connor handed me a banana-strawberry smoothie and pointed to a table in the back where we wouldn’t have to shout over the music to be heard.
“So Kari,” Connor said, pulling out a chair for me and then Dee. “Have you always wanted to make movies?”
“Ever since I can remember,” I replied, trying to sound grown-up and sure of myself.
“Well,” Dee added. “Except for that period in sixth grade when you said you were going to be a ballerina.” I tried to kick Dee under the table but couldn’t quite reach her.
“I think that is so cool,” Connor said, sending my heart into orbit. “So what all have you done?”
Gulp. Right back to the NYU application. I didn’t want Connor to think I was a total poser. “W-W-Well.” I was stuttering. Not good. Control, Kari. Stay in control. “Nothing that rocks my world yet. Practice stuff. You know, some mood pieces. A little bit of super eight.”
“When did you do that?” Dee wanted to know. “I thought you said you’d only shot on video.”
Dee was becoming a major cramp in my new style. To tell the truth, I had only worked on video. But I was planning to branch out very soon. Besides, eight millimeter had such a guerrilla sound to it. I fixed Dee with a don’t-go-there look. “I don’t tell you everything, you know. Mrs. Jameson.”
Dee’s eyes went huge, and she clammed up.
The lights dimmed a bit, and the crowd broke into spontaneous clapping and whooping. Connor stood up and craned his neck to see the stage. “Looks like the band’s coming on.”
The sound guy’s voice came through the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Robin’s Hoods!” Eight guys in big suits and wing tips like Connor’s bounded onstage. The lead singer counted one, two, three, and they launched into a high-energy song that had the dance floor mobbed. These guys really rocked. I could see why Connor and everybody else was so wild about them.
“Come on,” Connor said, grabbing my hand. “Let’s cut a rug.”
I held back. “I don’t know how to dance like that. You go ahead.”
Connor gave me his hat. “Watch that for me?”
Watch it? I wanted to hug it. I even went so far as to give it a quick sniff. It had a warm, guy smell, like he’d been wearing it to rake leaves or start a campfire. I was falling in love with a scent.
Connor had found a partner and was twisting and twirling all over the floor. The boy could really move, which wasn’t helping my crush. This was just the sort of teens-of-today footage that was going to make my film project jump up and say “pick me” at NYU.
Putting Connor’s hat on my head for safekeeping, I fired up the video cam and got an eyeful of Connor Reese jitterbugging his way into my heart. I could have sat there watching him safely from behind my camera for hours. Honestly. But after three songs the band downshifted into a mellow mood. The singer’s ultrasmooth voice was laying it down about love being a funny thing.
“That hat looks good on you,” Connor said, wiping a little sweat off his forehead.
I’d forgotten I was wearing it. “Oh. Sorry,” I said, handing it over.
Connor put it back on my head. “No. Keep it on. It’s you.” I was glad it was dark because I could feel a cheesy, teenybopper grin stretching across my face. “How about a slow dance? No major moves required.” He held out his hand, and I took it.
We made our way onto the packed dance floor and shifted from foot to foot mostly. I didn’t care. Being this close to Connor made huge goose bumps pop up along my arms. I wanted to pay the band to keep playing that song all night.
A few minutes later the band launched into a fast one, and Connor led the way back to our table. We squeezed through the crowd and bumped right into Jen Appleton. Nan was nowhere to be found.
“Hi, Connor,” Jen said, looking over his shoulder at me. “Have you seen Nan?”
“Not since she ran over my jacket about an hour ago. ’Scuse us.” Connor pushed on through, but Jen blocked my path.
“How’s the movie going?”
“Fine,” I said, keeping an eye on Connor’s head as it moved away.
“A couple of people at the party last night said this whole movie thing is bogus. That it’s, like, an excuse to hang with us. Is it for real?”
I stopped. “Yeah, it’s for real.”
Jen smirked. I’d let her get under my skin, and she knew it.
I touched the brim of Connor’s hat. “I’m probably going to enter it in some film festivals and stuff. You know, a lot of people have been discovered that way. Not just directors, but, like, actors and models and all.” So outrageous, I should have been struck by lightning. Since I wasn’t, I went for the kill. “But hey, if y’all don’t want to be in it, that’s cool.”
Jen’s eyes got big. She caught herself and sneered. “Discovered? Please.”
I was starting to get a little desperate and ticked off. “Actually, a friend of my grandmother’s might be coming to check things out. He’s a casting director.” It was such a stupid thing to say. I instantly wished I could take it back. Bingo. That was all Jen needed to hear.
“A casting director? For which network?”
My face went limp, like a tanking fish. My voice came out small and far away. “Network? Uh, I really shouldn’t say, really.” Really. Really shouldn’t say.
Jen was off and running. “Ohmigod. Not the WB, is it? That’s, like, my favorite channel in the whole universe. I can’t believe you’re so connected.”
I was a bad person. I couldn’t believe the stuff I’d said. But I mean, I hadn’t really committed to anything, right?
“Listen, don’t worry. I’ll spread the word that yo
u rate, okay?” Jen flounced off to a table in the corner.
I could practically feel the rumor mill turning as I walked back to our table, promising myself that I’d fix it all later.
“So, where do you live?” I asked, trying to sound casual as the Jesus mobile idled at a red light. We’d just dropped Dee off at her house and were finally alone.
“Foxcroft,” Connor answered. “It’s out Tanglew—”
“I know where it is,” I said softly. It was deep in my neighborhood. The fashionable part.
“Great. Where’s your house?”
“Skylark,” I practically whispered.
“Wow,” he said. “I can’t believe we live in the same neighborhood.”
Ordinarily that would have been cause for great celebration. But I didn’t want Connor to make the association between me and the Freak Castle. Not till I’d had a chance to make it over.
“Listen, you don’t have to drop me off. I can just walk from your house,” Connor offered.
“Oh no,” I said, too quickly. “No. I’ll drive you home. It’s no trouble.”
“It’s late. I can’t let you drive home alone at night. I’ll walk. Besides, I want to see the house of the famous film director.”
A thin layer of sweat was breaking out on my upper lip. We were approaching the turnoff for my—our—neighborhood. Maybe we’d have an accident. Nothing life threatening. Just something to delay the house tour thing.
“Oh, you know what? I should pick up milk for my mom. We’re out. So I’ll drop you and then go get it.”
“Just pull into the Quickie Mart on the corner.”
“I don’t think they have milk.” Beyond retarded. If there’s life on Mars, you can be sure their Quickie Marts have milk.
Connor wasn’t having it, either. “Call me wacky, but I think the mart is pretty well stocked with your average moo juice.”
Busted. I pulled into the small parking lot and emerged from the Quickie Mart five minutes later with a gallon of milk we didn’t need. I was out of excuses. I let the Jesus mobile lead me toward the moment of embarrassment. It had been a nice evening. Too bad.
As we inched slowly up the hill toward our house, I secretly hoped a streetlight had gone out and left it hidden by shadows. No such luck. It blossomed out of the street like a toadstool. I pulled into our driveway but left the engine running.
“You live here?” Connor asked incredulously. Lila’s primitive yard gnomes stood like guards on either side of our weed-infested walkway. “It’s very unique.”
That was a nice way of putting it. I couldn’t let him think we lived this way. “Oh, the wooden scary guys and the whole Elvis-meets-Frankenstein decor? That’s left over from a piece I was shooting for my sister. She needed something fun for a Halloween party she was going to.”
“Halloween was six months ago already.”
“I know,” I said, digging myself in deeper. “Mom keeps telling her to take it all down, but you know how little kids are….” Isis would have pulled out all my teeth with pliers if she heard me call her a little kid. “Once they get attached to something, well, what can you do?”
“That’s great that your mom still lets her play with it. My mom would have a style cow. She goes a little mental if you squeeze the toothpaste from the middle or mess up the pillows on the couch.”
I drifted off, imagining such a normal, well-ordered household. “Sounds great…,” I said.
“It does?” Connor turned and looked at me, and I realized I’d forgotten to put that filter between my brain and mouth back in place again.
“I mean, sounds like a great place. You live on Foxcroft, right?” I was making such an idiot of myself.
Connor gave me a hello-are-you-still-on-this-planet? look and said simply, “Right.”
Foxcroft. I knew the street. It was five blocks over in the nicer part of our neighborhood, where people were renovating their old-fashioned bungalows like crazy. Connor’s place was probably something out of Better Homes & Gardens. The kind of house I dreamed about.
Pathetic as it was, when I couldn’t fall asleep at night, I’d lie in bed and overhaul our house from top to bottom. In my mind I’d throw out stacks and stacks of Reptile World magazines. I’d replace Isis’s corkboard with a framed print and place a little table under it where a phone and answering machine would live permanently. I’d eighty-six the grody green-and-brown sofa, bring in the new cream slipcover. I’d say bye-bye to fuchsia bathroom walls and hello to tasteful wallpaper. I’d reorganize the kitchen, fix up the garden, donate the like torch and yard gods to a theme park. I’d plant impatiens on the front porch and chuck all those creepy snake cages.
Connor broke in on my Martha Stewart moment. “All that dancing made me thirsty. Would you mind if I came in and got a drink of water?”
Connor? Inside? “No!” I said, a little wildly. “I mean, I’d invite you in, but my grandmother’s already in bed. I don’t want to wake her up.”
“I wasn’t planning on playing a drum solo. I just wanted a drink of water.” He managed to make it sound sweet and flirty.
“It’s not that. It’s just…” What? What could I come up with that wouldn’t sound like the biggest brush-off of all time? I didn’t want Connor to think I was a water hoarder or that I didn’t like him when I was absolutely, positively wacko for him. But if I let him into our house of horrors, I’d never live it down. He wouldn’t see me, Kari Dobbins, together filmmaker. He’d see Kari the superfreak whose family belonged in a circus sideshow. “I have to study for my biology test.”
Connor gave me a stunned face. “Biology test,” he repeated. Even I couldn’t believe I’d come up with such a ridiculous excuse.
“Right,” I said. “So sorry. Look, I’ll drive you home. It’ll only take a nanosecond. Really.” This was not going well.
“Kari, I know you’re supersmart and all, but it’s Saturday night. Can’t you wait till tomorrow to study?”
“Uh…” I was sinking fast. “I have…something…to do tomorrow. I can’t get out of it. So I have to study tonight.”
There was a silence that followed my lame explanation. I can only describe it as painful.
“Sure, okay. Whatever,” Connor said. He slumped down a little in his seat, and my hopes slumped with him. Cicadas sang outside in the grass, but no one was dancing. With a heavy heart, I backed out of my driveway. Connor started quietly humming a song to himself and looking out the window in that I-couldn’t-care-less way that guys have a patent on. The three-minute drive to Connor’s beautiful house seemed to take an hour. When he bounded out of the car with just a short “thanks,” I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out.
“Bye,” I murmured, so softly even the car didn’t hear me.
I was going home to my room to listen to Sarah McLachlan till my ears bled, till I was so far down in the dumps that even Hallmark couldn’t make a card to reach me.
The headlights fell across my ramshackle yard. The snake cages. The bad paint job. The windows where Mom and Lila and Theo and Isis slept, unaware that I was plotting a future without them.
A twinge of guilt ignited, then quieted. I closed the car door and let myself into the darkened living room, knowing that tomorrow I would call and find a place to have my party. Somewhere far away from here.
chapter 6
The next morning dawned bright and clear to mock me. I thought about the sour end to my promising night with Connor and buried my head under the pillow. At ten o’clock Lila stood over my bed with her car keys in one hand and her pocketbook (she refused to call it a purse) in the other. “Rise and shine, Turpentine!”
“Am I dead?” I asked, peeling my pillow off my face. “Is this hell?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Kari Elizabeth.” Lila had a thing for calling me by my full name. It was like I needed a middle name to become a serious person. Or maybe that was the only way she could remember who I was, like having to say your phone number really fast or you can’t reci
te it.
“C’mon, get dressed. The day is burning. We’re late.”
I didn’t remember having an appointment. “Late for what?”
“We have an appointment with destiny, also known as the caterer. For your party, darlin’. Now, let’s go.”
Caterer? Lila?
Lila went to fix her wig in my mirror. I swiped the to-do list I’d made the night before from my nightstand. 1. Tell Connor Theo had typhoid to explain behavior. Something. Anything. 2. Find normal place for party.
I had been too depressed to finish the list. I hoped Lila hadn’t seen item number two. A caterer, huh? It looked like Lila was coming through for me after all. I wanted to see the look on Jared’s smug face when I told him.
I jumped out of bed, feeling forgiveness in my heart. Brushing my teeth and hair in a hurry, I let myself imagine a quaint, old-fashioned place that served up miniature quiches, petit fours, and a big, scene-stealing cake. Something elegant. Refined. Sophisticated. I sighed. It was like a dream come true.
Lila drove us to the end of the earth, about fifteen miles outside of town to a place called Tokyo Joe’s BBQ. It’s that combination sushi-barbecue joint the world has been clamoring for. Lila had radar for this kind of thing.
My mood was heading a little south. So much for refined. I tried not to get bent out of shape. There was always the chance that the food was incredible. Or that they were some exclusive outfit based in New York or something. It could happen.
Tokyo Joe himself met us at the door. “Howdy, pardner,” he said, ushering us inside. “Have a seat.” Lila dropped into a big chair with cow cushions and a back painted like a cactus. I took a look around. It was Lila decor, for sure. Every wall had miles of Hollywood studio stills featuring Western stars. John Wayne. Gene Autry. Roy Rogers. Someone had doctored the photos so each star was holding a sashimi plate or bottle of sake in place of a gun or lariat. The only thing missing was a karaoke machine with country-and-western songs.
“You’ll simply adore Joe,” Lila whispered in my ear. “He’s a master with exotic food.” Exotic didn’t sound promising. But I remembered Connor saying most parties were boring, so I decided to give it a go. Tokyo Joe whipped through some swinging saloon doors with a Japanese sun painted on them.