October Girls: Crystal & Bone

by L C Glazebrook

  So “situational depression” had been the best choice—it not only allowed the counselors to feel helpful, but it also had a satisfying conclusion upon which they could all agree.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m stressed about this Halloween party. It’s at Cindy Summerhill’s house.”

  “Summerhill? The county commissioner’s daughter?”

  “And head cheerleader and senior class president and Morehead scholar and the first girl in our class to reach a C cup. And she has the biggest house in town. Indoor pool, game room, movie theater. Party Central.”

  “Why in the world do you wanna do that?”

  “It’s McMack Truck’s idea. Wants to make sure I’m playing well with others.”

  That’s something Pettigrew understood. He was dyslexic, and school had been one long torture chamber. He’d taken his C average and diploma and never looked back. Well, he looked back, but not without a glower.

  Pettigrew geared down as they entered the main business strip. He’d already gotten a ticket for the busted muffler and if he got a bad rep, the cops would stop calling him for accident response. Just another way the poor got owned by the Man, he liked to say. But he liked to say it a little too much. Dempsey didn’t have that kind of inferiority complex.

  Oops. There you go again. Quit comparing them, darn it.

  “Well, you’re coming to the party with me, ain’t you?” she asked.

  “Ain’t been invited.”

  “Hello. I just invited you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  She put her hand on his thigh and gave a playful squeeze. “Come on. It’ll be fun. You’re not 20 yet. It’s not too creepy to hang out with high school kids.

  “Not as creepy as that Dempsey dude. Saw him last night with a bunch of 14-year-old Goth wannabees.”

  She sat up against the seatbelt. “Where?”

  “Standing outside the Cineplex. Had enough eyeliner and leather to build a black cow.”

  “Was there a guy with them? Older guy, kind of wavy hair, in a T-shirt?” She wanted to add “dreamy eyes,” but Pettigrew would have no idea what that meant. And she was afraid to say “Royce,” because Pettigrew might fall into brainwash mode.

  “Nah. Looked like Dempsey was passing out tickets.”

  The Cineplex only had two theaters. Currently, the twin bill featured a Russell Crowe shoot-’em-up and a humorous remake of “Night of the Living Dead.” Since the zombie movie had been cleaned up to PG-13 and starred some wise-cracking kid who’d cut his teeth in cereal commercials, she’d had no interest in seeing it. But if Dempsey was pushing it on the Gothling crowd, maybe it contained some sort of secret message, too.

  “Did he say anything about Hollywood connections when he talked to you?” she asked.

  “Only the usual. He knew some agent somewhere. Name-dropping without the name.” He gave her another sideways glance. “You sure talk about him a lot.”

  “You gotta admit, we don’t get his kind in Parson’s Ford very often.”

  “Right. Maybe you can go to the Halloween party with him.”

  “I only meant—”

  “Maybe you can go as the mummy, since you’re so wrapped up in him.”

  For Pettigrew, that was almost funny. But she didn’t want him to get suspicious, not when hell was threatening to crawl out of the Orifice. One more complication and she might as well check in for some more outpatient therapy. She gripped his gear-shifting hand and squeezed with what she hoped was affection. His fingers were greasy.

  “You don’t have to play jealous, honey. You’re the only man for me.”

  He looked away from the crowded boulevard and grinned at her. He had a speck of mustard on his lip and his teeth were crooked. And Dempsey’s teeth were—

  “What?” he said, face frozen in an idiot stare.

  “Watch your driving, that car has Florida plates.”

  He took a two-handed grip on the wheel. “This Dempsey guy may be a big deal to grade-school kids, but I thought you had a lick of sense.”

  “It’s strictly business,” she said. “He might put Parson’s Ford on the map. And he might put you in a movie.”

  “I already told you, I ain’t interested.”

  Pettigrew pulled up in front of the store. To her surprise, the “Closed” sign had been turned around and several customers were inside.

  “Fatback Bob must have opened early,” she said.

  “I hope this means you still have a job.”

  “Don’t worry.” She reached up and wiped the mustard from his lip, then gave him a quick kiss. He had onion breath from the cheeseburger.

  “Hey,” he said, grabbing her arm as she tried to slide out of the truck. “That was no kiss goodbye.”

  “It was a kiss ‘I’ll see you later.’ I don’t have time for goodbye.”

  He yanked her back inside and mashed lips, slipping a little tongue. She could taste not only the onions but the pickle, too. “See ya at eight,’ he said.

  Crystal entered the store, glancing with apprehension at the walls. No s. Good.

  Half a dozen teenagers stood at the counter, including a couple she recognized from high school. Fatback Bob was ringing up the register while counting out a stack of VHS tapes. The tapes were piled all around the counter and a makeshift cardboard display held another hundred or so.

  “Crystal,” said Fatback Bob, jovial from the cash transactions. “Just in time. We’re swamped.”

  One of the customers pushed by her on the way out the door, and she recognized the box cover. The Bloodening, one of Dempsey’s armchair masterpieces.

  “What’s up?” Crystal said as she eased behind the counter.

  “All these horror movies your friend brought,” Fatback Bob said. “The kids are eating them like popcorn.”

  Ned Riley and Yvette Guiterrez, seniors at Pickett High, were next in line, and they’d selected the complete Dempsey oeuvre. It looked like Dempsey had not only brought duplicate copies of the original tapes, he’d added a few more titles to the mix: The Hearkening, The Oozening, and The Unevening.

  “Date night, huh?” Crystal said to Ned and Yvette. They stared past her so intently that Crystal turned to see if a portal had appeared on the storefront glass. But the glass showed nothing but the reflection of the store’s interior.

  “Nineteen forty-seven,” Bob told them. “Want candy with that?”

  “Royce,” Yvette said. Ned shoved a twenty across the counter.

  “How many of these have you rented?” Crystal said.

  “Halloween,” Ned said.

  “We got that,” Fatback Bob said. “The one with Jamie Lee Curtis and the guy in the hockey mask?”

  “Halloween,” Ned repeated, taking the tapes and shambling toward the door. Yvette followed in his wake as if pulled by sluggish magnetism.

  “I didn’t know anyone still had a working VHS player,” Crystal said.

  “Purists.” Fatback Bob shrugged. “Sort of like music lovers who still listen to vinyl records.”

  The next kids in line didn’t have the vacant-eyed stares of Ned and Yvette, so Crystal assumed they were new to Dempsey’s work. “So,” she said to the greasy-haired kid in the Green Day T-shirt. “How’d you hear about The Darkening?”

  “Snake told me it was awesome,” he replied. “Like, three and half thumbs up.”

  The kid could use a few anatomy lessons, but he didn’t lack for enthusiasm. Crystal pulled her copy out of her purse. “I watched it last night.”

  “Really? How many thumbs you give it?”

  “A thumbnail, maybe.”

  “Hey,” butted in Fatback Bob. “Everything in the store is an instant classic, a modern epic, a sweeping tale of romance and adventure. Not a dog in the house.”

  Crystal knew there were a couple of Pauly Shore vehicles in inventory, and anything with Seth Rogen qualified as brain-cell suicide in her opinion, but it was Fatback Bob’s signature on the bottom of her check, so she wasn’t g
oing to argue.

  “Seven ninety-five,” she said. “Due back in three days.”

  “Halloween,” said the hollow-eyed girl behind him in line.

  “We got that in Aisle Nine,” Fatback Bob said.

  “Halloween,” the girl repeated.

  “Halloween is tomorrow,” said Green Day Kid.

  “Royce,” she said.

  Great. The Royce Heads are flying on auto pilot. Something’s going down on Halloween for sure. But how can I save the world when I have a party to attend?

  “What’s this Royce thing everybody’s talking about?” Fatback Bob said.

  Crystal pointed to the actor credits on the back of the box. “Royce Dean. He’s a character actor.”

  “What’s the character?”

  “Melted taffy on a popsicle stick,” said the hollow-eyed girl, who was too young to be making lewd comments. “Yummalicious.”

  “Eye candy,” Crystal translated.

  “Oh,” Fatback Bob said, as if not understanding that men could be eye candy, too. His office walls, the parts not covered with peeper-cam monitors, featured posters of Farrah Fawcett, Raquelle Welch, Faye Dunaway, and other old-school beauties. “Whatever moves product,” he said with acceptance. “Next.”

  The hollow-eyed girl laid her selections on the counter. Crystal recognized her now. Lacey Summerhill, Cindy’s freshman sister. She was decked in a Baby Phat blouse, and the stone studs in her ears looked like real diamonds. She had enough booty to pay for Crystal’s entire two years of community college.

  Crystal eyed the cover of The Bloodening, which featured a silver butcher knife dripping red against a black background. Dempsey’s presentation lacked subtlety, but it seemed to be effective.

  “Aren’t you too young for this?” Crystal asked her.

  “It’s unrated,” Fatback Bob said in a surly voice. “She’s street legal.”

  Yeah, and I’ll bet you’d love to get her in the suntan booth. Ten years for kiddie porn. How’s that for legal, you corpulent creep?

  “Royce,” Lacey said.

  “Whoever this guy is, he’s gonna be big,” Fatback Bob said.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Crystal said. Swiping Lacey’s debit card, she said, “Due back in three days.”

  “Halloween,” she said, walking out the door, carrying the VHS tape before her as if it were a sacred text.

  “We got that,” Fatback Bob shouted after her, but she was already in the street and unleashed on Parson’s Ford, where a truckload of low-budget, high-risk movies were circulating.

  Crystal sighed. Halloween.

  Chapter 20

  “You ever ridden in a stretch limo?”

  “Yeah, last year’s prom with Willard Mayfield,” Cindy Summerhill said. “Lame-o-rama with a gag-a-maggot.”

  “This ride will be all yours,” Dempsey said. “Tinted windows, plush leather seats, a minibar—you do drink, don’t you?”

  Cindy rolled her eyes, a maneuver Dempsey was certain she’d spent the thirteenth year of her life practicing in the mirror. If she’d had seven more brain cells to go along with the two or three she had exhibited when he “accidentally” bumped into her in Old Navy, she might have made a decent actress. For real. She had the other tools, including an endearing gullibility.

  “Like, Long Island iced tea is the bomb,” she said.

  “No, non, nyet,” Dempsey said. “Nobody drinks that in Hollywood. You want something light, a gin spritzer or a Chardonnay. Something that gleams in the glass.”

  Cindy nodded, wide-eyed. He could have told her they drank imported elephant urine and she would have ordered a case on the spot. He put his arm around her and guided her to the aisle containing the more risqué clothes. “You have much to learn.”

  Her fingers trembled as if she could hardly wait to snatch her cell out of her purse and text all her friends. Cindy Summerhill was going to be the next Reese Witherspoon.

  The Old Navy in the Parson’s Ford Mall smelled just like the Old Navy in Santa Monica—flame retardants, floor cleansers, and perfume named after celebrities who wouldn’t dash the stuff on elephant urine, much less be caught dead wearing it.

  “And the malls in California,” Dempsey said. “You could fit all of Parson’s Ford inside them and still have room left over for a Rock’n’Roll Café.”

  “We have to drive to Charlotte to have any fun,” Cindy said. “I mean, look at this place.”

  “You deserve better,” Dempsey said.

  “So, when does shooting start?”

  “Easy, mademoiselle. These things take some planning. First we’ll need a script—”

  “I have this cool idea. There’s this girl who is on the phone and somebody’s outside her house and she begs for help but then the line goes dead—”

  “Nobody has land lines anymore. You can’t cut the cord on a cell phone.”

  Cindy’s pretty brow furrowed. “Okay. These three teenagers accidentally run over some old geezer—”

  “Too original. Hollywood’s playing it safe these days because of the economy.”

  “How about a remake? Something with sorority girls and butcher knives?”

  “Now you’re talking. I’ll have my people set up a pitch meeting.”

  Cindy’s eyes widened. No doubt she was imagining herself lying there on the bed in her underwear, fake blood dripping from a dozen wounds. The only question was whether she would be Kill Number Three or Kill Number Five, and it would probably come down to the lead actress’s hair color. If the lead was blonde like Cindy, then Cindy would have to die much earlier to avoid audience confusion.

  Dempsey followed her to fall fashions. “So, I hear you’re hosting a Halloween party.”

  “Yeah,” she said, distracted, as if the biggest social event of the semester was now as tedious as a Pepsi commercial. “Wanna come?”

  “I’d like to see how you work a crowd. That can make a difference when awards season rolls around.”

  “I didn’t mean like a date, because I asked—”

  He held up his hand and lied again. “Hey, hey. No casting-room couch here. I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

  She gave a half smile, half listening. “Not that I wouldn’t. But I need to see the script first.”

  Even in Parson’s Ford, they think they’re smarter than the writer.

  If only they knew Dempsey rarely used a script, because that would slow down production. Better to encourage the actors to ad lib and act naturally. The amateurs he’d roped into his movies couldn’t remember their lines anyway. If only he had more talent like Royce, he wouldn’t be waiting around for that agent to return his phone call.

  “So, this party,” he said. “Is it okay if I film my new project there?”

  Cindy almost dropped the stone-washed denim jacket she was considering. “Wow. I’ll be a shoo-in for Homecoming Queen after that.”

  “Gotta quit thinking small, Summerhill.”

  “I know, I know, first the cans film festival and then Sunset Boulevard.”

  “It’s pronounced ‘Con,’ like a con job,” he said. “French, so the s is silent and you say the n like you’re annoyed.”

  “Thank God for subtitles.”

  “I know you have a boyfriend, but I’d like you to meet an actor I’ve worked with. I think you two would have good screen chemistry together.”

  Cindy’s supreme confidence wavered only slightly, and then it was back in place like the stray lock of hair she tucked behind her ear. It was a fetching gimmick, and Dempsey would have made it her signature mannerism. Too bad she was just a bit part.

  “I’d like that,” she said. “Can you bring him to the party?”

  “We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Dempsey’s cell buzzed in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said, giving his “Showtime” shrug.

  Leaving Cindy to add a few more items to her cart, he fished his cell out in the underwear section. “Dempsey here.”

  �
��It’s Irwin Goldmyer, Demps, how’s it going?”

  Dempsey swallowed hard and punched a pack of tube socks. Be cool. The best deal is one you can walk away from.

  But THE AGENT HAS CALLED!

  “Great, Mr. Goldmyer.”

  “Hey, I’m no ‘mister.’ Call me ‘Irwin.’ Better yet, make it ‘Ir.’”

  “Yes, sir, Ir.”

  “Because that’s the kind of relationship I want us to have. Demps and Ir, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ve been talking to some people—some very, very, very well-placed people—and they like the sound of what you’re talking about.”

  “Did you show them my reels?”

  “Demps, that’s not the way we do things here. That’s all back end, the tech stuff. Boring. First we go with the pitch, see what ideas people want to get behind. Pictures are pictures, but ideas—that’s what separates the people in the opening credits from those that show up after everybody’s left the theater.”

  “How about the scripts? You said yourself that Meat Hangover was a no-brainer.”

  “No brains. Right. The deal is, get in the room, then see which way the wind’s blowing. But they like those i-n-g things you do.”

  Dempsey’s brow furrowed. A woman with a beehive hairdo and yellow sunglasses pushed past him to check out the bikini briefs. He lowered his voice. “I’m building up Royce Dean just like you told me to. I even gave him a speaking part in the next project.”

  “You’re a genius, Demps. Do you know how many people fly into LAX every day with a stack of videos and paper? Enough to cast a Cecil B. DeMille remake. But when you’re packaged with a star, you write your own ticket.”

  “You mean like Tim Burton and Johnny Depp?”

  Irwin Goldmyer hesitated, and it sounded as if he were speaking to someone else for a moment, then he returned to the conversation. “Royce Dean and Dempsey…uh, what’s your last name again?”

  “Van Heusen.”

  “Household names for sure.”