The Seven Sequels bundle

by Orca Various

  AmberLea starts pitching. “So. You know Pianvia is trending. Get in now. They’ve banned music there, right? FREE THE MUSIC is your slogan, and we’ve got the way to do it: a world premiere for your concert tomorrow, a national anthem for a free Pianvia by its most famous composer. Written sixty years ago and never been heard. Banned, then lost, and now we’ve got the only copy. Sing it tomorrow night—new song, new year, new Pianvia. Get a film crew on it, and AT will own Pianvia, which I’ve got to tell you is hot in our age group right now. All you—”

  “Perfect, we’ll do it,” says Sumo.

  “What?” AmberLea is startled. I think she was just warming up.

  “I said, we’ll do it.”

  “Oh. Great!”

  “Where’s the music?”

  I hand over the calendar. “Nice,” says AT.

  “Consider it yours,” says AmberLea. She shows him the music.

  From looking like you or me with two piercings and a five-hundred-dollar haircut under a stupid hat, Aiden Tween somehow sharpens into a different person as he scans the music. Quietly he begins singing, “Ba da be bum, dum dee doo, Ba da be bum boo…” Say what you want about his music, the guy can sing.

  “AT has perfect pitch,” says Sumo. “Sings and plays anything on sight.”

  Aiden Tween stops singing. “I like it. It sounds familiar already, you know? I’ll want to take it up a tone.” He sings a bit in a higher register, then says, “Let’s do it. We’ll definitely do it.” He smiles for the first time.

  “Really?” I feel myself go weak with relief. Bunny’s going to make it.

  “We’ll get Jim to do an arrangement,” says Sumo. “Those the words? How are we going to get them translated?”

  “I’ve got a number right here.” My fingers are trembling as I pull out my phone.

  “No arrangement,” says AT. “I’m gonna do it a capella. Just me, single white spot. Get me one a’ their flags. Do their flags look good? That’s a killer tune. We could have a hit with that tune. Man, I’d do it even if those—”

  “Great, Aiden,” says Sumo. “Okay,” he says to AmberLea. “FREE THE MUSIC, but not free music. This is a business. What’s your angle?”

  AmberLea starts talking again. I stop listening and make my way out of the trailer. Bunny’s going to make it.

  THIRTY

  Out on the stage, another song I don’t know is pounding. The dancers are still bopping under glaring lights. You can see them from different angles on big screens above and behind the stage. Colors and camera angles change. Out in front of the stage, facing it from about fifteen meters away in the dimness, people cluster at a bank of glowing computer screens and tech boards that look as if they could run a space station. The tallest person looks familiar. It’s Toby. I walk over.

  “Spencer! Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Good. Things have changed, but I think Bunny’s going to be okay.”

  “Fantastic.” I’m so relieved about Bunny that when he raises his fist to do props, I match him.

  I ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, just hanging, you know. Turns out they’re using the software already.”

  “Software?” I ask.

  Toby sweeps back some perfect hair and says, “Just some stuff my older brother and I developed back when I was in junior high. Graphics stuff that interacts with sound and light effects. Highly effective for concerts. Apple bought us out, actually, before we could do much with it. I’ve just been making a couple of suggestions.”

  “Oh,” I say, “right. AmberLea told me.” I shrink back to normal in my cowboy boots. “Looks like AT has your hat,” is all I can come up with to say.

  Toby laughs. “Oh. Yeah. He has a way of latching on to things.” In this light, Toby almost looks as if he’s blushing. Somehow it lets me ask, “So like, you and AmberLea, are you, like, how long have you…?” That’s as far as I get before someone jumps on his back. AmberLea.

  “There you are!” she says.

  Toby laughs and shrugs her off. Then he gives her a hug. “I called your mom, Hot Lips. She’s cool. Told her I’d be along in about an hour. Just wrapping up here.”

  “Going good?” AmberLea gives him a private look. I’m thinking, Hot Lips?

  “Going good.”

  I shrink a little more. Since the boots make me an inch taller, maybe no one will notice. Besides, a free Bunny is the main thing.

  AmberLea and I head back out into the cold.

  It’s bright after the shadows of the soundstage. “You should’ve stuck around.” She nudges me. “They were so into it, I got us ten percent of the publishing on AT’s arrangement of the anthem, plus a last visit to the cottage before they tear it down.”

  “Wow. Thanks for persuading them,” I say. “How did you do that?”

  “I dunno.” She shrugs. “My father’s in advertising.” She pauses. “You know, I’m good, but that was almost too easy. Didn’t you think?”

  Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Who cares? You saved Bunny.”

  Her chin has gone in. After a second she lifts it and squints a smile back at me. “Maybe our families are just meant to help each other,” she says.

  The SUV are gone. As we get into the Cayenne, I clear my throat. “Uh, how come, um, TobycallsyouHotLips?” The last part spills out all in one word.

  AmberLea blushes. The color goes great with her hair. “Ever seen M*A*S*H? The movie? Toby teases me that I look like the nurse character, Hot Lips Houlihan.”

  “Oh. I should check it out.” Dumb, dumb, dumb. It’s also a little late to say, “No, you’re prettier,” isn’t it?

  AmberLea starts the car. “That anthem is the real thing, right?”

  “Hey,” I say, “you found it.”

  “I know, but…did it sound familiar to you when AT hummed it?”

  “Kind of.” I reach for my seat belt. “Yeah, it did.”

  “To me too.” AmberLea digs out her iPhone.

  I laugh and say, “Maybe that proves it’s authentic: Zoltan Blum’s Wikipedia entry said he got accused of plagiarism on some of his songs.”

  “Maybe he should have on this one. Check this out.” AmberLea plugs her phone into the SUV’s sound system and dials something up. Elvis Presley gushes out, Love me tender…

  We stare at each other. It’s the same song. AmberLea says, “So either AT was faking and can’t really read music, or Zoltan Blum was a cheater. Guess which one I’m betting on?”

  “Holy cow,” I say. “The guy ripped off Elvis?”

  “Obviously, he wasn’t big in Pianvia. Anyway, I don’t think Elvis wrote it either, but he sang it. Your grandpa played music, right? Do you think he knew?” She puts the SUV in gear and we pull out.

  I shrug. “I dunno. Why?”

  “Well,” says AmberLea, flicking the turn signal at the exit to the parking lot, “I was just thinking of—”

  “Where we found it,” I join in. Together we say, “Elvis belongs in the outhouse.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  And now there’s nothing to do but wait. We both realize we’re starving, so we stop at an ancient-looking place called the Gale Snack Bar and chow down. AmberLea says she’ll drive me home, but I tell her I’ll just take the streetcar back from the hotel. We agree to go to a movie later at this cool old theater called the Revue, in the west end, not too far from where I live. They’re showing a seventies movie Jer always talks about called O Lucky Man! Before that, all of us will go to some Parkdale restaurant her mom wants to try.

  On the streetcar I try calling Deb. There’s no point in trying to tell her what’s really happened, because she won’t believe me, but I can tell her I heard from Bun. She answers this time. “Spence! How’s it going?”

  “Okay, Mom. I heard from Bunny.”

  “See? I told you he’d call. Did you tell him to call me?”

  “No, there wasn’t time.” In the background I can hear traffic noise and the chirping of a pedestrian-crossing signal. “Where
are you anyway?” I ask. “I can hear cars.”

  “What? Oh, uh—Hamilton.”

  “Hamilton?” Hamilton is just down the highway.

  “Hamilton, Bermuda, hon. It’s a port of call on the cruise. Listen, did you get the number Bunny called from? Maybe I’ll give him a ring.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Mom.”

  “I’ll weigh that in my deliberations, Spence.”

  “It’s on my phone. Hang on a sec.”

  When I give Deb the number, she says, “Hmm. New York area code.”

  “Oh,” I say. That explains a lot.

  “Leave it with me, Spence. Just quit worrying and enjoy the show tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “I thought you told me you were going to see Aiden Tween tomorrow.”

  “Oh yeah.” Did I tell her that? I can’t remember.

  “What’s tonight?” Deb asks.

  “Movie with AmberLea.”

  “Say hi for me. Be good. Use the debit card. Remember, Dad’s home on the second, so try to have the place in only partial chaos. Love you.”

  As I let myself in at O’Toole Central, I get another call. Maybe it’s Bun. It’s Jade. “Hear you didn’t find him.”

  “I even had the wrong country.” I sigh. Jade tells me to keep her in the loop. I promise to. Then I pull off the cowboy boots, which by now are killing me, check the landline for messages and crash on the couch. It’s dark when I wake to a pounding on the door, which turns out to be AmberLea. Her mom and Toby are in the car.

  We go to a trendoid restaurant called Hopjoints. I know it’s cool because all the servings are about the size of my big toe—and I have small feet. In a way this is okay, because there’s zero on the menu I’d want to eat anyway. Toby orders sweetbreads, just to give you an idea. It doesn’t matter; I’ll get something at the movie.

  I’m only telling you this part because something weird happens at the restaurant. I look around the room and who do I see at a table for two but Roz Inbow and Harv. I don’t know whether they’ve seen me or not until Harv heads for the men’s room. A moment later there’s a tap on my shoulder. It’s Roz. “How’s it going?” she whisper-booms.

  “Hard to say. Thanks for helping with the, uh, stuff.”

  “Sorry about the mix-up. From what Harv said, you have interesting friends. Said the guy was the real deal.”

  “Really? Oh. Yeah, well—”

  “That’s okay. Whoever he was, he gave Harv a good tip that paid off. We’re out celebrating. Stay safe. Bernard too.” As she leaves I think, I do have interesting friends, including Roz Inbow. It makes me feel a little better.

  The movie is long and strange. It stars the actor from Clockwork Orange. He plays this guy who wants to be a success and tries all these different things, but he keeps getting tricked by people, all played by the same actors, who keep popping up in different roles, until…well, I won’t tell the ending in case you ever see it. We all argue about it after, like you’re supposed to do at film school. At least it’s a break from stewing over Bunny. When we reach O’Toole Central, I crawl out of the Cayenne as Toby says something about “aggressive noncontinuity via the French New Wave” and AmberLea shouts, “No, the continuity is ironic picaresque.” My contribution is swearing as I step into a slush puddle and soak my shoes. Before I fall asleep, I promise myself I’ll look up what they were talking about tomorrow. The last thing I remember thinking is, the movie seemed like real life to me.

  THIRTY-TWO

  DECEMBER 31

  I sleep late and wake up with a knot of worry in my stomach. AmberLea’s mom invited me to go skiing with them again today, but I said no thanks. I wanted to be by our landline in case Bunny got a chance to sneak another phone call. He might forget my cell number, but he won’t forget our home one.

  I shower, telling myself that things are good—Bunny will be free soon. We’ve done everything the SPCA wants. They’ll let Bunny go when Aiden Tween sings their anthem tonight. All I have to do is hang in. By the time Jer and Deb get home, Bunny will be back and due at Creekside. They can believe us if they want to. Maybe Deb will when she sees the mess in her office. Speaking of which, I can kill time before tonight’s concert by getting O’Toole Central back in shape. I should text Jer, too, and tell him that the van won’t start, so I can’t meet him at the airport.

  I make oatmeal for breakfast, with lots of brown sugar, and pour a big glass of orange juice. I’m Healthy Spencer, go-to guy, man with a plan. After breakfast I tidy the kitchen. Then I go upstairs, wipe the bathroom mirror and sink, stuff towels and dirty clothes in the laundry hamper and straighten up things the SPCA guys must have moved when they searched. By now I’m on a roll, so I go all out and take the hamper to the basement and put in a load of laundry. While it’s churning I head back upstairs, haul out the vacuum and attack the living room. I plump pillows, pile magazines and clear away a fresh frosting of snack bags and drink tins. The place looks pretty good, but the worry still coils in my stomach like the vacuum cord at my feet. I tell myself there’s no reason they wouldn’t let Bunny go. Is there? We helped them. All that blotzing stuff was just a threat. They’re freedom fighters: desperate, maybe, but not cold-blooded killers. They’re supposed to be the good guys, for crying out loud.

  I drag the vacuum into the hall and go at the stairs as if lives depended on it. The wall as you go up the stairs is filled with family pictures. It’s the usual stuff, I guess. There are a few ancient people in old-fashioned clothes. There’s Deb and Jer at their wedding, embarrassing baby shots of Bun and me. There are aunts, uncles and cousins, Grandpa Bernie and Granny Carol looking spry on Salt Spring Island, and in makeup doing their mime act on Haight Street in San Francisco in 1964. A two-year-old Jer sits in a stroller beside them, looking bored. Then there’s a studio shot of Deb and her sisters as kids in matching dresses, and a snapshot of their mom, who died when they were young.

  Beside these are two pictures of Grandpa David. One is black and white, from World War II. Grandpa and his crew are posing in front of their bomber, in flight gear, arms over each other’s shoulders, grinning. Grandpa has a white scarf like Scratch’s knotted at his throat. He’s squinting a little, and a cigarette dangles at a smart-aleck angle from one side of his mouth. Above them, on the fuselage, is a stencil of a cartoon mosquito with a cigar and a machine gun, over the words Together We Fly.

  The other is a color shot of Grandpa in his seventies, maybe. The only way you can tell is by how veiny and spotty his hands are. He’s hefting a big fish by the gills, smiling under his floppy hat as he stands on the cottage dock. He’s wearing his orange plaid shirt over shapeless tan pants and blue canvas deck shoes. There’s a streak of fish blood or something across one pant leg. His clear gray eyes look right at you.

  It hits me that both pictures are about killing. Are those the eyes of a killer? I feel myself frown. Dropping bombs in a war, catching fish and contract killing with exploding golf balls are not exactly the same. Anyway, the pictures aren’t really about killing. You could just as easily say they’re about good times: friends and sharing. Grandpa was always giving away fish he caught. I look back at the war picture. All those guys are barely older than me. Could I do that? I can’t imagine myself there. Those guys must have been the best buddies in the world. Were some of them jerks? The good guys are the ones on your side. But what if you don’t know for sure who’s on your side? I remember the end of The Ipcress File, where Harry has to figure out which guy is the traitor who set him up, his gun swinging back and forth between two men. You are a traitor, said the note. Did it lie? Was it for real? Was Grandpa a hit man for the CIA? Was he a traitor? If good guys have to do bad things, does that make them bad guys? Does anyone ever think, Hey, my side is the bad guys?

  I unplug the vacuum. The phone doesn’t ring. When I finally leave for the concert, my shoes are still a salty, soggy mess. I pull on the cowboy boots again. Then I clomp to the cookie jar, take out the Colt .45 a
nd slip it into my pocket.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The square at city hall is wall-to-wall people, or sidewalk-to-sidewalk, I guess. Most of them are Tweeners with cold-looking parents. The decorations still flutter, but now the stage is up and lit, and music is pulsing from banks of giant speakers as one of the opening acts plays. Multiple video screens crosscut shots of the crowd with the band. The only morsel of space is the skating rink, where people still wobble and glide the way they did the night Bunny was snatched. Is it good luck or bad that the whole thing is finishing where it started? I’m as wired as any Tweener.

  Tina has passed on the concert to have dinner with friends. We’re supposed to meet her later. AmberLea, Toby and I make our way to the backstage check-in. The whole area is cordoned off with traffic barriers, cops and police tape. Our All Access badges are ready and waiting, and we glide through without all the screening. By now the security guys know us, especially Toby. This is good, because as we get to the check-in, it occurs to me that it might be hard to explain why I’m carrying an automatic pistol, especially when I don’t quite know either.

  Backstage is a canopied maze of RVs, equipment trailers, port-a-potties, you name it. Lights are strung. Bunched cables snake everywhere under protective rubber ridges. Impossibly hip and capable-looking people in headsets and AT hoodies bustle purposefully. Heaters standing near the canopy’s ridge poles waft some warmth into the freezing night air. “That’s Aiden’s.” Toby points to the biggest RV. “We won’t bother him now. That one is for the band, that one the dancers. Hospitality’s in that one.” He points to an RV with tables, chairs and heaters outside its doors. People are clustered there, talking and chowing down.

  To one side of Aiden Tween’s RV stands a big circular tent, made of different colored strips of heavy material. “What’s that?” AmberLea asks.