Film at Eleven

by Bloom, Maggie

  I was dumbfounded. I mean, I had no reason to doubt Mick; he was the epitome of goodness. But Lars was one of the good guys too—or so I’d thought anyway. After all, he’d written me a poem, protected me from a rabid wolf-dog, and even taken the blame for a car accident I’d caused. Pretty strange behavior for someone who just wanted to get into my pants—on film, no less.

  Mick reached into his pocket and retrieved a ragged slip of yellow paper he’d apparently torn from the Punxsy phonebook. “Here,” he said, pressing the note to my palm. “This is the website. Check it out for yourself. But be prepared. It’s rather graphic.”

  Honestly, what does one say in such a situation? I mean, thank you seemed too weird to contemplate, since being grateful for bad news is hardly normal.

  “Um…okay,” I said. “I’ll look at it when I get home.”

  Mick slid closer to me. “Good,” he breathed. “Because I’m worried about you. You’re everything to me.”

  Before I could even process the words, he took my face in his hands and delivered the most heartbreaking, tender kiss to my lips.

  It was the kiss that launched a thousand ships.

  The kiss to end all kisses.

  The kiss of a lifetime.

  “I love you,” I murmured. “So much.”

  He pulled back to gaze into my astonished eyes, and, with one of his perfectly-crooked smiles, said, “I love you too.”

  Twenty-one

  I USUALLY don’t go for keeping secrets, and not because I’m such a moral, honest person either. Not even because I’m afraid of being found out. I avoid covert operations, because I suck at them. I’m like the four-year-old who first discovers the ability to lie, only to be given away by a telltale grin. That’s me in a nutshell. So trying to act normal for the rest of shop-a-palooza was a monumental challenge, I must say. A challenge I barely survived with the help of my sweet, sweet Mickey D.

  “Talk to you later,” I said, sending Mick a not-so-subtle message as I catapulted out of the Buick and hauled ass for my house.

  I swear, I’d never been so ragingly curious about anything in my entire life. I had to know like yesterday if Lars was really the monster Mick had made him out to be.

  But, as usual, my mother was the fly in the ointment. “Oh, Flora. Good. You’re home,” she said, all cheery and excited, which, of course, made me immediately suspicious.

  I dropped my bags at the foot of the stairs and clutched my temple. “Not now. I have a migraine,” I said with a dramatic wince. “I’m going to bed.”

  “But…your scores.”

  Shit. I was already halfway up the stairs. It figured. For once in her life, my mother actually had something important to tell me—like that my SAT scores had finally arrived after a computer glitch prevented me from getting them online—but I was too busy faking sick to listen.

  What the hell. I might as well milk my performance for all it was worth. “Later,” I whined like an injured animal.

  Pretending not to care about my fake headache or my SAT scores, the Mental Hygienist muttered, “Suit yourself.”

  And that’s exactly what I did.

  Up in my room, I barricaded my door with a beanbag chair, a giant stuffed hippo, and a bowling ball. What? Doesn’t everyone own their own bowling ball? Sheesh.

  And finally I was ready to check out Lars the Icelandic porn star—or at least I would’ve been if my ancient computer could’ve gotten out of its own way. As I sat there waiting for the whirring tower to spring to life, I noticed something that had completely escaped my attention before: Lars’ cologne. I guess I must have stuck the nondescript little bottle in one of my desk cubbies—not that I remembered doing it. I mean, after my truck stop date with Mick, everything else that happened that night had pretty much dissolved in an inconsequential blur.

  I picked up the brown glass bottle for a closer look, and right away two things stood out: First, it looked more like medicine than cologne. And second, most of the label had been surgically removed. From what I could tell from the narrow strip of lettering that survived, the bottle contained some kind of chemical concoction. And of the fragmented chemical names, only one remained intact: androsterone

  Never heard of it.

  When the log-in screen finally loaded, I entered my password and went back to waiting. Meanwhile, I rummaged through my purse for the ragged slip of phonebook paper Mick had given me. Honestly, I still didn’t know how to feel about the accusations he’d made. On one hand, I liked Lars. He was nice and cool and sexy as hell. But on the other hand, if Lars turned out to be a scumbag, I wouldn’t need any more reason to break up with him. I’d be free again. Free to be with Mick.

  The moment of truth had arrived: The computer was up and running. The cursor was blinking. And the barricade was still holding. All I had to do was move my fingers over the keyboard and voilà, I’d have my answers. Only I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not yet. I wasn’t ready to destroy Lars with the innocuous stroke of a key.

  Sideways, I eased into his annihilation. A-N-D-R-O-S-T-E-R-O-N-E, I typed. As my finger hovered over the ENTER key, I sucked in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and pressed down. And like an incriminating road map, link after link connected the dots of Lars’ guilt. I must say, the information about androsterone wasn’t pretty either. As it turned out, the bottle of “cologne” that had fallen out of Lars’ pants was really a pheromone—sort of a love potion that turns females into lusty sluts and other males into subservient Silly Putty. Basically, Lars was cheating at the game of love—or, more precisely, sex. The pheromone got his competition out of the way, so he could pursue the suddenly smitten girls who were lined up to make his day. How sadistic.

  Now even though Lars hadn’t gotten what he wanted from me, I felt dirty. Sick and dirty. I mean, I was this close to going all the way with a sex creeper—for my first time, no less. But at least my new discovery explained a few things, like why I was inexplicably drawn to a guy I didn’t really like and why Mick hadn’t done more to put a stop to it. Apparently we were both under the influence of Lars’ evil spell.

  Still, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to see Lars in action, to catch a glimpse of what my fate might have been if my sweet, sweet Mick hadn’t intervened. But it was the only way I could know the whole ugly truth firsthand. And I had to know. It was non-negotiable.

  Meticulously, I copied the website address letter for letter from Mick’s handwriting to the screen. And with one more keystroke, I found what I was looking for: incontrovertible proof Lars Johannsson was a certifiable maniac.

  Like Mick had said, there was a plethora of video evidence implicating Lars (I stopped counting at twenty-seven clips, but it was safe to say he’d filmed himself with over fifty girls). With a mixture of disgust and morbid curiosity, I clicked on the least offensive clip I could find, which described the featured girl (a.k.a. the victim) as “Athletic. Nice ass.”

  And within three seconds, I’d seen enough to know that the lead role was played by none other than Nordic Boy himself. The hot Icelandic prince was nothing more than a psychopathic sex fiend. It figured.

  Remembering something else Mick had said, I clicked back a page and scrolled all the way down. And there it was, as plain as could be: “Redhead. Big boobs. Virgin.” There was no video, of course, since we’d never actually gotten that far. But Lars was clearly ready for me. Ready and waiting.

  I felt like puking, or punching something, or, at the very least, calling the dirtbag to inform him I’m really a brunette. It’s peroxide, stupid.

  But instead of doing any of these oh-so-tempting things, I opted for an inexplicable response that involved a mundane conversation with my mother and three little numbers that just might determine my fate.

  “Feeling better?” the Mental Hygienist asked, as I meandered into the kitchen bleary-eyed.

  I shrugged. “Guess so,” I said, even though I was actually feeling worse since my little investigation. But she was never going to hear about it. “My
SAT scores…are they around here somewhere?” I asked casually.

  My mother reached across the table and tugged the score report out from under a pile of mail. “Here you go.”

  The envelope was still sealed. “You didn’t open this?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Why would I? It’s not mine,” she said, like I’d accused her of poisoning puppies. “That’s a federal offense, you know, opening someone else’s mail.”

  Well, I knew there had to be some explanation. Apparently the Mental Hygienist was afraid of the long arm of the law. “I’m impressed,” I said.

  “Go on. Open it,” my mother prodded, as I pulled a chair from the table and plunked down. “We’ve waited long enough, haven’t we?”

  What was this we business about? I mean, I was the one who sat through six hours of grueling torture just to hold this flimsy scrap of paper in my hand. Unless I missed something, she wasn’t bent over the desk next to me grinding her number two pencil down to a nub.

  “Okay, okay,” I whined, nearly ripping the thing in half in a rush to satisfy her. “Drum roll, please…” I paused to heighten her anticipation (and to digest the scores before I announced them to the universe). “Six twenty in critical reading; seven ten in writing,” I read aloud.

  She chirped, “Ooh, that’s good.”

  “And a six sixty in math?” I complained, disappointed. “That can’t be right.”

  Now I know a six sixty is a good score in any category, but I’m really excellent at math. Better than a six sixty. And certainly better than my brother, who’d scored a seven thirty last year.

  “I’m sure it’s right,” my mother said, shaking her head. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “Well, even if it’s right, it’s wrong,” I declared. “It’s gender-biased. All the questions are written for guys. That’s why Will scored higher than me.”

  My mother chuckled. “One thing’s for sure: You have a wild imagination. Too bad they don’t test for that on the SAT.”

  How rude and uncalled for. I guess my mother didn’t like me implying that her precious Golden Boy had any serious competition.

  “It’s racially-biased too,” I continued to inform her. “They’ve done studies. So in a way, it’s a pretty useless test if you think about it.”

  With a little snort, my mother said, “Useless? I wouldn’t be so dismissive if I were you, Flora. That useless test just may be the key to your success in life.”

  “Now who’s being dramatic?”

  The Mental Hygienist rolled her eyes, which I took as a sign she’d had enough of me for the moment. And the feeling was mutual. Without a word, I folded the score report into a compact rectangle, shoved it in my pocket, and headed back upstairs. After all, I had an important call to make. And depending on how things went with Mick, I might have to follow up with calls to Lars and Jessie. But as much as I was dreading the impending confrontation with my never-was boyfriend, it paled in comparison to the painful conversation I was going to have to have with Jessie about me and Mick.

  “Hello?” Mick said, picking up on the first ring with obvious strain in his voice.

  “Hi. It’s me,” I said. A few seconds of uncertain silence hung between us. “Um…so…I did what you asked,” I began. “I went to the website, and…”

  “Do you think it’s him?”

  “I know it’s him,” I said. “No doubt about it. I’d swear on a stack of bibles, if that would help.”

  “It might.”

  “Okay…”

  Mick sighed. “Listen, I have something else I need to tell you.”

  For the umpteenth time, I held my breath.

  “And I should have told you sooner,” he continued. “I know I should have. But the thing is, Jessie and I aren’t dating.”

  Well, I’d heard that one before, right from the other horse’s mouth. “Yeah, I know. That’s what she said too.” It didn’t matter what they wanted to call it, one thing was clear: Mick and Jessie were together. Or were they?

  “No. You don’t understand,” Mick groaned in frustration.

  “Understand what?”

  “We were pretending,” he informed me, like it should have been obvious to any lame-brained stranger.

  I was beginning to wonder if Mick had bumped his head. I mean, why on earth would my best friend fake-date the love of my life? It was totally illogical.

  “What…? Why…?” I stumbled. Honestly, I didn’t even know where to begin.

  “It was Jessie’s idea,” Mick explained, “when she saw that other girls were interested in me. She said I should be ‘off the market’ as she put it. She wanted to make sure I’d be available when you were ready.”

  “But I was ready the minute you got here,” I objected. “Remember?”

  “When I got here, you were involved.”

  Fair enough. There was no use arguing that point. “What about…?” I started to ask, searching my memory for concrete evidence I hadn’t been hallucinating Mick and Jessie’s relationship all along. Unfortunately, though, none of the obvious things came to mind. No kissing. No hugging. No hand-holding. In fact, I was having trouble coming up with even one instance of public affection between the alleged conspirators, except…

  “I saw you giving Jessie a piggyback ride,” I finally said. “And you guys didn’t even know I was there, so it wasn’t like you were putting on an act or anything.”

  Aha. I had him on the ropes now. Just who did he think he was dealing with anyway?

  Mick chuckled. “Very good. Very good,” he said, mocking my sleuthiness. “You caught me helping her to the car after she stepped on a nail. Impressive.”

  “She stepped on a nail?”

  “Uh-huh. Anything else you’d like me to clarify, Inspector Clouseau?”

  Now that he mentioned it…

  “Yes, actually. I’d like to know if you still love me,” I said. “And if we’re getting back together, since we’re both ‘on the market’ again and all.”

  “Of course, I love you. And, well, as far as getting back together—that’s up to you,” he said. “But I’d like it very much, if you’ll still have me.”

  I could hardly believe my ears. “So let me get this straight. It’s over? Just like that? No more worrying about Jessie, or Lars, or anyone else? It’s back to me and you? Just me and you? Forever?”

  “Absolutely,” Mick said with relief.

  I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs just to get out all the crazy stopped-up feelings that were eating up valuable space in my deep-fried brain.

  Mick continued, “But…”

  “No! No buts!” I objected, as soon as the word left his lips. “Stop talking. Please. Don’t say another word.”

  “Okay…”

  “That’s a word.”

  “You win.”

  “That’s two.”

  Silence.

  “You’re a quick study. I like that,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I like lots of things about you.” And now I’d have the rest of my life to make sure he knew every single one of them.

  Epilogue

  IF December was the cruelest month, the first few days of January were heaven on earth. And by the looks of things, the New Year was poised to set a record in the happiness department.

  And it was all thanks to Mick. Like the stand-up guy he’d always been, he handled the Lars situation with class and integrity—not to mention a little tough guy bravado. The result: Lars was gone. He’d vanished. From my life. From the Fisks’. From Punxsy High. From, well, everywhere. And even though the details were a little sketchy (for example, some people thought he’d been arrested, while others claimed he’d been personally escorted out of the country by the mob), I knew Mick had put the wheels in motion. He’d done it—whatever it was—to protect me. Because he loved me.

  “Flora! Mick’s here!” my mother called up the stairs.

  Huh. That was strange. I hadn’t even heard the doorbell ring. “Coming!” I yelled, darting over
to the mirror for a final hair and makeup check. As silly as it was, I still wanted to take my sweet, sweet Mick’s breath away. And with two quick swipes of shimmering raspberry lip-gloss, my transformation was complete. I’d become the girl Mick deserved; I could only hope I deserved him too.

  Ready or not, here I come, I thought, as I turned the corner to our dining room. Because the truth was, my life was about to change. Maybe forever. And I could already feel the sands of my future shifting under my feet.

  Mick got up from the table and pulled out a chair for me. “Hi,” he said—all nervous and twitchy—shooting me an uneasy grin.

  My anxiety came in the form of a speech impediment. “Ee…aah…hee…aah…hi,” I finally spat.

  On that moronic note, Will burst out laughing like a drunken hyena, which sort of made sense since I’d almost nailed an entire line of Old MacDonald Had a Farm.

  “Will!” my mother chastised. “Please! We have company.”

  Well, well, well…the tables had turned. And to be honest, I had an evil urge to take advantage of the situation. I mean, it was the first time in memory that my parents had sided with me over my brother, so I had a lot of catching up to do.

  Only I couldn’t.

  “That’s okay,” I said, excusing Will’s boorish behavior. “I was dumb, and it was funny. So everything’s cool.”

  Niceness. It was the price I had to pay for what Will had done. After all, it was only fair. If he hadn’t convinced our parents that Mick was a wonderful, trustworthy, protective guy, my boyfriend and I would have been stuck skulking around like alley cats instead of strutting our peacock stuff in plain view.

  “So, Mick, how are you enjoying your classes?” my dad asked. He nodded toward the gigantic wooden bowl in the middle of the table. “Will, could you please pass the salad?”

  Instead of picking up the salad bowl, my brother just gave it a swift push past me and Mick. “Sure. Have at it,” he said, as the thing skidded to a stop just beyond Mick’s dinner plate.