I formed an “o” with my mouth and slapped my cheek. “Art and sports? How is that even possible?”
“Ryan Brosh? Oh my gosh he’s a total shoe-in for Junior Varsity next year. How I wish I was a year older so I could cheer for his team!”
We laughed at her spot-on impersonation.
“Wanna do me a favor?” I asked.
Mara crossed her arms and leaned back on her elbows. She watched the kitten brave the incline of her torso one tentative step at a time. “Maybe.”
“Talk to Livy and convince her to ask Ryan to be in our movie.”
“I dunno–”
“If he doesn’t do it, I’m stuck with Whit as the evil prince. But he can’t really run and he’s gonna be at computer camp all next week.”
She stretched her legs, laid back, and folded her hands behind her head. The kitten leapt across her chest and pounced her shirt’s collar. “If she talks to Ryan, she’ll obsess over it for days.”
“So you’ll ask?”
Mara scrunched her face and sighed. “If you think it’ll make the movie better... I’ll do it.” Without cracking a smile or lifting a brow, she slid her open palm across the floor. “Down low.”
I smiled and tried to complete the high-five with a slap. She pulled away just before our hands connected (as I knew she would), then she grinned and said, “Too slow!”
I knew the risk of inviting another boy into the fold. However, it didn’t occur to me until after I asked Mara for the favor... what if she fell for him. According to Livy, Ryan was the model of male perfection. The boy version of Mara? I wondered.
But I didn’t need to worry. Ryan was a ferret. He lacked my special insight. Without it, he would fall right into Mara’s incidental trap. He would attempt to woo her with peals of obnoxious infatuation. He would disgust her with his gaze. Simply by pursuing Mara, he would turn her off forever. Ryan might be special, but he wasn’t different.
“James?” she said and nudged me with her bare toes. She was on her side now with Dorothy snuggled to her cheek.
“Yeah?”
“You’ll be there with me... right?”
“Be with you where?”
“At junior high. We’ll help each other out and stuff?” She added a cute inflection to the last two words, but it couldn’t mask the waver in her voice.
I grabbed an overhead pipe to scoot myself around, then I laid on the plywood floor and worked my head in the fold of Mara’s bent arm. “School doesn’t start for another month,” I said. “But yeah, when we get to junior high, we’ll stick together.”
She nodded. “Promise?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I promise.”
* * *
17 EXT. THE CASTLE OF THE EVIL PRINCE - DAY
THE GIRL PULLS OUT THE SWORD SHE GOT FROM THE DYING SOLDIER AND FIGHTS THE EVIL PRINCE! SHE TRIES TO STAB HIM BUT HE DODGES IT AND ALMOST STABS HER! THEY FIGHT FOR A LITTLE WHILE LONGER.
ALL OF A SUDDEN THEY’RE ON THE ROOF! THE FIGHT CONTINUES WITH LOTS OF CLOSE CALLS.
Ryan Brosh was a charming goof. He was already on the rooftop in a burlap vest, leather boots and feathered cap, practicing his swordplay against a wave of invisible bad guys. As I mounted the tripod, I watched him bite the pin from a pretend grenade and toss it at the brick rail. “Ka-Boouushhh!” he shouted, then threw up his sword in apparent victory.
Ryan was a goof, but he was magnetic; the kind of guy who could wear his pants backwards and spark a trend. His face was smoother than most boys his age; a trait I’d rather attribute to obsessive hygiene than natural good looks. As chubby as my arms were, his were bigger, but where I had fat, Ryan had biceps.
I left the thespian-jock to his swordplay and walked to the open window. I lowered my head, brought my knee to my chin, and squeezed through the only passage between the rooftop filmset and the library production office that–as Mom declared twice today–looked like a cyclone hit it.
In whirls of potential catastrophe, I always worked best if I focused on one objective at a time. Right now, I had to find a suitable stand for the broom-handle boom mic. The fight scene had the most important dialogue in the whole movie and my sound guy was away at summer camp for nerds.
It was Monday. The babysitters were distracting the kids in the basement and the Demi Moore Cigar Club was already gossiping in the kitchen. Open windows and a ceiling fan kept the cigar smell from settling in their temporary venue.
Livy and Mara sat Indian style on the library floor, face-to-face beside a tower of mahogany book shelves.
“She looks too pretty,” I told my sister. “Dirty her up a bit.”
Livy growled and flipped open the violet lid of her makeup tackle box. “I tried rubbing dirt on her cheeks. I tried matting her hair. I tried darkening the bags under her eyes, but Mara doesn’t have bags under her eyes.”
“Keep trying,” I said. “She’s gotta look a mess.”
Mara faked a scowl. “Make me ugly, Livy. Do your worst!”
My sister held up a bulging baggie of dirt. “I’m gonna add water and cover your face in mud. It’s the only way we’er gonna make this work.”
I turned around to continue my search and noticed Mom and Mrs. Greenfield watching me. They were holding matching glasses of lemonade with perfect cubes of ice (the staple of a good hostess) and observing the madness from the doorway. It would have been polite to say hi to the woman who supplied my hard-to-find props; instead, I ignored Mom’s summoning glare and dove into the corner closet.
“Hey James...” Livy asked. “How’s Ryan?”
I poked out my head, “He’s fine,” I said, then continued my search.
“Didja offer him Kool-Aid?”
“Yes, Livy. He drank three glasses. Remember you pointed out his red mustache?”
She giggled. (Mara giggled too.) “Oh yeah,” she said. “Do you think he needs a little more makeup? Maybe some powder?”
“He’s got plenty,” I said and rummaged through a bevy of blueprint tubes and coats that smelled like wet bark.
“Have you seen Dorothy?” Mara asked.
“She’s in the playroom with the kids,” Livy replied.
“I hope they’re being careful...”
“I can’t believe you guys talked Mom into getting a cat for your stupid movie. I’ve been begging for a pet for years. And didn’t they have a cat without bite marks in the ears?”
“Dorothy’s unique,” Mara said.
There wasn’t a suitable mic stand in the closet, so I slammed the door and turned around... right into Mom’s stern glance and beckoning finger. She reeled me in like the Death Star tractor beam. I smiled my most sarcastic smile and plodded across the library to the chatterbox duo.
“Did you say hi to Mrs. Greenfield?” Mom asked.
“Hi, Mrs. Greenfield,” I said.
“Good afternoon, Director Parker.” The lady’s cheeks rose with an expansive grin, pressing her eyelids into a tight squint.
Mom asked, “Did you thank Mrs. Greenfield for letting you borrow props from her store?”
“Thanks for the swords,” I said, “and the hat and the funny-looking boots. We’ll try not to break your mannequin.”
The woman batted her hand. “Dontcha worry about Freddy! He used to be the display for the vintage dresses in my store, but his poor leg broke and he doesn’t stand very well.”
“They’ll be careful anyway,” Mom added. “Won’t you James?”
I nodded, “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Your mom tells me you lost nine pounds in five weeks! What’s your secret?”
I shrugged. “Diet and exercise. And it’s ten pounds now.”
“Good for you. You’re certainly turning into a handsome young man.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Mom recognized my anxiety and sighed. “Go on. Get back to work.”
“Okay...” I said. “But can I use one of the twins to hold the boom mic? It’s just for a couple shots–”
Mom was already s
haking her head. “I thought we talked about this? I let you use the library on the one day a week I’m allowed to relax, and we agreed that there would be absolutely no twins on the roof.”
“But Ma!” I whined. “It’s totally flat and there’s a brick wall and nobody’s gonna fall!”
“The ‘brick wall’ is only a foot tall and a hundred years old. The answer is no.”
“Aw, Maaa...”
While Mom and I bickered, Mrs. Greenfield kept her attention split between our argument and the girls with the muddy makeup. “I’ve never heard of a boom mic in my life,” she said, rejoining the conversation. “But if you need a hand, I’d be happy to help!” Again, her cheeks flushed and pressed her eyes into little slits.
I accepted her offer with some reluctance, but she did manage to relieve some of my stress.
I climbed out the window, shuffled my feet across the rolled tar, and uncoiled the boom cable. Whips of warm air tugged my collar and wobbled the iron chicken on the steeple only ten feet above my head.
The legendary Ryan Brosh–blue eyes, blonde locks, and a slick veneer of crisp summer tan–jabbed the wind with his sword, twirled a deadly three-sixty, then ruffled my hair. “Hows it hangin’, little man?”
I shrugged and wiggled the cord into the body of my camera. “Okay, I guess.”
“Your movie is gonna be killer! Don’t let anybody say you’re not talented as all hell. You hear me?”
I was skeptical of the sudden praise from a popular high-schooler, but thanked him anyway and checked the sound level of the wind.
Then it happened; the inevitable “It” that would provide the spark to every buddy-buddy friendship for the rest of my life: “Hey dude,” Ryan whispered, “what do you think of Mara?”
Maaaraaa. But of course!
“She’s cool,” I muttered. “Why?”
Ryan stretched his arms to both tips of the sword, held it high above his head, arched backwards, and cracked his sternum. “She’s cute, right?”
“She’s a little young,” I said.
“No way, bro! I started school early so I’m barely a freshmen. That’s only two years different. Plus, she looks old enough to drive, am I right?” Ryan’s crooked smile was winning.
I choked down the one-two punch of newfound jealousy and my sister’s impending heartbreak. I barely knew Ryan Brosh, but facing those baby blues on the roof of my castle, I wanted to stab him myself.
“I’m not usually shy,” he said, “that’s the actor side of me. But maybe you could talk to Mara and see where I stand? Ya feel me, bro?”
I looked to the tiny window in the massive brick wall. Two foreheads hovered at the bottom of the frame, then poked up like the Bop-a-Mole game at ShowBiz Pizza. It was Livy and Mara. Their beaming cheekbones indicated smiles were hidden beneath the sill. Their doe-eyes were trained, not on me, but on the evil prince as he practiced his moves.
* * *
18 EXT. THE CASTLE OF THE EVIL PRINCE - DAY
THE PRINCE HAS HIS SWORD AGAINST THE GIRL’S THROAT. SHE’S SCARED... BUT THEN SHE REMEMBERS HER FATHER AND ALL THE THINGS HE TAUGHT HER. RIGHT BEFORE SHE GETS KILLED, SHE KICKS THE MAN IN THE LEG AND GRABS HER SWORD AND FIGHTS HIM TO THE EDGE OF THE ROOF!
THEY FIGHT SOME MORE, THEN THE GIRL PULLS HER ARM BACK AND SWINGS HER SWORD AS HARD AS SHE CAN AND HITS THE PRINCE’S SWORD AND IT FLIES TO THE GROUND. SHE PUTS HER SWORD TO HIS THROAT AND HE CRAWLS BACKWARD TO THE VERY EDGE OF THE ROOF.
“I know you have my father!” Mara yelled, the tip of her fencing saber in the middle of Ryan’s chest. “Tell me where he is!”
The boy held up his hands in protest, just like we talked about. “Your father owed me taxes!” he exclaimed with theatrical bravura. “He said he couldn’t pay!”
“Where did you take him?” Mara demanded and forced him a step closer to the ledge.
Mrs. Greenfield held the boom like a pro.
Livy watched her boy from the sidelines.
Another gust of wind snapped at Mara’s skirt and hair, adding serious production value to the scene.
“I didn’t take him anywhere!” Ryan pleaded. “I... I...”
“You what?” Mara asked.
“I... I...”
“Tell me!”
“I killed him!”
I zoomed into Mara’s mud-crusted face and focused the lens on her confusion.
“K–Killed?” she asked.
“Yes. I sent him to his death!”
Mara’s eyebrows pulled together at the bridge of her nose. Her irises danced as she searched for truth. “Where is... ‘death’? How do I find it?”
Ryan loosened a coy smile. This jerk was good. “It means he’s dead, little girl. And he’s never coming back.”
Mara froze. Her eyes settled into a blank stare. The bewilderment on her muddy face could break a heart. Then she lowered her brow in a terrible scowl and charged Ryan with the tip of her sword.
“Cut!” I yelled.
Ryan burst out laughing. “Dang, little lady! You’re crazy good! Have you done this before?”
Mara combed her fingers through her matted hair. “First time in front of a camera.”
Mrs. Greenfield lowered her arms and blotted a tear with the sleeve of her blouse. “You’re all so talented!”
Livy ran to set. “Ryan needs a touch up,” she said and pulled out her powder.
Thanks to my role as Obnoxious Little Brother, I rarely saw my sister’s genuine smile. But I saw it that day; a pretty smile that brightened her face, enlivened her mood, and bestowed her stance with confidence. (As she dusted Ryan’s face, she couldn’t contain that smile if she tried.)
Mara noticed it too. Our eyes connected for a split second, just long enough for the girl to flash me a look of concern that she had intended to keep hidden. As she turned to leave, Ryan stiffened his posture to better watch over Livy’s braids.
I inhaled, held the air, then released. “All right, everybody!” I said. “Let’s get the mannequin!”
* * *
19 EXT. THE CASTLE OF THE EVIL PRINCE - DAY
THE EVIL PRINCE FALLS OFF THE ROOF TO HIS BLOODY DEMISE!
The ladies of The Demi Moore Cigar Club joined the filmmakers at the top of the dune. We visored our eyes to better see Freddy the mannequin (in the garb of the evil prince) dangling from Mara’s hands against the castle wall. Thirty feet below, blankets, pillows and cushions provided a soft target for the plastic daredevil.
Livy stood as close to Ryan as their friendship allowed. Apparently, she was oblivious to the fact that he was wearing blush, eyeliner, and a Michael Jordan basketball jersey. Poor Livy... she didn’t know the futility of her flirtation. “Sorry,” she said, tracing circles in the sand with her hightop. “I know this movie is totally lame.”
“Are you kiddin’?” he said. “I get to watch myself fall from the roof of a freakin’ castle! I’m wiggin’ out!”
Mom was behind me, chatting up Mrs. Bullard, doing her best to explain the filmmaking process. “This is one of the last scenes in the movie,” she said, “but they still need to shoot a war scene that actually comes earlier in the story. James can put the scenes together in the right order during the editing process. It’s all very technical.”
“Why aren’t you all costumed up, Beth?” asked the woman. “Shouldn’t you be queen of this castle?”
My back was turned, but I could feel the flush in my mother’s cheeks. “Ha!” she said. “You’ll never catch Bethany Parker in front of a movie camera. I’m strictly a behind-the-scenes kinda mom.”
I scanned the roof and saw Mrs. Greenfield with her hands on her hips. She asked permission to assist Mara with the dummy; I said it was fine as long as she stayed clear of the shot.
“Testing, testing?” Mara’s voice crackled over the My First Sony walkie-talkie attached to my ear. “Are you there, Mr. Director?”
I bent the mouthpiece to my lips. “Hear ya loud n’ clear, Alpha Girl. How are we lookin’?”
“Sweet. Tell Freddy that we’ve only got one shot at this, so make it good.”
“Will do, Mr. Director. Tell Livy and Ryan I say ‘hello down there!’”
I winced. “Will do, Alpha Girl. Over and out.” I checked the frame one last time, then raised my arms. “Quiet on the set!” I yelled. The ladies simmered. Ryan stepped to my side.
The earpiece crackled. “Dang, that was loud!”
“Sorry, Alpha Girl. Forgot about the headset.”
Mom covered her mouth. Livy inched closer to Ryan as he bubbled with goofy excitement. On the roof, Mrs. Greenfield ducked out of view.
I pushed record and held my breath. “Annnnd, action!”
The dummy fell with disturbing grace, then bumped the brick wall and reeled head first toward the ground. The costume fluttered just enough to make him look real; I imagined Ryan in his place.
Freddy hit the pillows with a pop and crunch. The ladies gasped. Ryan raised his fists in the air and whooped, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
I kept the camera wide on the castle wall until Mara emerged with exquisite timing from the brick horizon, a tiny silhouette with a billowing blouse, windswept hair, and sword at her side. Slowly, I rotated the zoom, pushing into The Girl as she stood above the rest of us like a true heroine, comfortable in her place at the top of the world.
I yelled cut. The ladies cheered.
Mara dropped her sword, waved, then grabbed the walkie-talkie. “How’d it look, Mr. Director?”
“Awesome,” I said. “Nice work, Alpha–”
Mara jerked the headset off before I could finish and Mrs. Greenfield appeared at her side. There was a burst of jumbled laughter as Mara fumbled with the device, then found the power switch and turned it off. My earpiece clicked silent and I watched The Girl share the moment with my mother’s friend.
“Killer shot, bro!” Ryan blurted. “Mara looked tight! Am I right? We’re gonna make so many movies together, little dude.”
I didn’t respond. My jaw tensed. My molars rubbed together in grinding figure eights.
I succumbed to a new primal urge that afternoon... but my jealousy was attuned to the wrong threat.
The Accidental Siren Page 11