Call the Shots (29 page)

Thank Gandalf.

And so, when I get around to asking her if she’ll come to dinner with me at Le Chat Noir on Valentine’s Day, Evelyn is beaming.

“Really?” she squeals. “That’s so romantic, pooky.” She leaps at me and grabs me in a lung-crushing hug. “I can’t believe I ever doubted you.”

“There’s one more thing,” I choke out.

Evelyn releases me and smiles. “More surprises. This is the best day ever!”

“Yeah, well . . .” I cough as my lungs slowly reinflate. “I wanted to let you know . . . Well,
we
wanted to let you know . . . Coop, Matt, and me . . . that . . .” Oh, God, can’t breathe. Going to pass out. Did Evelyn just collapse one of my lungs or am I having a panic attack?

“What is it, cuddle bear?”

“It’s, um . . .” I swallow. “The movie. You and Nick. We just . . .” Deep breath. It’s okay. I’m okay. “We want to film it. With . . . just the two of you. Playing all the parts.” Oh, God, I said it. I can’t believe I just said it. It sounds so fishy. Better add something else. “Well, and, you know, Uncle Doug and the humanzees, of course.”

“Of course.” Evelyn’s nodding. Her eyes narrowed. Is she mad? Suspicious? “I
knew
it,” she says. Oh, shit. But then she smiles. “It’s just like I said. None of those people were any good, right?”

“That’s right,” I say, my breath returning. “So, are you okay with that? And do you think Nick will be? I mean, it’s going to be a lot of work.”

“Okay with it?” Evelyn lip farts. “I’m the one who suggested it, silly cakes. And Nick will be thrilled. He’s dreamed of being an actor ever since the auditions, when he realized how much talent he has.” She dives in for another death hug. “We’re going to make the best movie ever! You just wait and see.”

•  •  •

As soon as I step foot into drama class, I head right over to Leyna, who’s searching in her messenger bag for something.

“Leyna, hi,” I say. She glances up at me, and it’s impossible to read her expression behind her red shutter shades. “Listen, about Saturday — I am so, so sorry that I stood you up. I really didn’t mean to. I was looking forward to our date. Really looking forward to it. You have no idea how much . . . Anyway. But something came up. Something awful. I —” My bird crap saga went over so well with Evelyn that I am actually ready to launch in to the same gory details with Leyna, only as I’m about to say it I realize that the last thing I want is for her to have any of those images of me in her mind.

“You what?” she asks, and again I can’t read her. Is she pissed? Bored? Can she tell I’m about to launch into a massive lie?

My brain scrambles for a partial truth, something I can say with authority, the way I told Evelyn about the beshitting. “I . . . had to take one of our foster dogs to the vet. Chester. He’s a cocker spaniel,” I explain. “He swallowed one of my toy — er, figurines. A Klingon. And he started projectile vomiting. We had to rush him to the animal hospital to have emergency surgery.”

This is all true. Chester really did eat one of my Klingons and he did have to be operated on. Two years ago. But still.

“Is he okay?” Leyna asks, raising her shutter shades and sounding genuinely concerned.

“Oh, yeah. They were able to get it out of him, thank God. It was close, though, because it could have ruptured his intestines. I knew once he started vomiting that he must have a blockage somewhere. I’d been worried for a few days, because he seemed a little dehydrated and looked like he was losing weight.”

She smiles. “Wow. You seem to know a lot about animals, Sean.”

“I should. We’ve been fostering them ever since I was a baby. My mom says I should go to veterinarian school.”

“I thought you wanted to go to acting school.”

“Oh, yeah. I do. Definitely. It’s my mom’s idea. Vet school, I mean. She’s the one who says I should go. But I told her, ‘No way, Mom. I’m going to be an actor.’”

“Sorry.” Leyna laughs. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“No, it’s fine. I mean, it’s nice to have a backup plan, though, right? You know, if the acting thing doesn’t work out. And I am good with animals, so . . .”

“That’s great. I’ll have to ask you about my corgi sometime, then. She’s had this rash for a while now, but my mom doesn’t want to take her to the vet because it’s so expensive. She says it’ll go away on its own.”

“It might,” I say. “Depends on what it is.”

Leyna frowns. “It just looks rashy to me, but what do I know? Maybe you could come over and have a look at it sometime.”

I nod, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “Sure. Absolutely.”

“Well, I’m glad your dog’s okay.” Leyna reaches out and touches my arm. An electric current shoots through my body. “Most of all, though, I’m glad
you’re
okay. I was getting a little worried. I tried looking up your number but you’re not listed. I almost came by your house, but then I thought, what if you were just standing me up? Then I’d be all embarrassed.”

“No, no. I wasn’t. I would never. I tried looking you up too. But you’re not listed either.”

“Yeah, my dad’s pretty paranoid about stuff like that. He won’t even use a cell phone because he’s afraid someone might be able to track him.” Leyna laughs. “I mean, seriously. Like people don’t have anything better to do than track other people.”

“Yeah. That’s ridiculous.” My gaze slides off to the side. “So, anyway. What I was going to tell you Saturday when we met was that we’re casting you as the lead in our movie. Nashira Axe.”

Leyna’s eyes go wide. “Really? Are you kidding?”

I smile. “Nope. I’m dead serious. You and Hunter are going to be our stars.”

“That’s amazing!” Leyna pulls me in for a hug. Oh, man, I could never get tired of this. Such a stark contrast to Evelyn’s strangling. “I really appreciate it, Sean. I’ll work super hard. I promise.”

Just then Mr. Nestman claps his hands, quieting the room. “All right, thespians. Today we are going to start on an exciting new project. As you already know, one of your classmates, our very own Sean Hance, is making a film to be shown at New York’s world-famous TerrorFest. And so, in the interest of giving you all some real-world experience, I’ve decided to dedicate a portion of our class to helping Mr. Hance accomplish this goal.” Mr. Nestman holds up a copy of the script pages I e-mailed him last night. I can see very clearly that he’s marked the hell out of them with red pen. “The first thing we’ll do is have Sean announce his lead casting choices, which he’s informed me were finalized this weekend. I know we’re all
very
interested to find out who made the cut.” He looks at me as he says that part and it sounds very much like a threat. “Then we’ll do a complete read-through of these early scenes.” He turns to me, placing his hand solemnly on his chest. “Now, Sean, just so you know, I’ve taken the liberty of making a few . . . mmm,
minor
corrections. Improvements, if you will. To add some depth and texture, that’s all. As I am a twenty-year professional in this business of show, I didn’t think you’d mind.”

I smile tightly, worrying less about the “improvements” to my script and more about just how professional Mr. Nestman will be when he finds out he didn’t land one of the leading roles.

I
FLOAT ALL THE WAY HOME
from school on my bike, taking my time as I weave along the streets, intermittently glancing down at the back of my hand and the phone number that Leyna’s written there in red-raspberry ink. I love how she writes her fives. And don’t get me started on how sexy her eights look. All curvy and round.

To be honest, I didn’t think today would turn out as well as it has. Though, despite Leyna’s accepting my apology, drama class was torture. Mr. Nestman acted like it was
his
movie we were rehearsing instead of mine. Changing everything that Nessa and I worked so hard on. And that was
before
I read the cast list and he realized I’ve only got him playing an army sergeant.

And then, after school, we tried to film the first scene with Evelyn and Nick. That was pretty much a two-hour nightmare. Not only are Nick and Evelyn horrendous actors — I mean really, truly terrible — but they both move in slow motion. And take ten times longer to say their lines than they should. If we were actually going to use their scenes, our movie would be twenty hours long.

The good thing is, I’m more convinced now than ever that we are doing the right thing by shooting the decoy film. And so are Val and Helen, who were dubious at first. But once we met up with Leyna and Hunter — sans cell phones, of course — and shot the very same scene in one-quarter the amount of time, and with infinitely better acting, there was no one who wasn’t on board with the plan.

And that’s not even the best part. As soon as we wrapped, Leyna came up to me, all excited and full of ideas for her character. She took my hand and wrote her phone number down on the soft pad between my thumb and forefinger —“So we can always get in touch with each other”— and everything felt right again. Better than right.

I turn up my driveway, lifting my hand to my nose and breathing in the raspberry aroma of the ink. I hop off my bike, lift the garage door, and tuck my ride right in beside Mom’s old black Volvo. Even this, putting my bicycle away, feels effortless and fluid. It sounds totally weird, I know, but taking control of things and putting our movie plan into action has made me feel taller. And lighter. Like I’m half helium. Like if someone were to hand me a basketball right now, I could dribble it across the street to the Goldsteins’ and slam-dunk it in their crappy old basketball hoop.

I’m in my house and bounding up the stairs — thinking about how great it’s going to be to continue filming with Leyna this week — when I step into my room and see that it’s nearly empty except for all the baby stuff and a few scattered Pokémon cards on the floor.

I stand there in the doorway. Blinking at the void. My stomach taking a nosedive. Trying to work out how this pitch-black puzzle piece fits in to the sunny brightness of my day. But it’s like in those shows where an alien ship suddenly appears over Manhattan and everyone’s brain short-circuits because they simply can’t handle the enormity of the situation.

“Hey, there, mister.” It’s Dad, clapping me on the shoulder, a big isn’t-life-grand smile on his face. “How was your day?”

“What are you doing?”

“You’re home earlier than we thought,” Dad chirps. “Another half hour and your mother and I would have had the entire move completed.”

“We wanted to surprise you,” Mom says, waddling up behind me, a half-eaten Ding Dong in her hand. Jeez, I can’t believe how much her belly has inflated in just the last month. “Don’t worry, though. Your father isn’t letting me do any of the heavy lifting.” She takes a big bite of the chocolate hockey puck, which leaves icing smears on her lips.

“Wait.” I shake my head, unable to process anything they’re saying. “I thought . . .” I clench my eyes shut, trying to ward off the killer migraine that’s blossoming in my skull. “I thought I wasn’t going to have to move until right before the baby was born.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Dad says, pushing past me and stepping into my bedroom. “We had to accelerate the schedule a bit. The doctor said the baby’s trending faster than she expected. We thought we’d better get started on painting the room.” He begins pulling my swords down from the wall. “It’s better this way, anyway, I think. Yank the Band-Aid off quick and clean, right? Interesting factoid about change: they actually did a scientific study where they found that people acclimate to new situations much faster when —”

“I don’t care,” I snap. “You guys said I had until May.”

“Um, no,” Mom says. “We said the baby was due in May, but now it looks like —”

“This isn’t fair.” I feel my eyes starting to well up. “I’m not ready yet. You should have told me.” I march into the room and start gathering up the Pokémon cards from the floor. “These are valuable. You could have damaged them. You should have let me organize my stuff first.”

“Sorry, guy. We thought it would be easier for you this way.” Dad leans the swords gently against the wall. “Not to have to move the stuff over yourself. That was the other thing they discovered in this study. People who were thrust into new situations were more likely to —”

“Whatever.”
I look around at the near-empty space that used to be my room. “I don’t care about your stupid study.” I glare at Mom’s swelling stomach. “Or the dumb baby.”

Mom tilts her head, acting all sympathetic. “Look, hon. We know how hard this is —”

“No.” I shift my glare from Mom to Dad to Mom. I hate them both so much right now. It’s just like Cathy said: it’s all
baby, baby, baby.
“You have no clue how hard it is. If you did, you wouldn’t be making me do this. I know you think this baby’s some kind of
miracle.
But for me it’s a curse. You’ve cursed my life.”

“Sean!”
Mom gasps, her eyes starting to leak. “That was uncalled for.” She sniffles as she takes another bite of her Ding Dong. “So much for gay sons being more kind to their mothers.”

“What?”
I screech. “You can’t be serious! How many times do I —?”