The Accidental Siren (16 page)

“Humans!” I shouted.
“Action!”

“
Grrraaaaaaaaaa!”
Ryan Brosh lead the
charge of twelve boys, leaping three at a time from the bushes to
the path behind the terrified girl. (Ryan–without my permission–had
rallied a group of high-school buddies by flashing a stolen photo
of Mara. The boys agreed to don burlap ponchos and silly hats... if
it meant chasing a beautiful girl with tiki-torches and makeshift
swords. Scott, Martin and Dale were cousins on my Dad’s side who
made the four-hour trip from Sandusky, just to be extras in my
movie. The Bullard kids–Zach and Sean–rounded out the human
battalion with plastic swords they brought from home.)

A.J. cackled like Dr. Frankenstein and picked
up the pace.

“Keep her straight, Age!” I yelled as the
tires neared the edge of the path and thin branches smacked the
back of my head.

He shouted some reply, but the engine and
crunching leaves muffled his words.

“Fireworks!” I screamed and the path
blossomed with a brilliant orange surge of Mr. Greenfield’s Roman
Candles. To our left, Whit’s dad lit the fuse on a mortar–wedged in
the dirt to look like a grounded grenade–and the explosion echoed
with a blistering pop that flung blue sparks in every direction.
(Somewhere in the darkness, my father was standing guard with
buckets of water.)

Mara jolted as if the timed explosions were
spontaneous.

Through the viewfinder, my scene looked
wonderfully chaotic; just as I imagined.

I screamed my final cue at the last mark,
“Creatures!
Go!
”

Mara flashed one last look of horror, then
darted left off the path into the foliage, not a second before
thirteen masked beasts barreled from the right in an epic clash
with the humans. (The creatures were mostly girls draped in
gender-masking cloaks made from cheese-cloth and dirt. I placed
Mara in charge of recruiting extras, which she delegated to Livy by
promising beauty tips and the coolest slumber party of all time.
Kimmy and Haley joined the ranks first, then bribed eight more
girls with tales of a killer slumber party and high-school boys in
medieval costumes. Not only did Livy gather the troops, but she
hollowed every eye with black paint and darkened every mouth
red.)

My actors collided, hollered, and battled it
out in a showdown of make-believe violence as the camera,
four-wheeler and director bounced away.

A.J. hit the breaks and we lurched to a halt.
We exchanged glances, wiped sweat from our brows, and caught our
breath behind mischievous grins. “That was fun,” he said, and I
nodded my agreement. I knew the risks when I asked A.J. for help,
but I also knew he’d keep the invitation to himself. He understood
Danny’s tendencies better than anyone, and he wouldn’t risk sharing
Mara with his maniacal leader.

I raised my head, cupped my hands around my
mouth, and shouted to the forest, “That’s a cut!”

The battle cries faded. The engine died. The
fireworks fizzled out. The only sound was my labored breaths and a
shallow hiss from the belly of the four-wheeler.

The moment passed. Ryan whooped first, then
the whole forest erupted with applause.

* * *

10 EXT. BATTLEGROUND WOODS - NIGHT

THE GIRL RUNS UP A LADDER AND NARROWLY
ESCAPES A HEARD OF CREATURES BELOW HER!

9:20 PM.

“Start up the dolly,” I said to A.J.

“Huh?”

I pointed to the four-wheeler. “Start the
engine. I gotta talk to the monsters.” I looked to Mara. “You
okay?”

She held her skirt’s hem at her knee and
inspected the scarlet laceration across her shin. “It’s not too
deep. I’ll live.”

I nodded and fanned my chest with my shirt.
“Be ready in thirty seconds.”

I marched twenty strides to Livy and her band
of sweat-drenched bad guys, faces sick with artificial gaunt,
ghostlike in the flicker of their tiki-torch staffs.

“We’re dyin’ out here, James,” Livy said.
“Why did everybody else get to go home?”

I already sent the boys to the castle so I
could focus on my movie instead of potential advances on Mara.
“It’s the last shot, ladies, then you can join the boys for dinner.
When I say action, I need you to run right between the camera and
the ladder.”

“We know, James. You told us like, a thousand
times.”

“I want dinner!” Kimmy moaned and jabbed the
dirt with her torch.

“Hang in there,” I said. I stepped backwards
while scanning the production notebook for any last reminders.
“Oh!” I said. “And remember to gallop. You’re monsters, remember,
not people.”

“We know!” the girls shouted in unison.

I smiled, then collapsed the notebook and
spun around.

Beneath the ladder and the stalled dolly,
A.J. was holding Mara’s wrist. They were talking.

Mara had been the center of attention all
evening, but A.J. was the only kid driven by the memory of her
song. Sure, Whit and I heard it too (I still awoke every morning
with
Amazing Grace
trapped in my head) but those brief
excerpts were nothing compared to the countless nights A.J. had
spent in the trees, sinking deeper and deeper into the honey of
Mara’s voice. As I trampled the weeds and leaves toward the punk
and my girl, I knew this night was a mistake.

“What the heck are you doing?” I said and
slapped A.J.’s hand from Mara’s.

“Nothin’ bad, James. Swear it. I was just
tellin’ her–”

“Tellin’ her what?” I stepped between them
and raised my voice. “I said you could only help if you stayed away
from Mara. She doesn’t like you and she doesn’t wanna sing!”

Mara touched my shoulder. “James–”

I shrugged her off. “I shoulda known you were
still a jerk.” In height, I bested the little bully by more than an
inch.

He stumbled backward. “I wasn’t gonna ask her
to sing!” he said. “I–”

“Just leave her alone, kay?” My cheeks
prickled with a rush of rosacea that would dominate my teenage
years. “Everybody told me it was stupid to invite such a jerk to my
movie shoot, but I didn’t listen.”

“James!” Mara said in a rare heave of her
gentle voice.

“What?”

“He was saying he’s sorry!”

“Sorry?”

A.J. fished his pocket with trembling hands.
“For bein’ mean in the woods. I was bein’ a bunghole to you guys
and I wanted to tell y’all I’m sorry.”

“Did your mom make you say that?”

“No!” he pleaded, struggling to find the
trinket his pocket refused to release.

“Did Danny make you say it?”

“No, James!”

“Is this a ploy?” I hissed, then gasped at my
outburst. (My fight for “different” had taken a serious blow; I
wasn’t the first to ask that question.)

A.J. jerked his fingers from his pocket. The
stolen necklace was pinched carefully between them. “I threw away
that washrag,” he said to Mara, “but I figured you’d want this
back.”

She stepped around me and extended her
hand.

A.J. let the chain coil in her palm, then
released it altogether. “Them boys who stole yer stuff... Them boys
in the trees... they’re startin’ to get crazy and I don’t wanna be
associated with them no more.”

“What do you mean by ‘crazy’?” I asked.

He looked at Mara. “One boy found a blue
bandana in yer closet. Started wearin’ it on his head, now they’re
all wearin’ blue bandanas. They don’t know where you moved to, but
they keep all yer things in a special box. Tapes of you singin’.
Pictures too. But you don’t hafta worry, I ain’t ever gonna say
where you live.”

“What about the tape you stole?” she
asked.

“It’s gettin’ raggedy. Can barely hear yer
voice. I’ll be throwin’ it away soon.”

Mara nodded. “Thanks.”

I rolled my eyes and fought the pending
shame.

“Danny and T won’t be so nice,” he said.
“Danny keeps talkin’ like you turned him down. Calls you all kinds
of bad words. Ma caught me and him puttin’ ants in the microwave
and I’m not allowed to play with him anymore.” He looked at the
dirt. “Anyways, I’m real sorry for what I done.”

Mara graced the boy’s shoulder with a pat.
“We forgive you.”

“I know you guys only needed me for the
four-wheeler, but do y’all think I could stay for the sleepover
too?”

I looked at Mara. She looked at me. “Sure,
Age,” I said. “You can stay for the sleepover.”

* * *

10:10 PM.

The driveway was lit by a single, cobalt
flood.

I limped through the swarm of Livy’s friends.
Mara was among them–one of them–and I gave her a thumbs up. She
grinned and returned the gesture.

In the garage, Mom, Mrs. Bullard and Mrs.
Greenfield were ladling chili into the actors’ styrofoam bowls.
Mrs. Conrad declared herself the captain of “Whitney Protection
Duty.” She sat beside her son on a tub of bird feed and asked
repeatedly if he survived the make-believe battle. He assured her
that he didn’t touch the fireworks, the sword was dull, and the
four-wheeler didn’t come anywhere near his limbs.

A.J. asked my mom where he could change out
of costume. She gave him directions to the downstairs bathroom. He
thanked her and bounded inside.

I pulled off my shoes and socks, inspected
the matching white blisters on both heels, then slipped into a pair
of flip-flops from the shoe shelf beside the door. All nine
war-scene setups had been completed in only two hours with
twenty-five takes. The woods were a mess, but it was time to
relax.

Mom served me a half bowl of chili, then
licked her thumb and rubbed the dirt from my chin. “Why are little
geniuses always so messy?”

Mrs. Greenfield–pink with delight from the
commotion–offered a handful of Fritos for my soup.

“I’m down twelve pounds, Mrs. G. Don’t tempt
me.”

“How’d my hubby do out there?” she asked.
“He’s been talkin’ about your movie all week. He didn’t blow off
his hand, I hope?”

“Mr. G did awesome,” I said. “He’s got killer
timing with a Roman Candle.”

Mrs. Greenfield looked over my shoulder to
the circle of men in the front yard. Her husband was there, thin
like my father but less hunched. He compensated for his
male-pattern baldness by boasting a neatly combed Tom Sellick. A
silver cross hung between the collar of his Polo. The guy managed a
Sporting Goods store in Holland with the clever name “Greenfield
Sporting Goods” and–several years ago–gave my father a deal on a
beach volleyball set we never use.

I sipped my chili from the corner where the
retaining wall met the house and used the vantage to study the
dynamic of my peers. Below my dangling legs, the boys sat on the
planter trough like construction workers on a skyscraper beam,
squishing Mom’s geraniums with typical adolescent mindlessness.

In the driveway, the girls mingled in
rotating clusters like a system of dancing bees. Ryan Brosh played
it cool, whispering and laughing with his comrades. He was too old
for the buzzing tykes...
but never too old for their queen
.
The girls stole glances at the boys, then giggled when a boy
glanced back. Every girl assumed the attention was meant for them,
but how could they understand that their brief exchange was not
flirtation, but a trivial darting of eyes caught at the wrong
moment by their sappy imagination, meant–by the boy–as a pit stop
on the way to and from the intended recipient of their
affection.

Mara knew the attention was hers; I watched
as she willingly partook in the flirtatious dance.
“You’re like
my brother,”
I recalled and my innards churned.

(I should note that most of these
observations were only made after years of reflection. I did,
however, acknowledge that my perception of the sexes had evolved
drastically in the two-and-a-half months since that glimpse of
Roslyn’s thigh.)

From my perch, I watched my little cousin
Scott conspire with Bobby and Jake behind Leo the stone lion. Scott
was just young enough to connect with the twins on a level of
immaturity, but old enough to test his rare position of dominance.
There were whispers, shushes, elaborate gestures... then little
Bobby nodded, stepped from the patio, and circumvented the group of
dads with reluctant audacity. He arrived unnoticed at the group of
girls, circled them with casual strides, then broke the delicate
balance of sexes by squirming through the wall of the clique.

I heard what I couldn’t see; Bobby spoke loud
enough for the whole production to hear. “Hey, Miss Mara!” he
shouted. “Wanna see my goober?”

“Eww!” Girls scattered in fits of disgusted
laughter, leaving Mara alone with Bobby, jeans at his ankles and
wiener in his hand.

The jocks on the trough pointed and jeered
and leaned against the stucco wall to brace their amusement.

Bobby looked to his cousin and brother as
they fell to the ground in stitches. He looked at the scattered
girls and the row of hysterical boys. He huffed and he puffed and
when he noticed my mother approaching from the garage, he pulled
back his arm like an MBL pitcher and slapped his hand into Mara’s
bare thigh.

If Mom wasn’t accustomed to witless boys and
sensitive girls, the situation may have ended in tears. Instead,
she placed a kitten in Mara’s arms, took Bobby’s hand gently, and
lead him through the garage and into the house.

The cat diffused the situation just as Mom
had planned. The girls regrouped, “ewwws” turned to “awwws,” and
Mara was spared further embarrassment. The men–barely distracted by
the sight of a penis–turned back to their conversation, arms
crossed, swaying back and forth on the balls of their feet. Dad’s
arms were outstretched–soaring–and I knew exactly what he was
talking about.

Whit donned a fresh tee and spit-shined
cheeks as he rolled from the garage to the girls. Before he could
bemuse a lady with the specs of his IBM PowerPC or the speed of his
modem, Ryan intervened, slipping easily into the center of the
swarm to strike up a conversation with Mara.