Vanishing Acts (14 page)

Since I passed by Lucy's house on my way back home anyway, I decided to knock on her door to find out why she hadn't been at Sonya's. I also figured she'd want to be filled in on the Seth Ryan search. Except no one answered.

This wasn't too big of a deal, I thought as I continued walking down the street.

Lucy could've been lots of places.

But I never would have guessed she'd be where I found her.

“Um, hi?” I asked, walking into my living room, where Lucy and Finn were playing video games and giggling, so wrapped up in each other they didn't even notice.

“Lucy?” I tried again.

“Hey, Maggie,” she said as she scrambled to her feet.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

She flashed me a guilty smile. “I stopped by to see if you wanted to hang out. And you weren't here. So Finn invited me in. We were just playing
Hoops Away
.”

“That's
Hoops Today
,” said Finn.

“Right.” Lucy giggled. “
Hoops Today
.”

“We had plans to meet up at Sonya's this morning, remember? The Seth Ryan search.”

“Oh, yeah.” Lucy looked down at her blue Converse high-tops. She'd drawn a little brown owl on each of the rubber tips—owls she now stared at like they were a part of our conversation. “I kind of forgot.”

“Beatrix told me you called her, specifically to say you couldn't make it.”

“You need to call her Lulu now,” Finn replied, as if that actually made sense.

“Huh?” I asked.

Finn and Lucy looked at each other without speaking, like they had their own secret language.

“Will someone please tell me what's going on?” I asked.

“I'm changing my name back to Lulu,” Lucy said finally, with an easy shrug.

“What does that even mean?” I asked, now confused
and
a little alarmed.

“Lulu is what my parents called me when I was a baby, and it was only when I started kindergarten that I became Lucy,” she explained. “It's because my teacher insisted that everyone use their given names. You know—the official ones from their birth certificates? And Lucy is my real name. Except I'd totally forgotten about that, so when she called roll on that first day, I didn't even know she was talking to me. And once I realized, I never said anything, because I guess I was just too shy. But I've always liked Lulu better. Plus, there are tons of Lucys in this neighborhood, and hardly any Lulus, so I'm going to be one of them.”

“Lulu?” I asked, trying and failing to keep the question out of my voice. The name felt too strange on my
tongue. It just didn't seem right. Of course, neither did discovering your best friend would rather hang out with your brother on a Saturday afternoon, even when you two obviously had plans. And not just any plans—major ones. I mean, what's up with that? “I don't know if I can get used to this.”

“Well, you'll have to,” said Finn, standing next to Lucy—I mean Lulu—so they were shoulder to shoulder, a united front.

“Don't you like it?” asked Lucy/Lulu.

Finn answered for me. “Of course she does. It's cute.”

Lucy/Lulu beamed at my brother. “You really think it's cute?”

“I've never heard you use the word ‘cute' in your entire life,” I said to Finn.

Lucy/Lulu handed me the controls. “Want to finish my game? I've gotta go.” And she was gone before I could answer her.

Once we were alone, I turned to Finn. “Why did she come over to see me, only to leave before we had a chance to hang out?” I asked.

Finn smirked and replied, “It's a mystery.”

I had to agree, even though I sensed he was making fun of me. My brother is so weird. So is my best friend, for that matter. How many twelve-year-olds just up and change their name?

I didn't bother asking any more questions. Finn and I went back to playing
Hoops Today
in silence. He beat me three straight games in a row. No shocker there; I could hardly pay attention to the game.

The problem was, this one thought kept nagging at me: what if Lucy was changing more than her name?

NEW EVIDENCE PROVES SETH RYAN WAS ABDUCTED BY ALIENS

S
ETH
R
YAN
W
AS
L
AST
S
EEN ON THE
C
ROSSTOWN
B
US
AT
M
IDNIGHT WITH
N
O
S
HOES

Superstar Seth Ryan Spotted in Mexico. . . .
In Pakistan . . .
IN
P
ERU
. . .
in Paris . . .
in a Pink Tutu

News of Seth Ryan's kidnapping spread fast. It was all anyone could talk about. Not just at school and in my neighborhood, but all over the world. Every newspaper, magazine, TV news channel, Twitter feed, and blog seemed to have a different take on his disappearance. Some were outlandish; some were insanely outlandish. People blamed the FBI, the CIA, the Russian Mafia, the Tea Party supporters, and China.

Paparazzi swarmed through our neighborhood.
Helicopters rumbled across the sky. Detectives canvassed the streets, questioning pretty much everyone within a ten-block radius of the set of
Vanished
.

Not only did no one find Seth, no one even knew where to look. Including myself.

But that wouldn't discourage me from trying.

I woke up early on Sunday and headed over to Second Street. Just like my friends had said,
Vanished
was still in production, but the entire set now had a different feel. People still filmed background scenes, changed the scenery, and built new snowmen and igloos as the old ones melted in the sun, but everyone did so quietly, more seriously. There was less hustle and bustle and less random chatter. From where I stood, on the corner and back a ways so I could observe without being caught staring, everyone seemed so serious—so obviously preoccupied with thoughts of Seth Ryan.

After saying hi to Beatrix, Sonya, Lucy, and Finn, who were sitting around waiting to be told where to stand and carefully avoiding Jones Reynaldo, who was yelling at someone on the other side of the block, I walked over to Jenna Beasely's house. I checked the address on the door against the one in my notebook: 555 Second Street. It matched. I took a deep breath and knocked.

The door swung open almost immediately, and I found myself standing in front of a cute blond teenage
guy eating a granola bar. “Yeah?” he said, after swallowing.

“Does Jenna Beasely live here?” I asked.

Rather than answer me, he turned around and bellowed, “Mom! Someone's here for you.” And then he walked away, leaving the door wide open.

Moments later, I heard Jenna's heels clicking on the wood floors, and then I saw Jenna herself. Blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, she was dressed in navy blue suit pants and an untucked, cream-colored dress shirt. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I hope so. My name is Maggie Brooklyn Sinclair. I'm—”

“Elaine and Joe's daughter,” Jenna finished.

“Yup, that's me.” I smiled, relieved she remembered because questioning her as a complete and total stranger would have been weird. Or weirder, anyway. “Mind if I ask you some questions?”

“Not at all. Please come in.” Jenna tilted her head and stared at me, curious and clearly surprised to see me. I didn't blame her.

“Cool. Thanks.” I stepped inside.

As she led me into her living room, she asked, “Can I get you something to drink? Lemonade? Water? A soda?”

“No, thanks.” I pulled out my notebook and pen,
feeling very Nancy Drew-ish. “And I won't take up too much of your time. I just have a few questions about Seth Ryan. Well, Jones Reynaldo, really. And the whole film shoot . . .” I felt flustered and not sure of what to ask first. I hadn't questioned that many people before, and it's harder than it sounds. Especially when one of those people is a friend of my parents. I didn't want to do anything embarrassing that might get back to them. Nor did I want to seem nosy or accusatory in any way. But at the same time, I needed information.

“Are you writing something about the kidnapping for your school paper?”

“Not exactly,” I said, deciding to be straightforward. “I'm in the middle of an investigation. I'm hoping to find Seth Ryan.”

“You and everyone else,” Jenna replied. “If you want to talk about Seth Ryan, that's fine. We can, but I don't think I can help you. The police have already questioned me—although I have no idea why.”

“Maybe because you threatened to shut down the movie in front of about fifty witnesses?” I asked, as delicately as I could.

“I threatened to shut down the movie by calling the police. I'd certainly never break the law. Or harm anyone—especially an innocent child. And from a purely selfish point of view, I'd much rather have a movie filmed
on my street than have the place crawling with police and detectives and paparazzi. It's true that I don't want to live in the middle of a movie set. Well, I don't want to live in the middle of a crime scene, either, or have the police search my house and bring me downtown so they can run my fingerprints and then later question everyone in my family and everyone at my office.”

“Rudy did that?” I asked.

Jenna tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at me. “You're on a first-name basis with Officer Green?”

“I am.” I gave her a quick smile. “Long story.”

“Well, it's been quite the ordeal,” said Jenna, crossing her legs and smoothing out her suit pants. “And all because I had a perfectly legitimate grievance with one perfectly childish director.”

“Sorry,” I said. “That does sound pretty awful.”

“It
has
been, but it's not your fault, and I'm sorry—I don't mean to take out my frustrations on you. I'm a reasonable person. Truly, I am. Jones just brings out the worst in me. I wouldn't even mind one movie shoot on my street, but this is the fourth time they've shut down Second Street this month.”

“Why do they always film here?” I asked. “No offense; it's a nice street and everything. But there are lots of nice streets in the neighborhood.”

“I know. The reason all of these productions come
here is my neighbors, the Franklins. They rent their house out to production companies all the time; it's a great deal for them. They get paid, and then they leave town. It's everyone else around them who suffers. Last summer, for example, during the Tom Cruise shoot, one of the catering trucks backed into my scooter. Flattened it, actually. And, sure, they paid to replace it, but it took months.”

“That does sound annoying,” I said.

“And during a shoot last spring, they brought in a weather machine and it rained into my backyard and overwatered my tulips. I spent an entire weekend planting bulbs, for nothing. They never blossomed.”

“Wow.”

I scribbled notes as fast as I could, but it wasn't easy keeping up with Jenna. She was worked up and talking fast.

“And don't even get me started on Jones Reynaldo. You would not believe the ego on this guy. Did you know that he wanted to film one small scene in Prospect Park and tried to get a permit to shut it down in its entirety?”

I shook my head. “I didn't know that.”

“Well, did you realize that the park is three miles long and almost a mile wide? Meanwhile, he only wanted to shoot by the Nethermead. You know, that field close to the Ninth Street entrance?”

“So why did he need the whole park?” I wondered.

Jenna laughed. “He claimed there are too many dogs, which is distracting for him because he's highly allergic. And also, his movie
Vanished
takes place in a futuristic society where there are none, and sound carries in the park. He claimed he needed the entire area, and he's perfectly willing—if not eager—to inconvenience the thousands of people who use the park every single day—people who live and pay taxes in Brooklyn—for his precious movie.”