Kissing Brendan Callahan (9 page)

“Just let us take a peek at the script,” says Margo, coaxingly.

“Impossible,” says Antonia, giving me a pleading look.

“Um,” I say. “As Antonia's personal assistant, I need her to put all her energy into the contest.”

Roland huffs and struts over to Charlene. “Can't you do something to push this along? You're her agent.”

“I've done my best. This is very hard on me, too.” Charlene huffs and, with a quick turn, leaves the room. A moment of chilled silence follows, broken only by Ophelia bumping into the coffee table, still pursuing the fly. Roland paces around the room, mumbling about deadlines, disrespectful writers, and contracts. A cell phone rings and Margo whips one out of her purse and takes the call. Antonia rubs her temples.

Brendan leans in to me. “This is one dead party.”

“That's because it's a gathering,” I whisper.

“Hey,” he says out loud. “Why did the turtle cross the road? To get to the Shell station!”

No one, besides Brendan, laughs.

“How about this one,” he says. “Did you hear about the shoe factory that burned down? Two hundred soles were lost.” When no one laughs this time, Brendan slaps the table. “Now I know that's funny.”

“Have a piece of cake,” says Antonia.

“I don't want a piece of cake,” he says. “I'm a comedian and you're supposed to laugh.”

“I understand.” She hands him a cookie. He takes it.

Margo waves to Roland. “Bronson wants to talk to you.”

“What am I supposed to tell him?”

Margo cups her hand over the receiver. “Ask him for a little patience,” she whispers. Roland grabs the phone and walks into the living room with it. He talks softly so I can't make out what he's saying, but I wonder if he's talking to Bronson McGee, the top-box office movie star? I loved him in
The Sinking of the Andrea Doria.

Antonia smiles at me as she nervously plays with an earring.

Roland walks back, his phone call over. He leans over Antonia. “I'll give you one more week, and then I want to see the script. Remember, you signed a contract. If you don't produce a script, this will end up in court.”

“I'll have it in a week,” says Antonia.

“Margo,” says Roland, snapping his fingers. “Let's move. We can still catch the red-eye to LA.”

“I'm right behind you,” she says.

As they gather their things, Antonia smiles and waves to them. “Ta, ta,” she says. “Talk to you in a week.”

I follow Roland to the door. “I was just curious,” I say. “Was that
the
Bronson McGee you were talking to?”

“Is there another?” he says in a sarcastic tone.

“Ask him what kind of coffee they served on the
Andrea Doria,
” says Brendan. “Sanka.” He laughs.

“Shhhh,” I tell him. Margo and Roland leave. Antonia sighs and leans back in her chair.

“This is the worst audience I've ever met,” says Brendan. “Or was it me?” Brendan bites his lip.

“You're fine,” I say. Antonia looks even sadder than Brendan. “Is there anything I can do to help?” I move closer. I'm curious if she has worked on the script at all. Maybe I could help her finish it. I'd probably have to go to Hollywood with her. We could rent a bungalow in Malibu. We'd entertain Bronson McGee. This could be the beginning of my screenwriting career. Provided, of course, that my mother would let me go.

Antonia drops her head. “I don't feel well. This has been a most unpleasant evening.”

“You can say that again,” says Brendan.

“Shhh,” I say. “Would you like to lie down?”

She nods.

“Take my arm.” I walk with her to the bedroom down the hall.

“I can't believe they found me here in Staten Island, of all places,” she says. “I suppose I should leave, but where would I go?”

“You can't leave,” I say. “You have to judge the contest. And you will finish that screenplay because I will help you. I'm a very good writer. I have dozens of notebooks filled with ideas. I'll show you all of them. We'll work day and night and we'll finish it by next week.”

“That will be marvelous.” She pats my arm. We get to the bed and she lies down. Her cousin is sitting in a chair, looking out the window.

“I'll be right back,” I say. I run into the other room and take my play out of my backpack and run back into the bedroom. “I have a final play to give you. Can I put it with the rest?”

“Whatever.” She waves her hand. I look around, trying to find the plays, but I don't see them.

“Remember that folder I gave you earlier, Antonia? Where is it?”

“Which folder?”

“The folder with the plays. The plays you are supposed to read for the contest.”

“Oh,” she says, fluffing a pillow. “I'm not sure where that is.”

“I put it in the backseat of your car.”

She yawns.

“Do you think they are still in the car?” I ask.

“It's very possible.” She curls up on the bed and rests her head on the pillow. Ophelia meows and walks across Antonia's body, trying to find a comfortable spot. She rubs the side of her face against Antonia and already I can hear snoring.

“I have to find those plays,” I tell Brendan.

“Where's your car?” he asks, shaking Antonia's shoulder.

“Oh, that thing. I returned it earlier this evening.” She turns over, almost knocking Ophelia over.

“Brendan, they have to be around here. Help me find them.” I turn to Charlene. “Do you know where the plays are?”

She shakes her head. “No idea.”

We search everywhere, even the bathroom. No folder. No plays.

“What am I going to do?” I am almost at the point of hysteria. I'm responsible for them. My mother will kill me. She'll kill Antonia. The only good part of this is that Anne Marie's play is among the missing.

“Which rental company did you use?” Brendan asks Antonia. All we hear is snoring.

We ask Charlene. “No idea,” she says, rising. “I'm leaving.”

“But you have to help us find the plays. You're her agent.”

She laughs. “Whoop-dee-doo. She hasn't written anything publishable in years. Who do you think wrote
Enraptured Thorns in My Heart?
”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I wrote the book as a favor to Aunt Edna. It's not hard to copy Antonia's style, except I improved upon it. Don't you agree?”

“I loved it. It's Antonia's best.… I mean, uh…” She smiles. I sit on the bed because my mind feels fuzzy. The fact that Antonia didn't write my favorite book does not want to settle in my brain.

“I owe Aunt Edna a lot. She raised me when my mother and father died. Poor Auntie, she's under the delusion that her daughter is going through a temporary writer's block. Only I don't think it's temporary. It's high time I moved on to write under my own name.”

“Well, sure,” I say, but I'm thinking about Antonia and how she told that interviewer at the bookstore that she's an orphan. “Who's Aunt Edna?” I ask.

“Antonia's mother.”

I look over at Antonia. “But—”

“Is she still telling people she's an orphan? It drives poor Aunt Edna nuts.” Charlene walks over to me and pats my shoulder. “Take my advice and find yourself another judge.”

She walks into the other room. I follow this woman who wrote my favorite book. She picks up a bag and leaves, slamming the door behind her.

I stare at the door. Antonia didn't write
Enraptured Thorns in My Heart!
I can't believe this. And she doesn't seem to care at all about Mom's plays.
She's supposed to care deeply about things.

“It's getting late,” says Brendan. “We'd better go.”

“I have to find those plays!” I'm almost screaming.

He shakes his head. “We'll look tomorrow. Right now, we need to go home.”

I look at my watch. It's 10:40. How did it get this late? I run back into the bedroom. “I'll call you first thing tomorrow,” I say, even though I know she can't hear me. I want to shake her—not just awake, but into the Antonia she's supposed to be.

“Come on!” yells Brendan. I throw my play in my backpack. We run down the stairs to our bikes.

Brendan rides with me to my house. He follows as I walk the bike along the side of the house and put it in the garage. “See you tomorrow,” he says. Just then the backdoor light comes on.

“Where have you been?” screams my mother.

SEVENTEEN

“How could you sneak out of the house without telling me?” Mom is simultaneously scolding me and telling the police that I've been found.

I look down at the floor. “We just felt like going out for a ride,” says Brendan.

“Until 11:00 at night?” she asks.

I look at Brendan.

“It's good exercise,” he says.

“You're always saying that I should go riding with Brendan,” I chime in.

“During the day is what I meant,” says Mom. She pulls at her hair. “Where were you?” I hold my breath. If she is this mad because I stayed out late, I don't want to be around for the explosion when she finds out the plays are missing.

“We were just riding around,” says Brendan.

“You weren't visiting that DeMarco woman, were you?” says my mother, her eyes narrowing.

“Who's she?” asks Brendan.

“It has nothing to do with her,” I say.

“I'm going to have a word with her, just to make sure.”

My heart sinks. What if I can't find the plays before she talks with Antonia? Why is this happening? I trusted Antonia.

“You can't leave without letting me know where you are going. You scared me. You could have gotten hurt.”

“But we didn't, Mrs. Simmons.”

“That's not the point. Parents make rules for a reason. I'm very surprised by your behavior tonight. I thought I could trust you to act sensibly. You're grounded for two weeks.”

“But—”

“Not another word or I'll make it longer. I'm going to have to tell your father about this.”

Mom picks up her cell and dials. “Beth, they're here. Come and get Brendan.”

“I don't need her to come and get me,” says Brendan.

“Well, I do.” She dials another number.

“Who are you calling now?” I ask.

“Antonia DeMarco. I have a feeling all this has something to do with her.”

I cross my fingers, hoping Antonia won't pick up.

“Hmmm, no answer,” says Mom. She hangs up and I sigh with relief. “I'll visit her tomorrow.” Mom turns to me. “If I find out that woman has had anything to do with the two of you going out tonight, I'll have her arrested, and I mean that.”

I get up, not knowing what else to do.

“You'll leave your bike in our garage, Brendan,” says Mom. “You can pick it up tomorrow.”

“I only live three blocks away,” says Brendan.

“Tomorrow,” she repeats.

I walk Brendan into the foyer. “Thanks for not saying anything,” I whisper. “I don't want Mom to know that she's right about Antonia.”

“I hear ya, but you'd better call that wacko and make her find those plays,” he whispers.

Outside, a car pulls up.

“Good night,” Brendan says to me. “Good night, Mrs. Simmons.” My mother doesn't say a word as Brendan disappears into the night.

I turn back to face my mother.

“I thought better of Brendan. I really did,” she mumbles.

I smooth out some of the newly formed spikes in her hair, sorry to have caused them. She punches numbers into the phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Your father. He should be up by now.”

I slip out and walk upstairs. I can't bear to be scolded twice in one night. I close the door and plop into my window seat. I put my head between my knees. Where are the plays? What will happen if I don't find them?

*   *   *

In the morning,
Mom greets Georgina with last night's story. “She's not to leave the house under any circumstances,” says my mother. “She's grounded for two weeks.” Georgina promises to call Mom if I give her any trouble. Great. Now Georgina is my babysitter.

“What time are you planning to visit Antonia?” I ask.

“This afternoon,” she says.

Mom leaves for work, but not before reminding me, once again—just in case I forgot—that I'm grounded.

As soon as Mom leaves, Georgina says, “It looks like you're in big trouble.”

I'm so angry. “Go ahead, enjoy my misery,” I tell her. “At least I'm not a phony like you. If my mother knew how you roll up her expensive carpet and dance around her priceless antiques, she'd ground you, too!” I storm into the kitchen.

I dial Antonia's number. I let it ring thirty times, but she doesn't pick up. I pace around the kitchen. I have to find Antonia. I have to find the plays, but how can I do that if I'm grounded?

Georgina breezes into the kitchen. “Go away,” I say.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?”

“No.” I go upstairs, plop down into my window seat, and stare. Georgina knocks at the door. “Are you checking up on me?”

“No. I want to speak to you.”

“I already told you, I don't want to talk.”

Georgina walks in anyway and sits down beside me and I breathe in her gentle rose scent. “I can see why you like sitting here. It's a good place for dreaming. I used to have a special place when I was little. I liked to climb to the roof of our house. It made me feel like I was queen of the world.”

I fold my arms.

“I'm sorry that you're grounded.”

I shrug.

“So, you've seen me dancing?”

“You haven't come up here to be nice. You want to make sure I don't tell my mother.”