Project 17 (5 page)

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talented, and most powerful actress of the twentieth century. It's true--and sad, if you ask me--that most people my age don't even know who she is. But that doesn't stop me from trying to clone myself into her.)

"Well, I
vont
YOU," Tony says, Greta-Garboing back, trying to make his voice all raspy and deep. He snuggles into my neck, tugs slightly at my curly (Garboesque) brown tresses, and then wraps his arms around my slightly larger-than-size-ten middle. "Nobody's as sexy as you," he whispers.

I'll have to admit, it does help to lift some of my stupid insecurities. After all, I'm the talented one, right? I'm the one who's been acting since she was a toddler, who got a part in a toilet paper commercial when she was only twenty-four months, who studied with Claude LeBoeuf in Woodstalk this past summer. Plus, let's face it, not all A-list actresses are supermodel gorgeous, right?
Right?

Yeah, Greta, right.

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DERIK

WE'RE GETTING TOGETHER
tonight to plan things out. I told my parents that I'm meeting some people from school for a class project, so they really can't give me any crap-- especially since I arranged to meet the crew here, at the diner, where I'd be taking my dinner break anyway.

At about five past seven everybody starts showing up--first Greta and Tony, these two drama rats from school, and then Mimi. At about 7:20, I really start to sweat it, checking myself in the door's glass reflection, making sure my pants aren't too baggy, that my shirt hangs just right, that my hair doesn't stick up too much.

Because I'm still expecting one more person.

Liza Miller.

The most incredible girl in school.

I first noticed her during our freshman year--standing on the curb, waiting for the bus, this long and twisty reddish-blond hair hanging down past her shoulders,

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reminding me of ribbon candy. I think she caught me gawking at her because she paused from her book to look up--right at me, standing barely five feet away.

I tried to smile, to think up something cool to say, but then I noticed the title of the book she was reading-- something written in German or Dutch or I don't know what. But it was way over my head. And so I just stood there, sort of dumbstruck--literally--watching her watch me.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked, wiping her cheek like she had food on her face.

I shook my head, noticing how her sweater matched the color of her eyes--an electric shade of green. I tried to think up something smart to say about it, but then she moved away, back toward the bus circle, probably skeeved out.

But that wasn't the end of it.

The very next day I got the lowdown on her--how she's a complete and total brainiac, only interested in books; how she doesn't give anyone, save the ball-busting teachers, the time of day; and how she doesn't date. Period.

Normally I accept a challenge when I heat of one. But every time I got close to the girl--to try and talk to her-- I totally froze up. I mean, what do you say to a girl who's got her face in a book every time you see her? Who sneaks her lunch into the library, instead of eating in the cafeteria, so she can squeeze in some extra study time? The girl who sits in the front row of every class she's ever been in,

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who raises her hand to answer every question, and who asks the teacher for extra work just so she can get ahead?

Crazy. But what's even
more
crazy is that
she
contacted
me
about this project. She came running up to me this morning at school, asking me if she could be in my film-- no questions asked.

"Are you serious?" I asked, all but jumping up and down. "That would be amazing."

"Really?" Her brow crinkled up like it came as some big surprise that I'd let her on board.

"Amazing,"
I repeated, feeling like a complete and total cheese-ass as soon as the word came out. But honestly, what else
could
I say? I mean, the girl is complete eye candy--like RTV won't eat that up. I wouldn't mind eatin' it up either.

I signal to Mom that my group is here and then whip off my apron to join them in the corner booth.

"Are we it?" Tony asks, pulling out his day planner. "Just the four of us?"

I shake my head just as Liza comes in. And honestly, she couldn't look any cuter--tight black turtleneck, short wool skirt, tiny black glasses, and hair tied up in a messy ponytail, like a hot little schoolgirl.

Liza scoots in beside Mimi, and I do my best to focus, starting with the introductions. I thank them for coming, tell them how great this is going to be, and then we get right down to business. We talk about all the practical stuff first--where to meet, what to bring, and what to say

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to our parents since we're gonna be out all night.

"All night?" Greta squawks. "Why can't we just leave when you're done filming?"

"It won't take all night," Tony says to assure her. "A small-budget production like this shouldn't take us more than a few hours."

"No way," I say. "We're spending the night--end of story."

After all, there's a big difference between only having to stick it out for a couple hours, and knowing that you're stuck there all night--until the next morning.

"Why can't we just
pretend
to stay there all night?" Greta pushes. "We can totally make it look legit with some sleeping bags and backpacks."

"I want to do this right," I say. "If we play around, it's gonna look like we're
playing around.
I want this to be real."

"You're obviously not familiar with my acting abilities," Greta says with an eye roll. "I make things look real."

"Realer
than real, babycakes." Tony winks at her.

"Wear dark clothes," I say, ignoring their crap. "And bring water and convenient stuff to eat--stuff you don't have to cook." I look at Liza, who's actually taking notes, writing down my every word like this is history class or something.

"Anything else?" she asks, peering up at me when she's finished writing.

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I want to tell her yes--that I can't help but wonder if she remembers me from that day, freshman year, near the bus circle, when I couldn't stop gawking at her.

"We should carpool," Mimi says, snapping me back to the moment. "The place where we're going to park is pretty dead at night. It would suck if a cop drove by and saw a row of cars. It would definitely give us away."

"Is it true the place is haunted?" Greta asks, fidgeting with the salt and pepper shakers.

"Don't worry, babealicious, I'll be there to protect you." Tony--no bigger than my pinkie--wraps his match-stick arm around Greta, like the guy would even stand a chance saving himself from a baby kitten.

"What do you mean by
haunted!"
Liza cuts in.

"Are you serious?" Mimi laughs. "You haven't heard about all the weird stuff that's happened there? People say that it doesn't even matter what the temperature is outside--I mean, it could be a blazing-hot summer day but it's always super cold in there. They say you can hear the patients whispering through the drafts, telling you all about their suffering."

Liza's eyes get mother-big, making me want to put a muzzle on Mimi, since all I need right now is for someone to back out, let alone
Liza.

"It's not illegal to go up there, is it?" Liza asks.

Mimi's stud-pierced lip drops open. "What, do you live under a rock?"

Luckily, my mother interrupts the moment. She

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smacks a plateful of day-old lemon doughnuts onto the table. "You kids working hard?"

I nod and flash her a smile, thankful that she doesn't hang around.

A few moments later, the doorbells jangle as Chet pushes his way in. "Hey, scumbag," I say. "What are
you
doing here?" He's all wrapped up in some towel-like thing, like a straitjacket, so his arms and hands don't move. "What the hell are you doing?" I ask him.

"Dressing for the occasion," he jokes.

"Are you serious? You changed your mind?"

Chet was one of the first people I asked. Not because he's a good buddy of mine or anything. The guy's more annoying than anything else. He's a clown--he even looks a little like one, with his pasty white face and curly orange hair. But he
tries
to be funny, and, all considered, I thought the movie might need some of that.

"Yeah, I'm going," he says. "This mummy stuff is pretty hot."

"Who clocked you?" I ask, noticing his shiner--a dark patch right below his left eye.

"Nobody," he says. "I just thought it went with the outfit."

"You're the man," I say, standing up. Not thinking, I go to give him a high five, but instead, end up fiveing his elbow.

I pull a chair over for him, and we get back down to business, talking about our plans for another good half

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hour. "So tomorrow night," I say as things are breaking up.

I take one last look at my group--at Greta and Tony, now feeding each other fingerfuls of lemon filling from the doughnuts; at Liza, still taking notes; at Mimi in all her layers of blackness; and then at Chet in his straitjacket.

"This is gonna be one bitchin' movie," I say, more excited than I ever thought possible.

50

DERIK

AFTER THE MEETING
at the diner, I head over to my uncle's apartment for one last video lesson. Except it turns out to be more like a final exam. Uncle Peter actually made up a test, including a written section, a visual part where I have to watch various movie clips and describe the shots they used and why, and a hands-on part where I have to go outside and shoot in his backyard. The guy's a whack, but I score an A--the only A I ever got... aside from gym, that is.

"You're really taking this thing seriously, aren't you?" he says, plunking down across from me at the kitchen table.

"I really wanna win."

"Have you told your parents yet?"

I shake my head and look away.

"I take it that's a no?"

"If I don't win, there's no need to tell 'em."

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"Why not? It's
your
life. Contest or not, you've got some real talent with this. If you want to go for it, go for it; but don't let some contest dictate your life. You need to do what you want."

"Tell
them
that."

"You
tell 'em."

I shrug again, knowing that I can't, that my parents are counting on me to continue the business; that even if I
do
win, I don't know what the hell I'm gonna do--how the hell I'm gonna break it to them.

"You know you're gonna need some kickin' equipment, don't you?" he says.

"Thanks, Uncle Pete," I say, hoping he's gonna loan me one of the digital cameras he reserves only for his senior class students.

He gets up and heads for his studio, coming back just a few seconds later and placing his Sony DV camcorder in my lap--the same one that cost him more than $3,000, the one he uses for wedding gigs. "Be gentle with her," he says. "She's an easy lover, but she's delicate just the same."

"Are you kidding me? I can't take
this."

"You gotta take it. That girl gives the best film of any babe I've ever had. She's also got night vision--don't need to worry about working her in the dark. This babe's got it all."

"Are you kidding me?" I repeat.

"Take it," Uncle Peter says. "And take my dolly, a couple shotgun mics, and a bunch of DV tapes, too. The dolly

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will help keep you steady as you're shooting down those long corridors. Nothing worse for a filmmaker than a shaky hand."

"Wow, I don't know what to say. Thanks, man."

My uncle smiles, proud of me, I think. "Come by over the weekend, after the shoot," he says. "I can teach you a thing or two about editing your footage. I've got a new program that works the nuts."

"Thanks," I repeat, excited by his enthusiasm, by how good it feels to have somebody be proud of me for once.

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CHET

TWO NIGHTS AGO
my dad got so hammered that he ended up backhanding me across the face. He doesn't normally do that. Normally when he drinks, I just keep my bedroom door closed and locked. Normally I try to keep out of his way. But two nights ago I didn't.

My dad got pissed that my music was too loud, that I ate the last banana, drank the last Pepsi, didn't thank him for serving in Desert Storm. And so he smacked me--
hard
--making my eye socket feel like it was going to explode.

The guy just refuses to put the bottle down.

We haven't talked since it happened, so I'm not even sure if he remembers that he did it. But I wonder if he notices the shiner he left me with--if he asks himself where it came from. If he's even looked at me to check it out.

Suffice it to say, the idea of getting away for one night