Vanishing Acts (6 page)

“Says who?”

“The mayor's office.” Jones smiled smugly, as if daring her to disagree.

Jenna pulled out her cell phone. “I'll call right now to verify that.”

Jones held up his hands and trembled in an exaggerated way. “Oooh, she's got a cell phone. How frightening!” he replied sarcastically.

Meanwhile, Jenna punched in the numbers with such force I feared she'd break her phone.

“She's pretty upset,” I whispered.

Sonya huffed. “Some people don't appreciate how lucky they are.”

Jones stalked off. Jenna went back into her house, which was directly behind the trailer my friends had pointed out earlier.

Soon a woman dressed in black jeans and a red T-shirt approached. She had a giant megaphone and used it even though we stood all of two feet away.

“Will the new inflatable crowd please follow me?” she bellowed.

I raised my eyebrows at my friends.

Sonya shrugged. “At least she said ‘please.'”

“Hold it! Stop right there!” the megaphone woman yelled, pointing to our group. “You look like minors.”

“We are,” Beatrix piped up. “But we have release forms.” She collected all of ours and handed over the small stack.

The woman rifled through them, then had everyone walk to the corner of Prospect Park West.

As soon as we got there, Beatrix grabbed my arm and whispered, “Omigosh, that's Brandon Wilson!”
She pointed to a short guy stepping out of the trailer opposite Seth Ryan's.

“Who?” I asked.

“He was in Seth's last two movies. Remember?”

I squinted at the guy. His hair wasn't straight or curly, just puffy. And the color wasn't exactly red or brown, but somewhere in between. He seemed pretty pale, at least from far away. I tried to picture him in a vampire costume. Then dressed as a dog. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “How cool!”

“Think we should ask for his autograph?” asked Lucy.

“No way,” said my brother.

We watched Brandon talk to Jones and then head back into his trailer.

Then we saw Jones check with Zander on the progress of the snowmen.

Next we watched someone come around and adjust a bunch of lights. I figured they'd need us to do something sometime soon, but everyone ignored us for the next thirty minutes.

“Being an extra involves a lot of standing around,” I said to Lucy as someone finally came over and asked us to cross the street. Then we had to stand around there while a group of props people, led by Zander, built new and better snowmen.

Finally, twenty minutes later, Jones barked at us through a megaphone. “Extras—please walk to the end of the block and mill around inconspicuously.”

“I don't do a lot of milling,” I whispered. “I think I'm going to be conspicuous.”

“Shh!” said Beatrix.

We all shuffled over. It's hard to walk in a big crowd, and harder to act natural when you know there are cameras rolling. “Okay, got it. Now go back to where you started and do it again,” Jones said. “This time with more feeling.”

After doing this same thing six more times, I started worrying about my dogs. They had to be dying to go out. Maybe volunteering to be an extra had been a giant mistake.

I had a lot of homework tonight, too. Not to mention a history test tomorrow, and twenty pages still to read about the Trail of Tears. I didn't know if we'd been standing around for a long time or if it just seemed like that because I was so bored.

I checked my watch. Yup—it had been a long time.

Suddenly, Jones yelled into his megaphone again.

“You! In the green hoodie!” I looked down at my sweatshirt. It was green. I looked around. No one else in the crowd wore a green hoodie. He'd singled me out. But why? I had this feeling like I'd just failed a big test,
and the most important information on it was
don't talk
.

But now it was too late. Jones Reynaldo stopped right in front of me.

“Will you stop checking your watch? You're ruining this entire scene. Now we have to shoot all over again.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “It's just—is this going to take much longer?”

“Yes!” he said. “Now get back to your place and stop looking so bored.”

I moved back to where I'd been standing, but I could only follow half of his instructions because I'm just not that good of an actor. “Well, um, how much longer?” I asked. I didn't mean to be rude, but I had to know. There were dogs depending on me!

Jones turned around and glared at me. His entire face turned red as he lowered his megaphone and approached. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Maggie Brooklyn Sinclair. It's nice to meet you.” I held out my hand. He stared at it like I'd offered him up a rotten fish.

“You think I care?” he huffed.

“Well, you did ask.” I put my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. I didn't like this guy.

Now that he stood so close, I saw he had a few pieces
of straw stuck in his hair. Anyone else, I would've told them about it. But Jones? I was afraid to say anything. The guy was seriously angry, and I was seriously intimidated.

“All I meant was, who are you to be interrupting my shoot?”

“Oh,” I said. “I guess I'm an extra. But when I signed up I didn't think it would take this long. I only have so much extra time. Ha ha . . . And I'm sort of, well, out of it.”

“What are you saying?” he asked.

“That I have to go.”

“What?”

I wondered if he was hard of hearing. Maybe I should ask to borrow his megaphone?

“I have to—” I started to repeat myself, speaking louder this time, but he interrupted.

“You can't leave. I'm not finished with my scene. And no one walks off a Jones Reynaldo set.”

“But I really have to go.”

“Then I'm throwing you off! Quit wasting my time! Get out of here!”

“I'm so sorry,” I said, with all sincerity. Yes, this guy was rude; yes, he was a bully, but I didn't want to mess up his movie. I tried to explain. “If I'd known how long this would take when we started, I never would've—”

“Why are you still talking?” he screamed, grabbing his hair. “I said leave. I never want to see you again. Just vanish.”

I giggled. I just couldn't help it.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

“You said ‘vanish,' “ I said. “And your movie is called
Vanished
—right?”

“Right,” he said slowly, not quite believing.

“So it's funny, is all.”

Jones stared at me like he wanted to strangle me.

Then he threw his clipboard on the ground and stomped on it, reminding me of the last time Beckett's moms told him he couldn't have any more cookies.

Throwing a tantrum over a cookie I could relate to. Especially since one of his moms is such an awesome baker—a pastry chef at one of my and Finn's favorite restaurants. (One that, incidentally, does not serve brunch.)

But this? I didn't know what else to say.

Jones screamed, “You'll never work in this town again!”

This made no sense whatsoever, but it kind of freaked me out. And sometimes when I'm nervous or confused I can't help but laugh.

Unfortunately, this seemed to be one of those times.

I felt the laughter bubble deep in my stomach. It
traveled up into my throat; I couldn't help it. And then it came out.

Yup. I laughed. In Jones Reynaldo's face. Seeing him so irate with all that straw in his hair? The contrast was too much; it just made me laugh harder.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

I tried to explain myself between fits of giggles, but it wasn't easy getting the words out. “Well, I'm actually going to work. You see, I'm a dog walker, and I—”

“I don't care!” he shouted, pulling at his hair with both hands. “Just get out of my face and don't come back. I never want to see you again!”

Well, the feeling was mutual, but I didn't say so. I turned to my friends and said good-bye. Lucy waved. Finn just shook his head—half embarrassed, half trying not to laugh himself.

Beatrix and Sonya backed away like they were afraid to be associated with me. Probably they were worried
they'd
get thrown off the set for just knowing me, and I didn't blame them. I knew how important this was to them, and I didn't want to stand in their way of seeing the amazing Seth Ryan.

If they got to see him, that is.

In truth, we'd been standing out in the fake snow and the real cold for over an hour, and all we'd seen was Jones Reynaldo. And that Brandon guy. And my
parents' friend Jenna. And a scared props guy named Zander, and the megaphone lady, and a bunch of other crew members.

As I headed down the street, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

In the window of the trailer—the one with all the security guards—someone waved.

His face seemed so familiar. One I'd seen on TV and in movies and in every magazine there is. He was Seth Ryan.

Except the strange part was, he seemed to be waving at me.

“Hey?” I half asked as I waved back, figuring this must be some big misunderstanding. Like, maybe he was merely Seth Ryan's look-alike.

Except when he smiled at me, I knew for sure, because Seth Ryan's smile is unforgettable.

So, that was weird enough, but he seemed to be motioning for me to come closer.

At least it looked that way. I glanced over my shoulder, figuring there must be someone behind me—Jones or another actor or someone else involved in the movie.

But no—this side of the street remained empty.

I turned back around. Not only was Seth still there, he'd also leaned out of his window. “Hey, can you come here for a second?” he asked.

“Sure.” I moved closer. “You do mean—”

Except I didn't get to finish my sentence. Because before I knew it, someone grabbed me by the arm and yanked me away.

Twenty minutes later, I fished my keys to Isabel's apartment out of my backpack. Through the closed door I heard someone yelling in French.

“
Excusez-moi, où est la salle de bains?
”

Then in English, the same voice asked, “Excuse me. Where is the bathroom?”

French again: “
La salle de bains est au bout du couloir à gauche.
”

And English: “The bathroom is down the hall and to the left.”

I wondered whom Isabel had over and why they were so loud.

Then once I stepped inside, I realized the voice came from a French language tape blasting at full volume. Isabel is moving to Paris in a few weeks. Not forever—just for six months. Which is good, because I'd miss her,
and I'd especially miss her dog, Preston, my favorite Irish wolfhound, and, coincidentally, the only Irish wolfhound I know.

Isabel is our landlady. We live three stories above her, and I've known her since forever. She used to be a big Broadway actress. Now she's simply big in every other sense: size, voice, hair, and general presence.

Today her apartment was even messier than usual. There were six old suitcases stacked precariously in the center of her living room, a mountain of clothes piled nearby. Not to mention three overflowing laundry baskets—two filled with laundry and one filled with porcelain cats.

“Isabel?” I called.

“
Est-il va pleuvoir?
” her tape blared. “Is it going to rain?”

People spend too much time talking about the weather, I think. I mean, it's just there, and we can't control it. So what is there to say? Learning how to talk about it in two languages is doubly boring.

“Hello?” I called again. Then I tried, “Ciao?” because maybe she was in a no-English kind of mood. And it did the trick.

When Isabel hurried out of her bedroom, she almost tripped over her long, puffy silver gown. She looked like a giant disco ball; a giant disco ball in purple,
fur-trimmed heels that matched her purple-streaked hair. “Maggie! It's been ages!”

She grabbed my shoulders and air-kissed me on both cheeks. Next to both cheeks, I mean.

“I saw you this morning on my way to school,” I reminded her.

“I know, but it
feels
as if it's been ages, and I'm practicing the double kiss. I guess I'm just missing you ahead of time. And speaking of time, I've got so much to do, and what time is it? I somehow dropped my watch in the dishwasher and now the face is flooded. Meanwhile, I'm supposed to meet my French tutor at Trois Pommes for macaroons and repartee in twenty minutes. That's French for a cookie and a conversation.”

“I figured,” I said.

“But I can't leave until I find my other pink flamingo.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

Isabel held up a gigantic pink flamingo lawn ornament. “My other pink flamingo.” She said it like it was obvious. “They don't sell these in Paris.”

“And this is relevant because . . .”