Vanishing Acts (5 page)

I pulled the release form out of my back pocket, unfolded it, and gave it to my dad.

I'd decided that my friends were right—this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and it was worth juggling homework and dog walking for. Somehow I'd make it work. If I was allowed to, that is. I figured I had a better shot of getting permission from my dad, since he works in film. Kind of. He doesn't do anything cool like make Seth Ryan movies—he just films documentaries: movies about stuff that's true, which are very different from reality television (according to him).

“Let me see that before you sign it,” said my mom, holding out her hand.

“Oh, I'm not planning on signing anything yet,” said my dad.

“You're not?” I asked.

Yes, this afternoon I wasn't sure if I had time to be an extra, but now that my parents might not let me—suddenly it was all I wanted to do.

“Not until we both take a good look at it.” My dad took his reading glasses out of his pocket and slipped them on. “This looks pretty standard,” he said after a few moments, handing it over to my mom. “I have no problem with it.”

“Will you promise this won't interfere with your schoolwork?” asked my mom, predictably.

“It won't,” I replied with a sigh.

“And what about your business?” she asked. “You did make a commitment. Lots of people depend on you.”

“And animals do, too. I know that. There's time for both. Anyway, how can I pass this up? How many times in my life will I get the chance to meet Seth Ryan?”

My father laughed. “I know this is exciting, and hopefully it'll be fun, too, but I don't think you're actually going to meet Seth Ryan. These superstars exist in a different reality. He's not going to be hanging around the extras tent.”

“I'll get to stay in a tent? How cool!”

“It's not actually a tent,” my dad said. “Just an expression.”

“Well, it's still cool,” I said. “Want me to do the dishes?”

My mom stared at me. “You really want this, huh?” she asked.

“Maybe,” I replied, standing up and grabbing her plate. “Or perhaps I'm just being
extra
helpful.”

Back in my room that night, I studied Milo's note. I was 90 percent sure he actually wanted to hang out, and there was only one way to find out for sure. I picked up the phone and started dialing his number. I made it about halfway through before freezing.

Suddenly the image of Jasper Michaelson flashed into my mind. Jasper was a perfectly nice girl who moved to New Jersey last summer. She was pretty, too: straight blond hair, heavy bangs, green eyes, invisible braces. Before she moved, she called here looking for Finn, and not just once—three times in the same night. Finn was out for the first call, so I ended up speaking to her.

When he got home, I gave him the message, and he grunted something that might've been “thanks,” but I wasn't listening that closely. Then he went into the kitchen and had some chips. When the phone rang
a little later, I answered it. “Hey, Jasper,” I'd said. And Finn began gesticulating wildly—eyes wide and arms waving.

“Are you choking?” I whispered to him.

“I'm not here,” he whispered back.

“But you are,” I said.

“Tell her I'm not!” he insisted.

“But she can probably hear you,” I replied.

Finn covered his ears with his hands and walked out of the room, forcing me to lie, something I can't stand doing.

“He's still not back,” I said. “But I'll have him call you when he is.”

Once I hung up, Finn raced back into the room, asking, “Why did you do that?”

“What do you mean? I did exactly what you asked me to do.”

“Not exactly. Why'd you tell her I'd call her back?”

“Because I'm a nice, normal person.”

Finn just shook his head and walked away. I don't know why Jasper called that day, and neither does Finn, because he never called her back. Not even after she called the third time later that night and I had to lie for him all over again. Finn and I never talked about it, and I certainly didn't ask him. I didn't have to. I could tell by the way Jasper smiled at me the next day at
school—sheepish and embarrassed. When I found out she moved away, my first thought was she probably left Brooklyn because she couldn't stand the humiliation.

I felt so bad for her at the time. But more powerful than that was the desire to never be like her.

That's why I didn't call Milo. He only just asked me. I could wait a day. Maybe two days. I didn't want to seem desperate. And anyway, what if I was totally wrong? Perhaps he didn't want me to call at all. We were investigating the dog-egging case together, so maybe I'd misunderstood. It's entirely possible that he'd been in the middle of taking notes about a dog named “Call me.”

Not only did my parents sign the release form for me later that night, they also signed a copy for Finn.

Yes, Finn, my brother.

The same brother who thinks Seth Ryan and all Seth Ryan fans are super dorky had volunteered to be an extra in the new Seth Ryan movie.

I asked him why, but “I have my reasons” is all he'd tell me; totally mysterious. I could not figure it out. Not until I found him waiting for me at Lucy's locker after school the next day.

“This is some elaborate plan to make fun of me and my friends, right?” I asked. “You're just hanging around so you can gather material. Make teasing us that much more authentic.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Finn.

“Just admit it.” I punched him in the arm for even thinking the thought.

“Ow!” said Finn, backing away from me. “Cut it out.”

“I think he really wants to be an extra,” said Lucy, sneaking up from behind. Her hair was freshly brushed, lips shiny with gloss. She'd changed into her favorite black pants and purple hoodie.

“Oh, you got dressed up for Seth Ryan?” I asked.

“Something like that,” Lucy replied. “Let's go.”

“What about Beatrix and Sonya?” asked Finn.

“Their plan was to sprint to Second Street as soon as the bell rang,” Lucy explained. “So they're probably already there.”

As we headed over, Finn asked Lucy, “How was your math test?”

“Good,” she replied. “I think. Although last time I thought I did well on a test I barely got a B minus, so who knows.”

“That was a killer, though,” said Finn. “I'll bet you did great today.”

“You're too sweet.” Lucy leaned into him and they bumped shoulders.

Forgetting her bizarre behavior, she was right about one thing: Finn was being totally “artificial sweetener”—the kind that makes my teeth ache. Clearly he wanted something. But before I could figure out what that might be, we turned the corner and I forgot all about my brother.

I was too shocked. I'd passed by Second Street a
gazillion times before, but at the moment, I didn't even recognize the place. The entire block had been transformed into a winter wonderland. I'm talking igloos and icicles, twinkling lights and snow people. Like we were in the middle of December—in Alaska. Obviously it was all fake, or at least manufactured. I could hear the hum of three snow machines working overtime.

But the block-long snowstorm wasn't the only thing odd about the scene. All the regular cars parked on the sides of the street were gone, replaced with two crisp rows of silver, futuristic-looking vehicles—something between an army jeep and a semitruck. Except they were propped up by crystal-clear glass so they seemed to float three feet off the ground.

“Does anyone know what this movie is about?” I asked.

“Yeah, I read up on it last night,” said Lucy. “It's about a futuristic, post-apocalyptic world where only a handful of teenagers and some grown-up zombies and an army of giant rats have survived, and there aren't enough resources for all three groups, so they're fighting it out, and—oops, my phone is vibrating.” Lucy pulled her phone out of her back pocket and read the screen. “Sonya just texted me. She and Beatrix should be right over there.” She pointed to a crowd of about twenty people across the street. Beatrix and Sonya saw us and waved.

When we joined them, Sonya said, “Took you long enough!”

I checked my watch. “We came here right when school got out. It's not even four o'clock.”

“We've gotta stick to the outside edge so we actually have a chance of being seen on camera,” Sonya said.

“And of seeing Seth.” Beatrix pointed to one of the trailers parked across the street. “I think that's his dressing room.”

“How can you tell which one is his?” I asked, since all six looked identical to me.

“I've seen other people come out of the other five. Plus, it's set back from the street and it's got the most security,” she said, and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don't look now, but that's the director.”

Of course when someone says “don't look now” I have to look, and it's a good thing I did, or I would've missed seeing Jones Reynaldo.

He was tall and skinny with faded black jeans and a matching faded black shirt—like his clothes had spent too much time in the wash. Come to think of it, with his dark, wildly curly hair and his pale skin, it looked like he'd spent too much time in the wash, too—on an extra spin cycle. He wore dark glasses to match the cloudy day.

Jones walked by us quickly and stopped in front of a props person (or at least some guy in a black T-shirt that read “Props” on the back).

“What's your name?” Jones barked.

The props guy was skinny and blond, already nervous looking. But once Jones approached, his shoulders seemed to shrink closer to his chest. “I'm Zander?” he asked, like he wasn't exactly sure.

“Zander who lost the inflatable crowd?” Jones asked.

“Yeah—about that. I'm so sorry. I feel terrible.”

“Sorry doesn't bring back a crowd of thirty,” barked Jones. “Do you know how hard it's going to be to corral real live extras? And are you the guy who built these snowmen?”

Zander looked behind him, as if hoping Jones were talking to someone else named Zander. “Uh, yeah,” he said finally.

“And what were your instructions?” asked Jones.

“To build four large snowmen,” said Zander.

“Yes—to build four
large
snowmen,” Jones repeated. “Then why, may I ask, are there four pathetically tiny snowmen on this set?”

The guy flinched. “Sorry. I'll fix it.”

Jones stalked off. Everything about him reminded me of a playground bully, all grown up.

“He's intense,” said Lucy.

“That's one way to put it,” I replied.

“I read that they wanted him to direct one of the Harry Potter movies, but he turned them down,” Sonya whispered.

“Why?” asked Lucy.

“He doesn't do franchises. That's what he told them, anyway,” said Sonya.

“Wow!” I replied. This seemed impressive, although I'm not sure why.

Just then, Jones seemed to notice our crowd for the first time. He began heading our way, until a tall blond woman in a short black dress stepped in front of him. “Reynaldo Jones. Is that you?” she asked.

Jones stopped short in his tracks, flinched with his whole body, and looked up at her. “It's Jones Reynaldo, as I think you know. Just like it was yesterday, Mrs. Weasel. And the day before.”

“And I'm Jenna Beasely. Just like I was yesterday, and the day before, and for my whole entire life,” said the woman.

So this was my parents' friend. I didn't remember having brunch with her, but she did look vaguely familiar.

“Beasely. Of course. I don't know why I always do that.” Jones smirked in a way that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

My friends and I exchanged glances. This was getting interesting.

“What time are you wrapping here?” she asked.

“Impossible to say, since we haven't started shooting.” Jones's voice sounded as chilly as the pretend weather. “And I'm sure I don't need to remind you that we have permits to shoot well into the night, and it's only four o'clock now.”

“Yes, I'm well aware of your permits,” said Jenna. “And of the fact that you violated the terms last night.”

“Well, you didn't have to call the police on us,” said Jones.

“Actually, I did. And if you go a minute past eight o'clock tonight I'll shut this movie down faster than you can say ‘Brooklyn.'”

“Brooklyn!” he shouted.

“Don't test me!” she warned.

“Just kidding. Sheesh. Where's your sense of humor?”

“I'm much funnier when I'm not kept up all night because of some ridiculous movie shoot,” she argued.

“It wasn't all night,” said Jones. “And we're allowed to work until eleven tonight. We just got an official extension.”