A Midsummer Night's Scream (4 page)

I turned back toward the house—and saw Jake with Annalee. She had a towel tied around her waist and was wringing out her wet hair. The two of them laughed about something. Then Annalee gave Jake a hug. She smoothed her wet hand down his cheek. He grinned back at her.

She was totally coming on to him.

And he was loving it.

I turned away and spotted Ross standing by himself by the pool house wall.

You ever just have an impulse? Maybe you’re hurt or confused or angry and you have a sudden impulse to do something crazy?

“Hey, there you are,” I said. I slid Ross’s glass from his hand and took a long drink. I handed it back to him. Then I pushed him up against the wall, wrapped my hands around his neck, locked my lips on his, and started to kiss him.

Just an impulse. Really.

I turned and looked to see if Jake was watching. But he and Annalee had disappeared. So I pressed my mouth to Ross’s and kissed him again.

I mean, why should the night be a
total
loss?

6

I SEE GHOSTS

“THERE ARE GHOSTS HERE,” I said. “Can’t you just feel them all around?”

And I knew as soon as I said it that Delia would roll her dark eyes and give me that look like,
Come on, Claire
.
Grow up.

Delia gazed all around, pretending to be worried. “Ghosts? Should I be scared?”

We were wandering through the studio, searching for the wardrobe department, but lost as usual. Which made Delia laugh since my parents
run
the place. But that doesn’t mean I have a map in my head. Sometimes I need a GPS to find the bathroom in the morning. I mean, we don’t all have a brilliant sense of direction, do we?

We were both wearing the new Ray-Bans my dad was passing out to everyone on the set. Some kind of product placement thing. But the midday sun was so bright, I felt kind of dazed, and I kept bumping shoulders with Delia as we made our way through the crowded studio street.

Could I be any more excited about having an actual speaking part in
Mayhem Manor
? I don’t think so. Like I said, this was my dream.

History lesson: I’ve had the acting bug since I was nine or ten. I’ve taken acting lessons and dance lessons and speech lessons, and I’ve been in every play production at school.

You’d think I’d get a little support from Mom and Dad since they’re in the business. But they had a million reasons why I shouldn’t be an actor. Maybe they were good reasons. I didn’t care and I didn’t listen.

I’ve begged and begged for a chance to audition. It took all these years, but I finally wore them down. They let me try out for
Mayhem Manor,
and I got the role of Darlene. Now I guess I have something to prove to them. Sure, it’s only a low-budget horror film, but I’m going to rock the part.

Delia has the actress bug, too. Only a little different. She’s had a bunch of modeling jobs. But she says her ambition is to be a tabloid star. I think that was a joke. She has a twisted sense of humor.

It’s kind of a strange friendship. I think a lot of it is based on Delia rolling her eyes and laughing at me. She is very sarcastic, and I guess I’m the bubbly type. Or maybe it’s that I get enthusiastic and she likes to stand aside and make comments.

We’re more different than alike. I always say I’m Urban Outfitters and she’s Juicy Couture. I don’t even like to shop. If you want to know, Old Navy is fine for me.

I’m not exactly what you’d call drab or cute-challenged—but as I said, Delia is a total knockout. You can ask anyone to name the hottest girl at Beverly Hills Academy, and they’d have to be a total freak not to pick Delia.

She has short, perfect black hair with violet streaks on her bangs, huge black eyes, and beautiful red heart-shaped lips. And when the two of us go walking on Rodeo Drive, the tourists all stare at her and try to figure out which movie star she is.

Seriously. Last week a woman parked her Bentley in front of Armani and came hustling up to Delia. She stuck a piece of paper in front of her and asked for her autograph. And when Delia said, “I’m just a high school student,” the woman laughed and pushed the paper in her face until she signed.

Delia and I passed the low, white stucco building with the green double doors. The commissary. A roar of voices poured out the open windows along with the smell of burgers and eggs on the fry grill.

“Why do you say there are ghosts here? I don’t see any ghosts,” Delia said, looking at me over the rims of her Ray-Bans. “I see the dog from that comedy they’re shooting. Remember? We wandered onto the set by mistake?”

Ace, the black-and-white mutt, stood beside the commissary steps. Of course, he had a crowd around him. The dog gets crowds wherever he goes, and you can tell he loves it. He must be the most spoiled dog in Hollywood, which is saying a
lot,
right?

Four men wearing long red monk robes with hoods, all talking at once, pushed past us as if they didn’t see us and hurried into the commissary.

“I didn’t mean
ghost
ghosts,” I told Delia. “I meant the ghosts of all the stars who made films here. You know. Back in the day.”

The studio was huge in the ’30s and ’40s. But it was pretty much abandoned, like a ghost town, after those three teenage actors were killed in 1960. My parents and Jake’s parents took it over a few years after I was born. They named it WoodCast Studios. Get it? Combining our names—Woodlawn and Castellano.

“Can’t you feel them?” I said. “All those beautiful people who worked here? I have such a magical feeling. How can you walk around a movie studio and not believe in magic?”

I knew I was risking another roll of her eyes, but I didn’t care. “I mean, come on, Dee. Aren’t we lucky working in a movie studio? The whole point of this place is to make magic happen.”

“I thought the point was to find the costume department,” Delia said.

“Hah.” I gave her a shove and nearly knocked her off her stiletto heels.

I suddenly remembered when we bought those red shoes for her. One of our Saturday-afternoon shopping extravaganzas. We’d started out at some small boutiques in Westwood. But as usual when Delia was in a shopping mood (which is when she’s awake), we ended up closer to home. First Jill Roberts on Beverly, then over to Barneys. And then, sure enough, there were these perfect shoes in Jimmy Choo’s window. Delia spends a gazillion dollars on clothes, I think mainly because her mom is so thrifty and cheap.

“Magic everywhere, huh? I guess you’re a lot more sensitive than me, Claire.”

“You’re just more cynical. I don’t think it’s babyish or crazy to be into magic.”

We stopped to let a long shiny pink Cadillac convertible with enormous sharklike fins roll past. The dark-haired, suntanned driver flashed us a thumbs-up and a white, toothy grin as he passed.

“He’s only a seven,” Delia said. “Too slick.”

Yes, we rate everyone we see. That’s not so terrible, is it?

“When I was five, I had a birthday party at home,” I said. “You weren’t there, were you?”

She shook her head. The sunlight made her black hair gleam. “My parents didn’t move to Beverly Hills till I was seven, remember?”

We turned the corner. Several white-shingled cottages lined the street. They were exec offices. I thought I saw the yellow-and-green costume building at the far end.

“We had this clown at the party,” I continued. “I remember his huge red bow tie, and he had long floppy red shoes, like snorkeling flippers. And he did all these cool tricks with rings and coins and scarves. I mean, they were cool for five-year-olds. We’d probably think they were totally lame now.”

“Probably,” Delia murmured. She snickered. “Did he do balloon animals? I’m a freak for balloon animals.”

“My whole kindergarten class was there,” I said, ignoring her. “They loved the clown. He was a huge hit. And when he left, my parents called me to the door to say good-bye to him. I ran up to him and he leaned down. I remember his floppy bow tie hit me in the face. And he whispered something to me. He whispered,
Don’t forget the magic.
”

Delia stopped walking. She pulled off her shades and squinted hard at me. “Why are you telling me this story? Am I supposed to feel warm and fuzzy or something?”

“It’s just that I never forgot it,” I said. “I was five, right? But all these years, I never forgot what he whispered in my ear.
Don’t forget the magic.
”

Delia startled me by wrapping me in a hug. She let go quickly, grinning, and stepped back. “Claire, did you tell your shrink this story?”

“No,” I said. “I—”

“Good. Because that would bore
him
to death, too!”

We both laughed. That’s one reason I put up with a lot of crap from Delia. She makes me laugh.

My phone made a doorbell sound. I pulled it out and tilted the screen out of the sun. “A text from Shawn.”

Delia made a gurgling sound.

I read the text:
“Want to hang out later?”

“Huh? Shawn is texting
you
?”

I tucked the phone back into my bag. “Yeah. I didn’t want to tell you. He keeps texting. I told him I’m not interested. Really, Dee. But he’s such a jerk. He doesn’t quit.”

Delia uttered a cry. “He’s texting
you
—not me? I practically
jumped
him last night at Ross’s party. Seriously. I don’t get it. The more I come on to him, the more he comes on to
you
.”

I pulled her into the shade of one of the cottages. “Dee, I’ve been waiting for you to spill. You know. About last night. The party. What happened with you and Shawn?”

She let out a groan. “Nothing happened.”

“Nothing? That’s why you didn’t talk all the way home in the car?”

She shook her head. “It was … weird. I wasn’t exactly like subtle. I mean, after we both had a few beers, I sat on his lap. Do you believe it? I
sat in his lap
in my bikini and put my hands around his neck.”

I squinted at her. “And?”

“Well … we fooled around for a little while. And then he like lifted me off and stood up and said he had to go home and wax his board.”

“Huh? What does that
mean
? Wax his board? Is that some kind of sex thing?”

“Shut up, stupid. He
really
wanted to go home and wax his surfboard. He got a new board yesterday. A triple wingfish with a double concave bottom. He told me all about it. It has a rocker that’s a lot like a shortboard.”

My mouth was hanging open. “You shut up. You were sitting on his lap and he told you all this about his surfboard?”

She nodded.

“So what did
you
say?” I asked.

Delia shrugged. “What could I say? I said, ‘Gnarly, dude.’ Then I went to find you to see how you were doing with Jake.”

“We both struck out big-time.” I sighed. “Everything is screwed up. You sit in Shawn’s lap, and he keeps texting
me
. I try to tell Jake how I feel about him, and he only wants to ask me about
you
. What are we doing wrong?”

“Living,” she replied.

That was more bitter than usual.

I studied her. She could have any guy at Beverly Hills Academy. Why was she so nuts over Shawn, a big hulk who only cared about waxing his board?

Delia sighed. We both sighed. It was a sighing festival.

I tried to think of something to take her mind off Shawn. But she was staring back to the end of the row of cottages.

I squeezed her arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Speaking of ghosts,” she whispered. “Look over there.”

7

THE URGE TO KILL

I SAW LANA DELUREAN WALKING toward us in a red miniskirt and powder-blue camisole top. Her blond hair caught the sunlight. When she walked, her whole body wiggled, as if her bones somehow weren’t connected.

Lana is one of the stars of
Mayhem Manor,
and she’s beautiful in a pale, anorexic, arms-like-broom-handles kind of way. She’s got to be at least thirty, but she still plays teen roles. She has a sexy, whispery voice, which she must practice at home, big blue eyes that are probably helped by contacts, and the cheekbones of a runway model.

As she approached, I noticed how tiny she was, much smaller than she appears on screen.
She’s a mini-person,
I thought,
with a maxi-ego
.

Maybe I wasn’t being fair.

Lana has had some rough times. I Googled her right after we met for rehearsal. She was a child star. Made a ton of movies before she was twelve. Then she had a hit Disney Channel sitcom called
That’s My Girlfriend
for two years.

Little girls loved her. They bought her DVDs and grabbed up the skirts and tops in her clothing line so they could look like her. Even Lana Cologne for Kids became
humongous
. Lots of schools had to ban it because the classrooms totally reeked of it.

Then at fourteen she had some kind of meltdown and disappeared.

I checked IMDb and Wikipedia as well as Google, but no one had the details. She disappeared from TV and movies and department stores, and of course, kids forgot about her practically overnight.

Now, here was Lana deLurean starring in a low-budget horror film for my parents. I guess it was her comeback project, but she sure didn’t seem happy about it. Lana still acted like she was on the cover of
People
and
Us
every week, like she was the Tween Queen of Hollywood or Burbank or whatever.

“Who’s that guy with her?” I whispered to Delia.

A tanned young man, bald as a lightbulb, wearing all white—white suit, white shirt, white shoes—trailed closely behind Lana.

“Haven’t you seen him before?” Delia whispered back. “That’s Pablo. Her psychic. She brings him everywhere.”

I didn’t have time to reply. Lana stepped up, peering at us through her red heart-shaped shades. “How’s it going?” she breathed.

What was that powerful lemony scent? Could she possibly be wearing Lana Cologne for Kids?

“Good,” Delia and I said in unison.