Call the Shots (36 page)

Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaaaaaaah! Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaaaaaaah!

I flip over to my other side. When you lie in bed too long without sleeping, your whole body starts to ache. I never knew that until now. That you could actually get sore just lying down. Also, you start hallucinating. There have been several nights where I swear I saw General Grievous’s face on the ceiling. Or Uncle Doug’s giant hairy beard crawling up the walls.

He apologized. My uncle. For bailing on us. He came by when the dust finally settled, said he was sorry for hanging us out to dry but that a pillowcase full of marijuana trumps a disturbing-the-peace charge every time.

Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaaaaaaah!

The one saving grace in all of this is that Leyna’s asked me over to her house to “examine her little muffin” once I’m not grounded anymore. Which is this Saturday. She actually seemed pretty upset that I wouldn’t be able to come over any sooner, which is both thrilling and terrifying. I feel like all this extra time has only heightened her expectations. Still, the thought of actually seeing her — seeing
that
— is the one thing that’s kept me going. The carrot I dangle in front of myself every day.

Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaa —

Oh, my God. It’s stopped. Cathy must have rolled over onto her side or something. Here’s my opportunity. If I can fall asleep before she starts up again, I might be able to coast through the rest of the night.

I shut my eyes tight. Sleep. Sleep. Must sleep.

I count Angry Birds being slingshot through the air. One red bird. Two blue birds. Three black birds. Four yellow birds. Five toucans. One red bird. Two blue birds. Three black birds . . .

Damn it! It’s not working. I lift my head and smack it back down into the pillow. Take a deep breath and try to nestle my body deeper into the bed.

The room is eerily quiet.
Too
quiet, maybe.

I strain to try and hear Cathy breathing at all. But there’s nothing.

A thought, both scary and slightly satisfying, occurs to me.

What if she suddenly died? Choking on her own flapping tonsils? Sure, I’d be upset. I mean, Cathy
is
my twin sister after all. But haven’t I — in my most desperate, panicky, sleep-deprived hours — silently prayed for this very thing?

It’s true. I’ve wished my sister dead. But I didn’t really mean it. Not
really
really. It’s just that extreme sleepiness can make you antsy and frustrated and desperate — did I mention desperate? — and —

Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaaaaaaah! Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaaaaaaah!

Well, there you go. Apparently she’s still alive. That’s a . . . relief.

I sigh loudly and try to adjust to the rhythm of her snores. But it’s no use. My mind is too wide-awake. I can’t shut it off. It just wants to keep thinking and thinking and thinking.

About Evelyn, of all things. And how I finally got thrown a bone in that whole hurricane of heinousness. Except my brain refuses to let go of how dumb-lucky I got.

You don’t deserve this,
it keeps whispering to me.
You aren’t blameless here, buddy. You could have stopped it all before it got out of control. If you’d had any balls.

Yeah, yeah, brain, whatever. It’s not like I got off entirely scot-free. I got a busted nose out of the deal, remember? And my movie is an epic fail. Besides that, I haven’t been able to see Leyna outside the confines of drama class. And maybe worst of all, I’m going to spend the rest of my high school life sharing a bedroom with Darth Vader until eventually I graduate or I totally crack and start cackling like the Joker and begin plotting world domination.

These little arguments have become part of my nightly ritual, which makes me worry that the Joker scenario is the likelier of the two.

There is only one thing I’ve found that gets me through these dark and troubling times. I only use it when things are really bad, because to be honest, I feel a tiny bit guilty about it.

But tonight is definitely one of those nights.

I slip out from under the covers, grab my phone, and tiptoe into the bathroom.

“W
E HAVE
NO
MONEY
. We have
no
camera equipment. We have
no
time. I thought we already discussed all this.” I’m talking to Coop on my cell phone as I pedal like crazy toward Leyna’s house — finally free to roam the world outside of school again.

“Just hear me out, dawg,” Coop insists. “It came to me in a flash last night. I don’t know why the hell I didn’t think of this sooner. We shoot the rest of the film on our cell phones.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That’ll look real professional.”

“No, it won’t. That’s the point. We don’t want it to look professional. It’ll make it seem more realistic. Like the outbreak is actually happening and Rogart and Nashira are capturing some of it on their phones. It’s totally brill. And it’s never been done before.”

“Uhhh, yeah, for a reason. Nobody’s going to sit through a film shot on someone’s cell phone.”

“It’s not going to be
all
cell-phone footage,” Coop argues. “I’ve got our old scenes on my computer. So we can still use those. We’ll edit the phone footage in between. It’ll be dope. It adds a voyeuristic element. Makes it more personal. And intense. Seriously. I’m actually glad that this happened because it’s going to make the film even better. Maybe we start the movie with someone in the future finding a buried cell phone. They plug it in and this is what they see: the destruction of the human race.”

“I don’t know, Coop.”

“You don’t have to know. Because I know. You just make sure that Leyna is still on board. And then leave everything else to me.”

We hang up, and while I should know better by now — boy, should I know better! — Coop’s enthusiasm and conviction have started to infect me. Or maybe it’s the thought of getting to tell Leyna that the film’s still on, that she’s still my leading lady.

Or possibly it’s just the sleep deprivation.

Whatever the cause, I stroll up to Leyna’s house — a cute yellow-and-white two-story that looks like it should be on a TV show — with a big grin on my face. Give a light
rat-a-tat-tat
on the front door, and a few moments later, a tall hollow-cheeked woman with long bleached-blond hair — Leyna forty years from now? — is standing in the entryway.

“You must be Shane,” the woman says, extending her bony hand.

“Sean,” I correct her as we awkwardly shake. Weird that her mom would be home. I’d think we’d need some privacy for the unveiling.

“Of course. Sorry. I’m terrible with names. Forgive me. I’m Claudia.”

“Hi,” I say.

Claudia steps to one side. “Leyna will be right down.”

I enter the house, which smells vaguely of lemons and is as picture-perfect inside as out. I’m shown to a formal room — with uninviting ornate floral couches and armchairs — and am told to make myself comfortable.

I glance around at the museum-ness of it all and think that it isn’t exactly the living room of a girl who wants to show you her “little muffin.” But then I guess growing up in such an uptight environment might make you want to be a bit more wild and free.

I stroll over to the window and stare outside at the well-manicured bushes just starting to regain their leaves. I need to think about what I’m going to say when she shows it to me. I have to be easygoing about it. Happy and grateful but not overly enthusiastic. I don’t want to come across as some noob who’s never seen a naked girl up close and personal.

Even though it’s true.

Yes, I saw Ms. Luntz on the nude beach last year. But I don’t count that. A grossed-out chill rockets up my spine as the image escapes its lockbox. Besides, while that may have been in person, it was hardly up close, thank Gandalf.

I pace around the living room, being careful not to bump into anything. Shake my arms out, roll my head around my neck like I’m about to do the fifty-yard dash.

Have to stay chill, Sean. Be all casual when she shows you. Just observe, and smile, and say something like, “Yes, that’s lovely. One of the prettiest I’ve seen. Quite impressive.”

Quite impressive? What are you, an art critic?
Jesus.

I crane my neck to see if Leyna’s coming down the hall.

Okay. Deep breath.

Claudia told me to make myself comfortable and so that is what I will do. I sit down on the fancy couch facing the window and casually cross my right foot over my left leg. I toss an arm up over the back, glance over to the seat next to me, wink and point, and say, “Hey, there. Nice vagina. Thanks for showing it to me.”

Oh, come on, Sean. You can do better than that. I hunch over, press my palms into my eyes. Think, man. Think. How would Captain Kirk respond to seeing a woman’s Mystical Coif of Elements?

“I’m not going to . . .
lie
to you, Leyna. . . . Your genitalia . . . is ravishing. . . . Perhaps the . . . most
exquisite
specimen in the known universe. . . . Of all the females in all the races that I have had the . . .
privilege
. . . of encountering . . . your Omega Nebula . . . is unrivaled.”

“Who are you talking to, Sean?”

Oh, crud. It’s Leyna.

I pull my hands from my eyes and look up to see her backlit form standing over me.

“I was, um”— I swallow —“just going over some dialogue. For a new scene. That I wrote. Just now. In my head.”

“Oh,” Leyna says doubtfully. “But I thought the movie was dead.”

“Oh, my God, no . . . That’s . . . what I was going to tell you . . . now . . . Coop just had this great idea for filming the movie. On our cell phones. I know it sounds crazy, but we think it might actually work. Anyway, I was hoping . . . uh . . . I mean, if you’re not doing any other movies at the moment”— I laugh way too loud at my own lame joke —“if you’re free, maybe you could go back to being Nashira?”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to!” she says, sitting next to me on the couch and putting her hand on my leg. “I’m so glad to hear you haven’t given up on your dreams.”

“No, no, still got those dreams,” I say.

“Well, I want to talk all about it. But first, the reason I asked you over.” She gives my knee a squeeze. My leg jumps like it’s been stun-gunned. “Would you like something to drink first?”

My mouth is pretty parched, but I shake my head. “Nah. I’m good. Thanks.”

“Okay, then.” Leyna slaps her knees. “Should we get right to it? I mean, I don’t want to rush things, but I have been waiting quite a while for you to have a peek at this.” She laughs. “Time to put your doctor’s hat on.”

I gulp. “Uh . . . I . . .” My eyes dart around, all my grand plans gone up in smoke. “Where do you want to . . . ?”

“My room, don’t you think? It’s quieter and more private. That way you can take your time and get a good look.”

“Sure.” My voice is all shaky. My head dizzy with excitement. “Sounds good.”

“My little Muff-Muff’s looking pretty cute.” She smiles proudly. “I spent the last hour doing some primping and trimming.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Got her all gussied up for your visit. I even clipped on a little pink bow.” Leyna laughs. “I know, cheesy, right?”

“No,” I say. “It’s nice.” My jeans feel like they’ve shrunk two sizes. Lord Vader, I can’t believe this is about to happen. Just stay chill. Just stay chill. Forget Captain Kirk. Think Han Solo all the way. I cock my head, try on a bit of swagger, and say, “All righty, then. Let’s see this little muffin of yours.”

Just then a tiny brown-and-white corgi with a pink bow in its hair trots into the room.

“She must have heard you.” Leyna pats her leg. “Up, Muffin.”

The dog leaps into Leyna’s lap and starts to pant.

“Muffin?” My stomach plunges. “Your dog’s name . . . is Muffin?”

“Muffin, Muff-Muff, Muffy. And all the variations of.” Leyna giggles. “Sometimes my brother calls her the Muffinator.” She laughs and scrubs at the dog’s neck.

“And the picture you sent me?” I point at Muffin. “Was that of her?”

“Well. Of her butt.” Leyna turns the dog around and lifts her tail stump. “The rash I was telling you about. Way back when. Remember? It seems to get better for a while and then just comes back again. See?”

I blink hard, my entire fantasy world melting away. The dog looks back at me over its shoulder. “Yeah. I see.”

Leyna furrows her brow. “Why, what did you think the picture was?”

“Nothing.” I turn away. “I just . . . I didn’t know what . . . part of her it was. That’s all.” Oh, my God. I feel nauseous. “It’s probably mites.” I gesture at the dog, unable to look it in the eyes. “The rash. You were right. You should take her to a vet. She can prescribe some ointment. It’ll be gone in a week.”

A rash. A rash on a dog’s butt. Son of a Sith.

“So that’s all this ever was?” I attempt to clarify. “You just wanted my . . . veterinary expertise?”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Leyna says, a small shy smile dimpling her cheeks. “You just seem to know so much about animals, and I was really worried about little Muffy here.”

“No, yeah, of course,” I say, shaking the disappointment from my head. “I definitely don’t mind. It’s just that . . . I guess what I mean is . . . I’ve been thinking . . . about you and me, right? . . . And how we have such a strong connection and everything. In drama class. And when we talk and stuff . . .”