Call the Shots (39 page)

“But it’s just this one line here.” He gestures at the script. “Where I say —”

“Nope. Don’t even want to hear it.”

“But it’s only —”

“Zip it. Now. Or I will take away your single-card billing and bury your name in the end credits. Are we clear?”

I can tell by his scrunched-up face that he is not happy about this, but he backs off.

Nessa smiles and waggles her eyebrows at me as I walk by. “Very sexy,” she says.

I head over to Coop and Uncle Doug, who are standing by the “lab table.” We’ve lined the surface with a variety of colorful smoking beakers and test tubes. The rest of Uncle Doug’s basement is filled with kennels holding my foster dogs, cats, and ferret, which Helen has made up to look like zombie-beasts, with matted-down hair and blood makeup and everything.

“Okay,” I say. “It’s the grand finale. Nashira and Rogart have led Colonel Ballcock to Dr. Schmaloogan’s basement hideout.” I pick up a glass jar filled with orange Gatorade. “This is the vampanzee antidote. It’s the only thing that can stop the zombie-vampire-chimpanzee virus from continuing to spread.” I motion to Uncle Doug. “But now that you know you’ve been found, you want to destroy it.”

“Got it.” Uncle Doug slips on his long blue doctor’s coat.
“No problema.”

“And you know your lines?”

He taps his temple. “All up here, Seanie. Don’t you worry about Uncle Doug.”

“Great.” I turn to Coop and Helen. “This is going to be a frantic scene, so I need you two to keep each other out of the frame. Okay?”

Coop nods. “We’re on it, boss.”

“And at the very end, Rogart and Nashira have their final kiss. I want you to linger on that shot because that’s how we’ll end the movie.”

Nessa was the one who insisted on changing Rogart and Nashira back into lovers. She said she always felt that the brother-sister angle was weak and that a romantic connection upped the stakes. Hey, I wasn’t gonna argue. It gave me an excuse to make out with Nessa all week. And make out we did. Some of those kisses. Man, oh man. They felt really real. Especially as the days went on.

I know it’s probably way more likely that she and Cathy are still trying to orchestrate some sort of epic plot to humiliate me but . . . I don’t know. Haven’t they already had plenty of opportunities to pull the rug out from under me? And even though Nessa is a pretty decent actress, is she really good enough to fake the kind of passion she’s been putting into her kisses?

“All right!” I shout. “Let’s get this rolling. With any luck, we can get this in one or two takes and get the heck out of here.”

Two hours, fifteen takes, and countless screwups later, we finally make it all the way through the scene.

“He’s dead,” Mr. Nestman emotes as he wrenches the jar of Gatorade from the “deceased” hand of Uncle Doug. “We’ve done it. We’ve saved the human race!” He stands and raises the jar into the air. “Our future is secured!”

Goddamn it. He changed the line anyway. And now there’s nothing to segue to my final kiss with Nessa. Crap. I’d slap him upside the head if we weren’t so pressed for time.

“Aaaaand cut!” I shout, on my knees beside Nessa and Uncle Doug. “That’s good enough. Get your phones up to Val and Matt and have them slap it on the ending.”

“You got it, dawg,” Coop says.

He and Helen take off and bolt upstairs.

Nessa helps me to my feet and gives me a big hug. “Congratulations.” She pulls back and smiles at me. “Did I tell you or did I tell you?”

“You told me.” I smile at her. “Thanks for helping out. You didn’t have to.”

“Are you kidding me? It was a blast. I can’t wait to see it up on the big screen.”

I should be just as excited as she is. I mean, I really do think we have a solid chance at TerrorFest — maybe not winning, but at least not totally embarrassing ourselves, either. But as I look into Nessa’s deep brown eyes, I feel . . . sad.

This whole week, working so closely with her, has been great. Really great. She’s so easy to be around. But now that the film is wrapping up, I no longer have an excuse to hang out with her.

Unless . . .

“Hi,” Nessa says, her cheeks flushing. We’ve just been staring at each other awkwardly for the last minute or so.

“Hi.” I’m blushing now too. But she hasn’t moved away. And a ray of hope shoots through me. I step a little closer. Lean in. Her lips curl up in the tiniest of smiles.

I close my eyes and —

“Well, Seanie.” Uncle Doug claps me on the back and Nessa and I jump apart. “I have to admit that I doubted you could pull this off. But I am duly impressed. You showed
muchos testículos, mi amigo.
I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning toward him. “You did a great job. Even with the animals.”

“Thank you kindly, and I do concur.” He cackles loudly. “And now I believe it is time for Uncle Doug to raise a nice big Fatty Boombalatty in celebration.” He squeezes my neck a little too hard and then takes off.

Nessa turns to go too.

“Nessa, wait,” I start to say. But just then Mr. Nestman accosts me.

“Sorry about that last line,” he says, taking a slug from the jar of antidote. “It just came out, you know. I think I changed it in my head and then I changed it back to your line and, I don’t know, I got them mixed up, I guess. Anyway, I think it works okay, don’t you?”

“Sure.” I force a smile. “It’s fine. Thanks for your help with everything.”

He winks at me. “My pleasure. Oh, one more thing. I don’t know if we have time to shoot this little extra bit, but I was thinking —”

“Hey, Sean,” Nessa says, suddenly across the room and waving at me. “I’ve got to get home. But I’ll see you here tomorrow, right? One o’clock.”

“Yeah,” I say, my heart sinking. “Tomorrow. See you then.”

C
ATHY ISN’T SNORING TONIGHT
. It figures. The one night I know I’m never going to get any shut-eye and she’s lying on the other side of the curtain quiet as a clam.

My sheets feel like they’re strangling me. Clinging to my neck and my shoulders. Swallowing my feet.

Ugh. I yank all my covers off.

My mind spins a million miles an hour. My thoughts on full volume. Thinking about the movie. And the film festival. And how we managed to get the whole thing finished just in time. It was almost miraculous, the way it all came together.

I wonder if we have one more miracle coming to us. If we might actually have a shot at winning this thing. I think of all of Coop’s other harebrained ideas over the years, and how they sort of ended up working out even though they didn’t seem like they would at the time: sneaking onto a nude beach to try to see a naked girl, sabotaging Tony “the Gorilla” Grillo’s Speedo to give Matt a fighting shot at winning the fly, transforming us from the lamer-than-lame Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare into a semidecent rock band with Helen’s amazing lead vocals and The Doctor, Coop Daddy, and
El Mariachi
backing her up.

I remember all of the adventures we’ve been through together ever since kindergarten, and how those days may be coming to an end. I mean, both Matt and Coop are paired off, and while they’re all pretty great about including me, they’re not going to want to put up with Fifth Wheel Sean forever.

For some reason, this makes me think of Nessa. And that look in her eyes this afternoon. The one I could swear was drawing me in for a kiss right before we got interrupted. I wonder what would have happened if we’d had just a couple seconds longer. Would we have —?

“Hey.” Cathy’s sleepy voice is low and raspy. “You awake?”

“Yeah,” I say impatiently. “I’m awake. Why?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

“What are you thinking about?” Cathy asks.

“I don’t know. Nothing. Everything.” Certainly not kissing your best friend. Not pushing Uncle Doug aside and sweeping Nessa into my arms and giving her a finale kiss she wouldn’t soon forget. “Uh, how about you?”

“The baby,” she says. “I keep wondering what it’s going to be like. You know. When it’s finally here.”

“Different. That’s for sure.” I feel kind of guilty for how little I’ve actually thought about this baby. Aside from brooding over how much it sucks that I’ve had to give up my room. And how much worse it sucks that I have to share Cathy’s room. But beyond that, I haven’t really given the actual
baby
baby much thought at all.

“Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?” she asks.

“A boy, definitely,” I say, surprised at my own answer, given that I haven’t really considered it much before now. But it’s like the answer was there all along. “I don’t know if I can deal with two sisters.”

Cathy laughs, then she’s quiet for a minute. “You think Mom and Dad’ll love it more than us?”

My instinct is to say, “No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.” But then it hits me how focused they’ve been on the baby. How they didn’t even know that me and my friends were making a movie until I invited them to the festival, let alone that I’m trying to win enough money for the extension on the house. And how they don’t seem to have a clue just how miserable Cathy has been lately — even more miserable than her usual miserable self.

“They say that the youngest child is usually the most adored,” Cathy continues. “That’s why Mom loves you more than me.”

“Right. Because I’m nine minutes younger. Makes total sense.”

“I can’t think of any other reason,” Cathy says. “I mean, I’m the smart one. And the talented one. And the good-looking one. And the one with all the cool friends.”

“You forgot that you’re also the creepy weird freaky one,” I reply. “Besides, Mom doesn’t love me more than you. I just don’t argue with her as much.”

She laughs again. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

A still silence infuses the room. It lasts so long that I think Cathy might have fallen asleep. I listen for the first signs of snoring, but I can’t hear anything.

“Can I ask you something?” Cathy finally says, startling me a little.

“Sure. I guess. I might not answer, but you can ask.”

“Fair enough.” I hear her shifting on her bed. “Would you . . . ? Would you like me any less if you found out I was gay?”

“Pfff,” I say. “I don’t like you now. How could I like you any less?”

“You know what I mean. As your sister. Would you look at me differently?”

I should have known there was a reason she wanted to get me talking. “Listen,” I say. “If you think lulling me in to some pseudo-cozy brother-and-sister late-night chat is going to get me to say that I’m gay, you’re out of your mind. It’s not going to happen, Cathy. Good night. It was great talking with you.” I huff and pull my covers back on. Fluff up my pillow and drop my head down into it.

“I know you’re not gay, Sean,” Cathy says.

“You do?” I don’t trust this. There’s got to be a catch.

“Yes, little brother. Regrettable as it may be, I now believe you are not of the homosexual persuasion.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why all of a sudden do you think I’m not gay?”

Cathy laughs. “You sound disappointed.”

“No. Just suspicious.”

“Some things have come to my attention lately that lead me to believe that you are not as cool and interesting as I’d hoped you were. Okay? Let’s leave it at that.”

“Well. Good,” I say, snuggling down into bed. “Now maybe you can convince Mom and Dad I’m not gay.”

“Sure,” Cathy offers. “Just as soon as I tell them that I am.”

I sit bolt upright. “Excuse me? Tell them you’re
what
?”

“Gay. Although, technically,” she explains, “I guess I’d be considered a lesbian.”

Okay, so what the hell am I supposed to say to that? This could easily be another trick. If I start being all sympathetic and understanding, she might crack up and make fun of me for being so gullible — and gay.

“Hell-
oooo
?” Cathy says. “Did you hear what I just said? I’m trying to tell you something important here, turdlet. I’m confiding in you. Are you just going to sit there and not say anything?”

“No,” I croak out. “I just . . . It’s not . . . I mean, I don’t even know if I should believe you.”

“What
possible
motive could I have for telling you I’m a lesbian if I’m not?”

“How should I know? You screw with me all the time. I mean, for months you’ve been insisting it was me who was gay. Now all of a sudden, it’s you.”

“I
did
think you were gay, Sean. Or at least I wanted you to be. I mean, we’re twins, you know. Not identical, but still. And they say lots of times when one twin is gay, the other one is too. I guess I was hoping that if I could get
you
to tell Mom and Dad first, then I could see how they’d react. Since you’re the golden child, I figured they’d accept it and then, when they found out about me, they’d already be used to the idea and it wouldn’t be such a shocker.”

I ignore the parts about her basically wanting to use me as a guinea pig, because that’s pretty much textbook Cathy, and go right to the important part: “So . . . It’s really true, then?”

“Yup. Your big sister’s a girl’s girl. Through and through.”

“So, then,” I say. “
Are
you going to tell Mom and Dad? You know, about you being a lesbian?”