Call the Shots (8 page)

“I don’t
think
so.”

“Jesus.” Matt’s eyes bug. “That’s so wrong.” He snorts with laughter. “That poor kitty.”

“I don’t know.” Coop shrugs. “The cat only seems mildly inconvenienced.”

Matt laughs. “Yeah, probably because it happens on a regular basis. The cat’s all, like, ‘Oh, great, here we go again. Just get it over with already.’”

Coop punches Matt in the arm. “Kind of like what Val says to you, huh?”

“More like what your mama said to me last night.” Matt swats Coop’s head. “After, like, the twelfth round.”

“That’s funny, because even after a marathon session, your mama likes me to take my time. But I guess that’s because I’ve got the mad skills.”

“Are you guys finished?” I ask, grabbing the back of my tensed-up neck. “Because I’ve only got a few months before my life turns into a total nightmare.”

“Really?” Coop picks up my laptop and shows me the dog-on-cat video. “I would think you’d be grateful. I mean, at least you’re not being accosted by Rover every night.” Coop head-gestures toward the dog sleeping in the corner of my room. “Unless, of course, you are.”

Just then, the door to my bedroom is bumped open and in walk Mom and Dad, each carrying parts of a crib.

“Sorry,” Mom says. “We would have knocked, but our hands are full.”

Dad squints at the laptop screen as he rests the head- and footboards against my dresser. “What are you boys watching?”

“Nothing,” I blurt, stepping in front of Coop.

“Oh,” Mom says, laying the crib slats on the floor. “Is that the one where the dog and cat are wrestling and then fall off the couch? Angie sent me that. It’s so cute.”

Dad peeks around me. “Whoa!” He jerks his head back. “That’s not wrestling.”

Mom looks confused. “What?”

Coop snaps the laptop shut. “It’s for biology class,” he says. “We’re doing a report on animal reproduction.”

“Reproduction?” Mom screws up her face. “What are you talking about?”

Dad holds up his hand. “It’s okay, Barbara. I’ve got this one.” He cants his head as he looks at us. “You boys
do
realize that animals of different species usually can’t reproduce?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, his eyes veering off to the side. “That’s what we were trying to find examples of. Animals that
can’t
have babies together. Because . . . not everyone knows that.”

“Although,” Dad says, emptying a bag of nuts and bolts onto my rug, “interesting factoid: Certain dissimilar species actually
can
generate offspring.
If
they’re closely related. Usually within the same genus and within the same family. Have you ever heard of a zonkey?”

“No,” Matt says.

Dad fits the headboard and one of the slatted sides together. “That would be a cross between a zebra and a donkey. And while they’re very rare in the wild, they have been successfully bred in zoos. In fact, the first zoo to breed one was —”

“That’s fascinating,” I say. “Why are you guys bringing this baby stuff into my room?”

“Mrs. Goldstein gave this to us,” Mom replies, all sprightly. “Wasn’t that nice of her?”

“Yeah, real generous.” I stare at the partially assembled crib, my jaw clenched tight. “I thought you said the baby wasn’t going be born until May.”

“Babies sometimes come early.” Dad continues with the assembly. “We can’t wait until the last minute to make up the room. Besides, it’s going to end up in here eventually, so —”

“But this isn’t a baby’s room,” I argue. “It’s not even safe for a baby. There are swords on the walls.” I motion to my mounted replica samurai swords. “And glass-framed posters that could fall down and kill it.” I point to the Lord of the Rings poster over my bed.

“Aw, sweetie.” Mom forces a smile. “We’re going to have to take all that stuff down, of course. You’ll see. We’re going to paint it powder blue with some fluffy clouds on the ceiling.” There’s a wistful look in her eyes, like she’s picturing the whole thing already finished. “We might even paint a nice big rainbow over there.” She points to the wall where my Death Star clock hangs. “And a flutter of butterflies flying up to the ceiling over there.” Where my World War II figures are displayed. Then she shakes herself out of her reverie. “But we don’t have to do it all right now. I mean”— she glances at Dad —“there’s still some time. Right, Gary?”

Dad shrugs, tightening a nut. “I’m not sure I see the point in postponing the inevitable.”

“Whatever,” I say, catching Matt and Coop’s “yikes” expressions. “Can you guys just please leave now? We’ve got a really tight deadline, and we need to get back to work.”

Dad looks down at the half-erected crib. “Okay, okay. Got it. I can finish putting this together later. But if you want some help with your biology project —”

“No, thanks.” I usher my parents from my bedroom and shut the door behind them.

“Holy crap,” Coop says, staring at the crib. “This is way more desperate than I thought. They’re squeezing you out, dawg. Forget four months. You’re lucky if you have four weeks.”

“It sucks.” I kick the stupid headboard. “I’m completely screwed.”

“No.” Coop points at me. “Not completely. Worst-case scenario you’ll have to share a room with your sister for a few months. But we’re going to do this thing. We’re going to make this movie. And we’re going to sell it. The three of us. Together. Don’t you worry.”

“That’s right,” Matt adds. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Forget it.” I collapse into my Jabba the Hutt beanbag chair. “It’s hopeless. Who are we trying to kid? We don’t know anything about making movies. We don’t have any money. We don’t even have a story, for Kirk’s sake.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, dawg,” Coop says. “Because I just came up with a killer idea. Full of gross-outs, gore, and cheap scares. I even have a title.”

“Oh, really?” I look at him. “And what’s that?”

Coop stares at me and Matt. His eyes dead serious. “We’re going to call it . . .
Zonkey!
”

“Z
ONKEY!?”
MATT’S EYES
scrunch up with skepticism.

“That’s right,” Coop says. “Some crazy zoo-doctor dude who’s in charge of making the zonkeys comes up with this whacked idea to crossbreed human DNA with chimpanzee DNA. But he doesn’t just make a human-monkey
baby.
No. He develops some kind of human-chimpanzee
virus
that he can infect people with, making them into these half-man, half-monkey drones that he can control.” The ideas are pouring out of Coop like he’s possessed or something while Matt and I just stare at him, mesmerized. “What this doctor
doesn’t
count on is the virus mutating and turning people into hairy uncontrollable zombie-monsters with a thirst for human blood. That way we hit all of the hot bases.” Coop counts off on his fingers. “We’ve got technology, we’ve got zombies, we’ve got a potential apocalypse, and we’ve got vampirism. It’s a beautiful thing.” He crosses his arms and leans back in the chair, a smug self-satisfied smile on his face. “Tell me that’s not totally genius.”

“Are you kidding?” I say. “That’s like the
least
genius thing I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard you say some really ungenius things before.”

“Actually.” Matt taps his lip. “It’s not so bad. I mean . . . at least it’s kind of fun.”

“Seriously?” I grimace. “I don’t know. Half-man, half-monkey vampire-zombies?”

“Zombie-vampires,” Coop corrects me.

“I think we can make it work,” Matt says. “With a little tweaking.”

“Really?” I sit up in the beanbag chair, feeling the fog of anger and frustration starting to lift a little. “All right. Maybe it
could
be okay. If we do it right. But shouldn’t we call it
Chuman
? I mean, the guy’s not making zonkeys. He’s making chimpanzee humans.”

“Or what about
Humanzee
?” Matt pipes in. “That sounds even better.”

“No.” Coop shakes his head. “Those sound made-up. Besides, the dude gets the idea because he’s making zonkeys. And a zonkey is a real thing. What’s so scary about this idea is that it’s something that could actually happen.”

“No, it isn’t,” Matt says.

Coop shrugs. “Let’s Wiki it.” He spins around and types something into the computer. “Aha. Right there in black and white on the most trusted source on the Internet.” He reads, “‘It’s hypothetically possible that chimps and humans could produce a living offspring.’”

“That’s good, that’s good,” I say, getting to my feet. “That just adds to the credibility.” All of a sudden, I’ve got an excited thrumming in my chest.

“Ha!” Matt bellows, pointing at the screen. “And what’s the title of the article? ‘Humanzee.’ So, see? I didn’t make it up.”

“Which just proves you’re not an original thinker,” Coop says. “Anyway,
Zonkey!
is a way better title. It’s more mysterious.”

“Okay, okay.” I start to pace. “But I’m starting to worry that this might get really complicated with special effects. Maybe instead of turning them into zombie-vampires, the virus kills the people but also makes them ghosts. You don’t ever have to show a ghost. They just moves things around the room. We could do that by attaching invisible thread to stuff.”

“Boooo
ring
!” Coop says. “Ghosts are so three years ago.”

“Oh, really?” Matt smirks. “And vampires are cutting-edge?”

“These
aren’t
vampires, dude.” Coop reaches under my desk and grabs a can of Mountain Dew from my minifridge. “These are zombie-vampire hybrids that also happen to be human chimpanzee half-breeds. That’s what makes them so cool and different. It’s the whole package. Zonkeys are interesting. Humanzees are freaky. And zombie-vampire humanzees are the freakiest of all. Besides, we won’t have to show that much of them. A hairy hand here. A close-up of a monkey mouth biting a neck. It’s totally doable, dawg. The less you show, the scarier it is.”

“All right.” I nod. “I’m down with it. I vote for
Zonkey!
What do we do next?”

“We put the plan into action. And as the producer and director of
Zonkey!,
it’s up to me to start delegating.” Coop wheels the desk chair over to my bookcase. He snaps up my copy of
Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide
and tosses it to me. “Sean, you’re our screenwriter.”

“Wait a second.” I stare down at the book. “It’s my butt on the line here. I think maybe I should be the one to direct.”

“‘I think maybe’ ain’t gonna cut it when we’re out in the field trying to shoot this thing,” Coop says. “A director needs to be fast and decisive. Boom, boom, boom.” He slaps the back of his left hand repetitively into the palm of his right. “That’s me. Not you. No offense, but your talents lie elsewhere. You’re more . . . contemplative. Which is why you’ll be good at writing this thing.”

“I don’t know.” I blink hard. “I’ve never written anything longer than a three-page English essay.”

“You’re gonna be brill, trust me,” Coop assures. “Just find your favorite horror films and mark the pages. You’ll watch a whole whack of flicks and then you can jack the scariest scenes to use in your screenplay.” He rolls back to the desk and opens the laptop. “Matt, since you’re the most organized of the three of us, you get to be in charge of all the organizational shit.”

“Oh, lucky me.” Matt laughs.

“It’s vital, dawg. We don’t have someone who can coordinate things, we don’t have a movie. You’re going to have to figure out where we can get the equipment, special effects, and music and everything. Grab some paper and make a list of all the things we’re going to need. Video camera, makeup, lights —”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on.” Matt scrambles around, looking for a pad and pen.

“Here,” I say, leaning over and snagging my backpack. I unzip the bag, reach inside, and blindly grab a still-moist hairball. “Goddamn it. Not again.” I fling the soggy globule of cat hair into my trash can and wipe my palm on the rug.

“Dude, little advice,” Coop says. “If you want to land the luscious ladies, keep the kittens from yurking in your backpack.”

“It’s just Buttons.” I glance over at the white-and-gray cat curled up on my bed. “She throws up if she eats too fast. Air bubbles get trapped in her esophagus. I’m the same way, actually. The problem is that she gets embarrassed when she’s sick and then hides in my bag. I probably should just get another backpack.”

“No,” Coop says. “What you
should
get is a bigger pair of balls. It’s a cat, dude. It doesn’t have feelings. Just ban the puking puss from your room.”

I shake my head. “I can’t do it. I feel bad for her. And she does too have feelings.” I reach into my backpack again and find the notebook and pen I was looking for. I hold them out to Matt. “Here you go.”

He looks at me warily.

“Go on. They’re cat puke–free. Don’t worry.”

“They better be.” Matt reaches out and takes them cautiously. “All right. Give me all that again, Coop.” Matt starts writing. “Video camera? What else?”

Coop rattles off the items, adding costumes, lights, actors, and editing software to the list.

“Uhhh . . .” Matt looks up from the paper. “I don’t want to be the one who craps on the cupcake here, but how are we going to afford all of this?”