How High the Moon (7 page)

I motioned him up, but Charlie just stood there. He looked scared. Scared enough to turn and start pounding on the door for someone to let him out. I backed down the steps and hissed in his ear, “You gotta come up, Charlie. Mr. Zimmerman could come into the projector room any minute now, and he’ll hear us if we’re standing here. Come on!”

When I reached the top of the stairs, the attic was wool-blanket hot. I waited a second to let my eyes adjust, because the only light up there was the pale glow coming from where the spotlights poked through the floor, then I turned and looked down.

“I don’t like high things,” Charlie said from where his feet were frozen, halfway up.

“It’ll be okay,” I said in a hushed voice. “Just hang on to the guardrails. It’s not like this the whole way.”

Charlie hung on for dear life as he climbed the rest of the steps.

If Tinkerbell had looked from the ceiling, she would have seen a flower-shaped catwalk, the path to the flower’s center straight like a stem, and six walkways sprouted out like petals. At the end of each of the three top petals, underneath, where the ceiling was the lowest, there sat a round, empty hole about the size of a tetherball, serving no purpose that I could see but for letting a kid watch a movie if they lay flat on the catwalk and turned their heads sideways to get the right angle. Mr. Morgan said the catwalk was set up like that so a guy could go down any one of the paths to change a burned lightbulb or to reach the wiring if there was an electric problem. I loved the shape of the catwalk, and wanted to run down
the length of its stem and out onto each petal. But Charlie? Well…

When he got to the top of the stairs, he stopped and looked up at the bunches of cables that stretched across the ceiling and the vents big enough that we could have run through them standing upright without bumping our heads and he froze all over again. I could tell that he didn’t care for the way the ceiling was tall only in the middle—like a tent with a pole holding it up—and the way it slanted down so far in every direction that anybody over the age of five would have to duck or downright crawl unless they wanted to scrape their heads on the ceiling when they reached the circular ends of each petal.

“Just look at the catwalk, Charlie,” I said when I saw how he was weaving. “See? Nice and flat. No more steep steps. And look, the floor is only two feet below us. Course, we can’t walk on it, or… or… they’ll hear our footsteps. So hang on to the guardrail and stay over on this side so there’s no chance of falling off the edge, because if you fall, you can bet they’d hear the thud.”

I just made up that last part because I knew Charlie would have croaked on the spot if I’d told him the truth—that the reason the catwalk was there in the first place was because when Mr. Morgan or an electric man came up to fix something, they wouldn’t have to step on the floor, which was really the theater ceiling. If they did, they’d plunge right through and fall forty-five feet down, smashing right onto the red velvet theater seats and splattering like bugs.

The top petal was my favorite hole to watch from, because it was dead-center in front of the screen. I led Charlie there and tugged his jacket to get him to sit down. I pointed to the hole. “That’s where we look to see the movie.”

Charlie sat in a tight ball. “When’s the movie starting?” he asked, his pale gray eyes bouncing all over the place.

“Soon,” I said, even though it would have been more accurate to say,
Not
anytime soon
.

When I sat here by myself, waiting that hour or so for the workers
to get in and make the popcorn, and Mrs. Feingold to open the ticket booth so people could buy their tickets and refreshments and take their seats, I always kept busy by thinking up good things. Things like the opening credits coming on and the words,
STARRING CATTY MARLENE
appearing across the screen. Then Ma driving home from Hollywood in Teddy’s car, because the second she found her dream, she realized that she missed me and Teddy until it hurt. I’d imagine her bringing home lots of movie-star money, and paying Teddy back so he could go to electricity school, and her and me spending our afternoons at the Starlight, sitting in the first row, sipping soda pops from waxy paper cups and dipping our hands into a red-and-white-striped box of buttered popcorn.

But there was no chance to think up good things like that with Charlie up there. He was sitting with his feet pinned under his butt, fidgeting as though he was afraid that if he didn’t hold his feet down, they’d go banging around on the floor. He leaned over to look down every couple of seconds, though, while his nervous hands picked at his clothes and the scabs on his head. I offered him a half of the piece of Wrigley’s Spearmint I found in the back pocket of my jeans, but he didn’t want any. He had me so riled up that by the time the movie started,
I
was more glad than he was.

It sure was a good movie, though, with those dogs cute as can be—one respectable, one not—falling madly in love. Even Charlie forgot about being scared long enough to giggle behind his hand at the funny parts as we lay on the catwalk, the metal diamond-shaped floor working like cookie cutters against our bellies, the tops of our heads touching and our faces cocked sideways. Every now and then, when the beam from Mr. Morgan’s flashlight waved below because somebody was talking too loud, or putting their feet on the seat in front of them, or throwing popcorn, I’d look down at the heads below us to see if I recognized anybody.

When the movie ended, the kids clapped, and everybody started leaving. Man, oh man, were they loud. Messy, too. When Mr.
Morgan turned up the lights, the theater looked like a dump, with the seats and carpet polka-dotted with popcorn, and tipped-over paper cups and empty candy boxes strung all over the place.

Charlie stood up, like he was going to leave right along with the crowd, so I had to pull him back down. “Can’t go down yet, Charlie. Mr. Zimmerman has to rewind the movie to the reel it came on, and Mrs. Feingold has to count up the ticket money. The concession stand people have to clean their area and restock candy, too. Mr. Morgan will get busy cleaning while the others do their work, because he can’t open the door until the coast is clear.”

I don’t know. Maybe it was having Charlie swiping at his sweaty face every couple of seconds, twisting his shirt and picking at his head, jumpy as a spooked alley cat, that made time seem to stretch on forever. “Mr. Morgan should have comed for us by now, shouldn’t he?” Charlie asked for the millionth time. Only this time I was thinking the same thing.

I peered down and saw the floor and seats spiffy-clean, the lights even dimmed. “Come on,” I told Charlie. “We’ll stick our ears to the door. Maybe Mr. Zimmerman’s just being extra pokey today.”

Charlie got that I-might-pee-my-pants look at the ladder, so I put my pointy finger against my lips, then turned around and went down, showing Charlie how it’s done. He followed me, but probably only because he didn’t want to be up there alone.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turned and leaned my ear against the heavy metal door, listening for the whir of the projector as it rewound the film, the thudding of footsteps—anything. But there wasn’t a speck of sound coming from behind that door.

I turned back to Charlie. He was wobbling like a bumblebee in a windstorm as his feet felt for the next step, all while trying to spin his chubby self around to face me. And then it happened: Charlie fell, rolling into me like a bowling ball.

We rammed against the door with a loud thump. “Charlie, get off me!” I said as I shoved, probably too loud, but man, that kid was heavy.

The door opened then, and there she was, Brenda Bloom herself.

Before any of us could utter anything but a gasp, Mr. Morgan bursted into the projector room, dressed in his fancy black-and-white tuxedo. He cringed like his fingers just got pinched.

“Busted!” I said. Charlie just started to cry.

“What were you kids
doing up in the attic?” Brenda asked. When we didn’t say anything, she turned to Mr. Morgan as if she expected him to tell her what was going on. I didn’t want the good Mr. Morgan to get fired, him having a dead little sister and a moved-away mom and dad—he already had enough bad luck in his life as it was without losing his job, too, so I had to think of something quick.

“He doesn’t have anything to do with us sneaking in to see the movie,” I said, making my voice sound smooth as soap poured on a finger to help a too-small ring slip off. “We were in the alley when the candy truck came. The delivery guy left the door propped open while he went for more boxes, and we slipped inside when he wasn’t looking.” As proud of myself as I was for coming up with that fib, it bothered me to think that I might be getting the delivery guy in trouble. What if he’d had a down-on-your-luck life like Mr. Morgan?

Brenda folded her arms, one foot pointed out to the side like a ballerina’s. “If you were sneaking in to watch the movie, what were you doing up on the catwalk?”

“Well, it’s not like we could
hide
by sitting in the theater. Mr. Morgan is the one who rips the tickets in half, and he’s got a memory like Dumbo’s mama. He would have known we never handed him a ticket.”

“And did the delivery man open the attic door for you too, so you could get up there to hide?” Brenda’s lips weren’t smiling, but I swear there was a bit of a grin in her eyes.

“No, but Mr. Morgan went up there to change a bulb or something, and we snuck in after him. He was over on that end by the stage, so we went down a different path to the very end where it’s good and dark, and we lay down flat until he left. So there.”

“Sneaking in without buying a ticket is a form of stealing, you know. I could call the police if I wanted to.”

I knew Charlie was whimpering because he was afraid of getting sent to jail, which didn’t exactly make sense to me. You’d have thought he would have wanted to get sent to the clink since his dad was there.

“Look, it ain’t our fault that you snobby folks make the rules so that kids like me and Charlie can’t get in. I don’t have a ma to bring me to the movies, and neither does Charlie. All he’s got is a great-grandma, and all I’ve got is my ma’s boyfriend. Neither one of them has money to take a kid to the movies. And besides, not like you Blooms need our lousy twenty cents anyway.”

I wanted to stay grouchy, but when I looked out at the empty theater, the red curtain still open, the stars still lit, my mad turned to sad because I knew that Mr. Morgan was never going to let me in again. I looked at Brenda. “Maybe sneaking in without buying a ticket is a little like stealing, like you said, and maybe we shouldn’t have done it, but I had my reasons.”

“And those would be…?” Brenda asked. That grin was still sparking behind her eyes, only by then it was getting on my nerves.

“None of your beeswax,” I said.

“Then maybe you can give your reasons to the police. I’m sure they’ll think it’s
their
business,” she said. Charlie slipped his sweaty hand into mine but I shook it away.

Brenda turned, like maybe she was going to go off to call the cops, so I shouted, “Okay! So maybe it
is
your beeswax.”

Brenda turned around.

“I snuck in because I love this place. Probably even more than
you do. And because I wanted Charlie here to see it. Look at this sad-sack, with a ma in heaven and a dad in the clink. I thought it would cheer him up.”

Brenda’s eyes got soft, foggy looking, like the eyes of a leading lady when she’s in love, or the eyes of a regular lady when she looks at a newborn baby. Only she wasn’t looking at Charlie with that face. She was looking at me.

“Well, before you start thinking I’m some kind of do-gooder, you should know that I snuck in for my sake, too. See, my ma went off to become an actress—probably to Hollywood—so I like to check in at the theater now and then, thinking maybe I’ll catch one of her films.”

Brenda smirked. Like she thought I was fibbing about that last part. “So, your mom is a cartoon dog?” she said, and boy, was that smart-alecky comment enough to make me want to take up swearing again.

Mrs. Bloom walked into the Starlight at that very moment, her hair bright gold under the dome light, one section of seats from us, her voice rising up to us through the empty windows that kept Mr. Zimmerman from roasting. Glen Perkins was with her, dressed in the green jumpsuit he always had on when he stopped in at The Pop Shop to pick up a pack of Camels. The one that had
PERKINS CONSTRUCTION
stitched over his back. Mrs. Bloom was pointing down toward the stage and yakking, though we couldn’t hear what she was saying. Then suddenly she swooped around so she could point at something at the back of the theater. That’s when she looked up and saw us in the projector room.

It was too late for me and Charlie to duck. Brenda gave a sigh and Charlie swallowed so hard that if he’d let that gulp of air come back up, you can bet he’d have burped loud enough to put Joey Jackson’s best one to shame.

Mrs. Bloom said something to Mr. Perkins. He nodded and headed down toward the screen, while Mrs. Bloom marched between a row of seats to get to the stairs leading to the projector room.

“Brenda?” she said when she stepped inside—like her name itself was a whole question.

Boy, that Mrs. Bloom sure was decked out! Big, sparkling rings glowed from her fingers, and more jewels dangled from her ears and swirled around her neck. So much gold and so many gems, it was almost enough to blind a person in such bright light.

Her face screwed up like
her
stomach was full of pop fizz when she looked at Charlie and me. She winced as she checked out Charlie’s head full of bald patches and red knicks, then his patched knees. After she took in Charlie’s dirty sneakers with the hole in one toe, her gaze zoomed right over to my feet and started crawling up my legs, which made me look down, too. I hadn’t paid any attention when I bounced out of bed and grabbed clothes from the drawer Teddy put my playtime clothes in, and now I was a bit sorry about that because I wasn’t looking so good in my mismatched ratty pants and stained shirt. My jacket zipper was broken because Mrs. Fry still hadn’t found one that size to yank from her bag of rescued zippers, so I pulled it shut to hide my stain. Mrs. Bloom’s head lifted and her eyebrows crawled right up to hide under her bangs when she got to my face. “This child is wearing makeup!” she said.