A Midsummer Night's Scream Page 7

  His mom blinked. “What’s he doing this summer? He isn’t doing anything at all, right?”

  “Hey, give him a break,” Jake said. “His parents just split. He’s … adjusting, you know?”

  Mrs. Castellano looked like she wanted to say more about Shawn, but the waiter came with a tray of martinis. My parents had been quiet the whole time. Dad had that faraway look in his eyes, like he had something serious on his mind.

  He was dressed casual, in khakis, a pale yellow shirt, and a navy blazer. He clinked glasses with Mom and everyone said “Cheers.” My mom used to act in a TV sitcom, and she’s still pretty hot. For a mother, anyway.

  She has frizzy, white-blond hair and big blue eyes, and wears very short skirts and tight t-shirts. She’s totally hung up about looking young. She talks in a whispery, hoarse sitcom voice, and she’s very funny.

  I leaned across the table and whispered to Jake, “How’s it going?”

  He grinned and whispered back, “Shawn and I had a few beers, so I’m trying to act normal.”

  Like duh.

  I snickered. “You? Act normal?”

  “Whatever.”

  At the other end of the table, my mom was talking about a new designer store on Wilshire. She said, “It’s so outrageously expensive, but at least they’re rude to you.” That’s Mom. A laugh a minute.

  The dads were shaking their heads and talking in low voices, something about Disney grosses. Or maybe about something that grossed them out. I couldn’t really hear.

  Dad suddenly turned to Jake and me. “Mayhem Manor is going to be huge,” he said. “Doing a remake of a horror film that ended in real horror is brilliant.”

  “Sy, it was your idea,” Mom told him.

  “That’s why it’s brilliant!” he said.

  Everyone laughed.

  He took a sip of his martini. “It’s going to save the studio. We’ve had nothing but flops. I can’t tell you how much we’re counting on this film. If it doesn’t work, we won’t be eating at The Ivy much longer.”

  Whoa. Heavy-duty.

  “It’s going to be a smash,” my mom said. “It’s going to be bigger than paste.”

  Everyone laughed again.

  The waiter brought our first course. The four adults all had salads. Jake and I always split the fried calamari.

  As I shoveled a bunch of them onto my plate, I studied Jake. His eyes seemed to be clearing. His cheeks had faded from bright red to pink. I wondered if he remembered the potion. If he remembered being so nasty to me.

  And the question just burst from my mouth. You know how sometimes you don’t mean to, but you say what you are thinking?

  “Hey, what’s the story about the little guy in the trailer?” I said.

  Dad lowered his salad fork. The other three adults turned to me.

  “What little guy?” Mr. Castellano asked.

  “You know,” I said. “The short little bearded guy with all the black hair? Looks like a bear cub? He’s in that trailer right next to the wardrobe department. It’s crammed with little bottles. He calls them his potions.”

  They stared at me. They didn’t move or speak.

  My dad and Mr. Castellano exchanged glances. The two women remained silent.

  “Oh. Right,” Dad said finally. “The trailer with all the potions.”

  “Do you know it?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “It’s right next to the cage where we keep the unicorn. You know. Across from Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer?”

  Everyone had a good laugh at my expense.

  “I’m serious, Dad,” I said when everyone finally stopped laughing.

  “Me, too,” he said. “I’m serious, dear. There’s no trailer next to wardrobe. And there’s no little short bearded guy who gives out potions.”

  17

  THE LAST NORMAL NIGHT

  DAD HATES WHEN PEOPLE ARGUE at the dinner table. So I shut up about the trailer and the potions. I knew Dad was wrong. It’s a big studio. He doesn’t know everything that goes on there.

  He had to be wrong, because I had been inside that trailer. And spoken to the hairy little creep. And stolen a potion and used it on Jake. Jake couldn’t back me up because he had no memory of it. But Delia could.

  They all love to laugh at me. They think I’m some kind of woo-hoo fantasy freak. Because I hear and see things they don’t. Well, maybe I’m just more sensitive than other people.

  I’m going back there, I decided. And I’m going to get the right potion this time. The love potion. And I’m definitely going to use it on Jake.

  Unless I didn’t have to. Unless I could make him see how I felt about him without having to sprinkle a potion on his head.

  I gave him meaningful looks all through dinner. And I tried to channel Annalee. I kept touching him a lot. Squeezing his hand and patting his shoulder.

  Mainly, I concentrated hard, sending him thought waves. I really believed if I kept sending my feelings on psychic waves directly to his brain, he would recognize them. He would understand.

  I can’t help it. I believe in magical things. I always have. You can’t imagine how crushed I was when a kid in preschool told me Santa Claus was a fake. I was only four, but I really wanted to believe.

  I beat up that kid in the sandbox. I mean, I really pounded him. I can still remember it. I made him eat sand. But I knew he was telling the truth.

  So now I sent my psychic brain waves to Jake. He definitely was not getting them. At one point, he pulled a salami slice off his pizza and offered it to me. That was our tenderest moment.

  After dinner, as we stood on the sidewalk waiting for the valets to bring around our cars, I decided to take action. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

  He actually jumped. He nearly fell off the curb. He turned and squinted at me like I was from another planet.

  “Oh. Sorry,” I said. “Stumbled. It’s these shoes. Not used to them.”

  He nodded. And wiped his cheek.

  I could feel my face turning red. But I decided to press on. “Hey, you know the new club on Sunset? It’s called The Club, and a lot of kids from school have been hanging there. Want to check it out tonight?”

  He took a few seconds to think about it. “I don’t think so,” he said finally.

  I made a pouty face. “Why not?”

  “I’ve got a lot to do. Uh … Zack gave me some assignments. Some software things I have to work out.”

  I nodded. My heart was beating kind of fast all of a sudden. Not from excitement. From disappointment.

  “Well, do you want to just hang out when you’re finished with that?” I blurted out.

  “Not tonight,” he said. “Why? Did you want to talk to me about something?”

  “No,” I said. “Not really.” The valet brought our BMW around, and I called good night to his parents and slumped into the backseat.

  As he drove home, Dad was telling Mom about some producer from Fox he saw at the restaurant. Mom said she couldn’t get over how fabulous Amy Castellano’s skin is. “It’s smooth as a cloudy day.”

  Huh?

  I tuned them out and pulled my phone from my bag. It chimed. A text message.

  Maybe Jake changed his mind, I thought.

  But no. It was from Shawn. Asking me if I wanted to get together at his house.

  Give up, Shawn.

  I didn’t know what to do about Shawn. I liked him, but I didn’t really want to spend time with him. How could I get him to text Delia and not me?

  I had another text from Annalee. The same old thing. She wanted to know if I wanted to come over and talk about my birthday party with her.

  How about NEVER?

  Of course, there was no way she could help out. I was planning the party with my parents. It was going to spread out over the whole movie studio. Mom and Dad said they wanted me to have the biggest, most fabulous Sweet Seventeen party ever. (Also, they wouldn’t mind the press coverage for the studio.)

  Staring at her text o
n the phone, I suddenly felt sorry for Annalee. She had some kind of fantasy that we were like best friends. Didn’t she see I avoided her whenever I could? She made me tense. I could feel myself tighten up. I never could be myself around her.

  How could any girl be her friend? She is so totally hung up on herself. And she is a slut, let’s face it. No one’s boyfriend is safe around her. I mean, I don’t have to worry. I don’t have a boyfriend. But if I did …

  Anyway, I texted her back. Said I wanted to get my beauty rest for the shoot tomorrow.

  When we got home, Maria, our housekeeper, greeted us in the kitchen in tears, talking in Spanish a mile a minute. She has a lot of family problems. Dad has been trying to bring her children up from Colombia, but he hasn’t had much luck with the immigration people.

  Mom led Maria into the den to try to calm her down. Dad stopped me as I started toward the stairs. “Want to come down to the screening room? I have some dailies to watch. You know. From Please Don’t.”

  Please Don’t is the romantic comedy Dad is making at the studio with another production company. It’s about two young women in New York who get sick of their boyfriends and decide it would be fun to drive them crazy. Really. Like mental hospital crazy.

  “I can’t,” I told him. “I have to call Delia.” I could see the disappointment on his face. Watching dailies in our screening room downstairs is one of the ways Dad and I bond. “Maybe a movie later?” I said.

  “Maybe. I have to do some budget stuff. But, maybe.” I watched him head toward the basement stairs. He works too hard. Mom is able to turn it off when she gets home, but Dad just keeps going.

  I climbed the stairs and turned on all the lights in my room. I guess it’s neurotic, but I always have to have a lot of lights on. And I close my bedroom windows at night because of the jacaranda trees next door in Jake’s backyard.

  The trees are African. I don’t know how Marty Castellano got them to his backyard. They smell sweet when they blossom, and their purple flowers are to die for. But they whisper at night.

  This is not a joke, and I’m not a psycho nutcase. The trees traveled a long way, and they brought strange magic of their homeland with them. At night, I can hear them whispering to one another. They whisper even when the air is still and there is no breeze.

  And one night … very late one night when I couldn’t sleep … I heard them whisper my name. I heard it so clearly. I froze. Every muscle froze. And lying under the covers, I listened to the whispers from across the yard …

  Claire … Claaaaaaaaire …

  I didn’t scream but I wanted to.

  I climbed out of bed and, on shaky legs, I crept to the open windows and closed them tight. And ever since that night, I keep the windows closed after dark. I turn up the air-conditioning and lock the windows and try not to think about the trees and how they knew my name.

  Tonight I checked the windows and glanced over to Jake’s house. His house was dark. The only light was in the kitchen. A pale half-moon made the whole world look silvery and unreal.

  I pulled off my sneakers and sprawled on my bed. I pulled out my phone and punched Delia’s number. She answered on the third ring. “Hey,” I said. “I’m back from dinner.”

  I heard thumping music and a lot of voices. “Hi. What’s up?” Delia had to shout.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “You know that new club?”

  “The Club?”

  “Yeah. I’m here with Jake.”

  “I can’t hear you,” I shouted. “It sounded like you said you were there with Jake.”

  Loud voices. Music pounding.

  “Yeah. Jake. Can you hear me, Claire? I’m here with Jake.”

  My breath caught in my throat. I guess Jake didn’t have software problems to work out after all. He sure didn’t wait long to pick Delia up. But why did he lie to me? And why did Delia go out with him?

  When I could finally breathe again, I blurted out: “Why?”

  “Because I thought Shawn would be with him,” Delia shouted into the phone.

  “Is Shawn there?”

  “No. He drove down to Laguna to see his dad. And so I’m stuck here with Jake.” More music. Someone laughing really loud. “Claire, do you want to come down here and rescue me?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll catch you later.”

  “But, Claire—”

  I clicked off.

  I knew I shouldn’t be pissed off at Delia. She just wanted to be with Shawn. But I felt way angry. Angry at Jake, I guess, for lying to me about how he had to work on an editing assignment. Angry at him for not wanting to take me to the club.

  “It’s messed up,” I murmured, squeezing the phone as if I wanted to flatten it. “Just messed up. I’m going back to Puckerman, and I’m getting that love potion. This is just too messed up.”

  Of course, lying there staring up at the ceiling, I didn’t realize how messed up life can get. I had no way of knowing that it was just normal life—and this was my last night of normal life.

  The last night of normal life before all the horror began.

  PART THREE

  18

  “I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU A STAR”

  I DROVE TO THE STUDIO EARLY. I didn’t wait for Delia. Rush-hour traffic to Burbank was like being in a zombie movie. I lurched forward a few feet at a time. But I was on a mission. I was determined to find Puckerman in his little trailer before I had to report to the set.

  I parked the car in the employees’ lot and trotted toward the wardrobe building. It was a hazy cool day, wisps of low fog clinging to the shrubs along the soundstage walls.

  Dad is wrong, I told myself. That trailer has to be there.

  And it was.

  I had to squint to see it. It was almost hidden behind the morning mist and the shadow of the building wall.

  My heart started to pound. I took a deep breath, then I grabbed the door, swung it open, and stepped inside. I blinked under the dim light on the ceiling. The shelves came into focus. As I remembered, they stretched from the floor to the ceiling, filled with colorful bottles and jars.

  And there the little runt was. Puckerman sat in a black desk chair at the back of the narrow room. He jumped up, his dark eyes wide with surprise when he saw me.

  “Claire,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting you. What a surprise.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “You—you’re here,” I choked out.

  He scratched his heavy beard. “But why are you here?” he demanded.

  I just came out and said it. “You told me you have a love potion. Right?”

  He blinked his watery frog eyes. He picked at something on the front of his mesh t-shirt. “Sure, I have a love potion. But not for you.”

  “Please,” I said. “If you—”

  “I’ll be calling you soon,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to remember me. I guess I didn’t use enough of the forgetting potion.”

  I ignored him. I was determined to get what I came for. “The love potion,” I said. “Does it work like you said? Really? I can pay you for it. Really. Does it work?”

  “It isn’t for you,” he said, moving toward me. “You don’t need a love potion, Claire. You don’t have time.”

  His words made my breath catch in my throat. “Don’t have time? What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to need you. Soon,” he said. “I don’t want you to come here again until I call for you. I want you to forget.”

  He had a potion bottle in his hand. He dove toward me and raised it over my head.

  I ducked my head and squirmed out of his reach. He stumbled into the trailer wall.

  My eyes swept over the glittery bottles on the shelf beside me. I spotted the gray sparkly love potion. I grabbed it quickly, blocking Puckerman’s view with my body. I tucked it into my pocket.

  Puckerman swung around and tried again. He stabbed his hand toward me and shook black flakes from his bottle.

  But I darted to the door. I pushed it o
pen with my shoulder and stumbled outside.

  “Stay away!” Puckerman shouted after me. “Stop thinking about the love potion, Claire. I have bigger plans for you. I’m going to make you a star.”

  19

  ANOTHER ACCIDENT?

  I STEPPED INTO MAYHEM MANOR, made my way to the dining-room set, and glanced around for Delia. I saw crew guys moving lights on the catwalk. A line of people were getting coffee at the catering table. I didn’t see her there.

  A hand grabbed my wrist. I turned to see Lana deLurean. Her blond hair was piled high in a bun, ’60s-style. She had a lot of dark makeup around her blue eyes. She wore a very short red miniskirt and a yellow midriff-baring top that appeared to be made of shiny vinyl.

  “Have you seen Pablo?”

  “Good morning to you, too, Lana,” I said.

  My sarcasm went right by her. “I’ve been looking for him everywhere. He promised to go over the scene with me. This is my big scene, you know. Where I get murdered.”

  She didn’t let go of my wrist. Her cold, bony hand was cutting off my circulation.

  “I think Pablo is afraid to come inside,” I said.

  She sniffed for some reason. “Pablo is very sensitive,” Lana said, frowning. “Would you help me with my lines, Delia?”

  “I’m Claire,” I said. “Remember? My dad owns the studio?”

  She shoved a rolled-up script into my hands. “I have trouble with names. It’s a learning disability. Would you help me, Claire?”

  I nodded. “Well … sure.”

  “It might be useful to you, too,” she added.

  I doubted that. All I had to do in this scene was scream my guts out.

  Lana pulled me to a corner away from the lights. Behind us, Les was arguing with a young, blond-haired man about a candelabra on the dining-room table. “It’s ruining my shot,” Les screamed. “Why do I want to see a candelabra? Whoever encouraged you to be a set designer? Your mother?”

  “I could take it away,” the guy said softly, calmly. Everyone was already used to Hurricane Les.

  “Yes, you could do that,” Les said, “or you could sit on it.”