Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(32)

“The first thing any writer will tell you,” she says, “is that self-flagellation is no way to get the juices flowing.”

“What?” I pull my hand away, feeling my face go hot. “No, I don’t . . . I don’t . . . do . . . that.”

Nessa grins. “Beating yourself up. Not beating yourself off, silly boy. And on both counts you’re lying.” She lifts the laptop screen up and slides into the chair. “You mind?” She gestures at my script on the screen. “I’m an expert on all things horror.”

I step back and shrug. “Sure. Go ahead.” It’ll give me time to cool off and remind myself that she’s not actually a girl-girl, just Cathy’s annoying other half.

“Okay, let’s start with your evil doctor.” Nessa puts her fingers on the keyboard and starts to type. “At least, I assume that’s who he is, yes?” Nessa looks up at me and I nod. “Good, okay, well, right now he’s coming across as a bit of a dork. You don’t want that. You want him to be charismatic. Maybe even a bit misunderstood. So that you’re almost rooting for him. Think Count Dracula. Hannibal Lecter. Or even Mr. Freeze.”

“You root for the bad guys?”

Nessa flashes a quick grin. “You’re not ultimately rooting for them. But if you can add that level of enigmatic complexity to your villain, then your audience gets that much more invested. Of course you still want him to be menacing, but with an undercurrent of allure.”

Nessa’s talking and typing at the same time. Amazing. I can’t even read a book and eat at the same time. And what she’s saying sounds pretty impressive, too, even if I’m not entirely sure what it means. I lean in close and watch her transform my script.


A half hour later, she’s rewritten the entire beginning of the movie — along with the two audition scenes I’ve been struggling with — and it’s all a billion times better than what I had.

“Okay, I get that you know your horror movies,” I say, flipping through the printed script pages. “But how do you know how to write so well?”

Nessa shrugs. “I’ve always liked writing. As long as it isn’t for school.” She laughs at this. “Back in sixth grade, me and Michelle Audette almost got held back because we had this contest to see who could write the longest story by the end of the year. We hardly did any of our schoolwork. Just wrote like crazy and then read our stories aloud to each other at lunch. I think hers was called ‘The Witch Trials.’ And mine was ‘SPPS.’”

“What’s that?”

“The Secret Psychic Princess Society, of course,” Nessa deadpans. “It was such a blast. Well, until our parents got called in for an ‘urgent’ conference with Mr. Provost. Anyway.” She pushes the desk chair back and stands. “I should probably get going. Remember now, not a word to Cathy about . . . you know.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Kewl.” She flashes a smile and heads toward the door. “See you around.”

I look down at the script in my hands. And that’s when I get a crazy idea. It’s probably totally stupid and I’m undoubtedly setting myself up for some Cathy-related abuse, but . . .

“Hey, Nessa.”

Nessa stands in the doorway. “Yeah?”

“I was wondering . . .” My heart starts thumping the inside of my rib cage. “I mean . . . I don’t know . . . You’re so good at this.” I wave the screenplay pages. “And I’m not and . . . Would you . . . ? Would you maybe want to help me out with writing this movie? I mean, me and my friends are actually going to try to film it and . . . Well, it might not go anywhere, but if it does . . . It could be a good credit to have. You know, to put on your résumé and stuff.”

Nessa stares at me. I can see the cogs turning behind her cat-green eyes. She’s either trying to figure out a polite way to turn me down or she’s weighing which comeback will be the most cutting.

But then she smiles again. “Sure, all right. That might be fun.”

I let out a relieved breath. With Nessa’s help, I might actually be able to write a halfway decent screenplay.

“But we’ll have to keep that a secret too, ’kay? Otherwise Cath might never speak to me again.” Nessa grins. “We’re still mortal enemies, you and I. At least as far as the outside world is concerned. No hellos or acknowledgment at school, either, understand? I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Sure, no prob.”

“Kewl,” she says again, and then slips out of my room.

I’m staring at the open door — wondering what I’ve just gotten myself into — when my phone buzzes.

I tug it from my pocket and read the text from Evelyn: 6 pm dnt 4get.

Forget? How could I? Sweet freedom is just a breakup away.





BREAK UP WITH HER IN PERSON. DO IT IN PRIVATE. CHOOSE WORDS CAREFULLY. DON’T POINT OUT FAULTS EVEN IF SHE ASKS. TRAP! TAKE ALL THE BLAME. LET HER FREAK OUT.

I’m reviewing the crib notes that I’ve scribbled on the palm of my left hand as I coast my bike up to Evelyn’s house. I don’t want to forget any of Val and Helen’s advice. It’s crucial I get this breakup right. My entire future with Leyna depends on it.

I get off my bike and lay it on the grass. My hands are trembling and I feel like I’ve got an ice pick jammed into my temple. I take a deep shaky breath and let it out. I can do this. No sweat.