Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(40)

“Where do you want me to put this?” Nick motions toward the suitcase.

“What’s in there?” I say, images of a chopped-up body flashing in my head.

“Your video camera.” Evelyn beams. “And a few other things.” She crouches down and unzips the bag. Camera equipment spills out like the guts of a disemboweled tauntaun.

“Holy crap.” I stare at the mounds of electronics. “Where’d you get all that?”

“One of my friend’s mom’s cousins is a wedding photographer. He had a few small lights, a DSLR, a wireless lapel mic, some electrical cords, and a nice tripod he wasn’t using. I thought it’d be a good idea to tape all of the auditions and, you know”— she grabs the still camera —“snap some pictures so we remember who everyone is.”

Uncle Doug grins and wags his finger at her. “I like this girl. She’s a forward thinker.”

Evelyn giggles. “‘Be prepared.’ It’s the Girl Scout motto.”

“Sweet.” Coop hoists himself out of the armchair. “Let’s set this up. We’ll look totally pro.”

Everyone descends on the equipment and stakes a claim. Valerie calls videographer while Helen grabs the DSLR. Matt says he’ll put up the lights. Coop agrees to be in charge of being in charge. And Uncle Doug volunteers to watch over the snacks.

And me, I just stand back, an uneasy queasiness in my stomach. Something doesn’t feel quite right here. It just seems a little too convenient that Evelyn suddenly has access to all of this movie stuff. Except nobody seems terribly bothered by this but me.





“I. WISH THAT. SOME . . . THING. Exciting would. Happen around. Here. Once in. A while.”

Good Gandalf, Nick is the worst actor I’ve ever seen in my life. He sounds like a malfunctioning robot. I don’t know why he insisted on auditioning. We all agreed he could be the general who’s investigating the humanzees. But no. He didn’t want to just be handed a part because he was Evelyn’s brother. He wanted to show us what he could do.

Which, it turns out, is not very much.

“So.” Nick lowers the script pages, looking all shy and hopeful. “What do you think?”

The room is dead silent. Nobody looks at each other. Nobody speaks. We’re all too terrified to say what we really think. Even Uncle Doug is at a loss for words.

Then Evelyn leaps to her feet, applauding like mad. “Bravo! Bravissimo! That was amazing, Nick.” She looks back at us. “Didn’t you think that was amazing?”

Crooked smiles abound as we all nod and say, “Yeah. Oh, yeah. Really great. Super.”

“I had no idea you were so talented,” Evelyn gushes.

Oh, my God, I think she’s serious. She actually thought that was good acting. Which is terrifying on so many levels, I don’t even want to consider it.

“Do I get the part?” Nick asks, his eyes wide.

“Well,” Coop says, “I’m not gonna be the one who says no.” He juts his hand out and Nick shakes it. “Welcome to the cast.”

For the next three hours, a wide assortment of actors files through my family room. Some of them are from drama class — Kerosene Kelsey, Jacket Jake, Forehead Fortney — and others are people I’ve never seen before. Most are kids, but several of them are adults. A few who’ve done community theater, others who just always wanted to act.

I had no idea what kind of turnout to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this many people. And all would be going just fine if not for the two giant horseflies in the soup.

The first is Evelyn, of course. She hates every single girl who auditions. Not that you would know this by the grin plastered on her face during the readings. Instead, she chooses to lean over and whisper her disgust into my ear as each one leaves.

And then there’s Uncle Doug, who’s acting like a cracked-out five-year-old with Tourette’s. Scribbling his notes on the paper towels we put out to use as napkins. Fidgeting like he’s got ants in his pants. Chain-smoking. And mumbling inappropriate things at inappropriate times: “El stinko.” “Me no likey.” “Un fuego en mis pantalones.”

“Could you at least wait until they leave?” I say when the latest actress exits, her sobs ringing in my ears.

“Hm, what?” Uncle Doug looks up from his napkin notations. “Did you say something?”

“No, you did. While that woman was doing her audition. You said there’s a fire in your pants. In Spanish.”

“Oh.” Uncle Doug looks genuinely surprised. “Did I say that out loud?”

I nod. “Yes. Yes, you did.”

“Ah, well.” He crushes out his fifteenth cigarette. “She probably didn’t understand me.”

“Her name was Feliz Jimenez,” Valerie says.

“Right.” Uncle Doug points his pen at her. “That’d be why the thought came to me en espa?ol.” He stretches his arms out wide and yawns. “All right, well, I think it’s time old Uncle Doug calls it a day. I’ve got hockey to watch.” He stands and collects his cigarettes and lighter. “Carry on without me. I’ll catch the video replay.”

We all say our good-byes and then the next actor walks in.

It’s Mr. Nestman. Gripping one of the audition scenes. He smiles and holds up his hand. “I know what you’re thinking. But hear me out.”