Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(49)

I couldn’t believe it when Tony took off his mask. But not even the girls’ best makeup efforts could create a lip scar that scary, or a sneer that smarmy.

“Don’t you think we have enough food?” I say, staring at the dozen plates of deep-fried appetizers spread out before us.

“What are you talking about?” Uncle Doug laughs. “We’ve got some big boys to feed.”

Which is true enough. I crane forward and glance down to see Nick, Pete, and Tony at the far end of the table. Pawing at the food and yukking it up with each other like a bunch of bodybuilder buddies after a hard workout.

I lean over to Matt and keep my voice low. “So, how’d you manage to get the three gigantes to dress up like monkeys for us?”

“Nick was easy,” Matt says, taking a bite of a Tex-Mex egg roll. “He’ll play as many parts in the movie as we want. As long as he also gets to play the head of the military.”

I nod. “Okay. And your brother and Tony?”

“That took a bit more negotiating. Originally they wanted fifty bucks a day. But I talked them down to twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five dollars?” I splutter. “A day? That’s . . .” I do some quick mental math. “Seven hundred bucks if we have to shoot with both of them for the whole two weeks!”

“We didn’t really have a choice. They’re the only guys we know who even come close to filling out the costumes. We’ll just have to pick and choose which days we need to shoot full-on chimp suits. Don’t worry about it. It’s like Coop said, a lot of stuff can be done with just the paws and mouths.”

I press my fingers into my temples as a six-Berry-Beast headache thrums its way through my skull. All right, so, that’s fifty bucks for Tony and Pete today. And another hundred for the monkey costumes and makeup the girls bought. Plus the fifty Cathy stole. That still leaves us with three hundred of the original five. With another five hundred to come. I guess we’re still okay. As long as nothing else unexpected comes along.

“Hey, could you move over a little?” Matt asks, scrunching up his nose. “No offense or anything, but you still kinda smell like piss.”

“Sorry.” I scoot my chair toward the corner of the table. We made a pit stop at Uncle Doug’s store so I could wash up in his bathroom sink and change back into my street clothes, but until I take a long hot shower, I won’t be completely pee-free.

I’m hoping that this lunch ends soon so I can get home and really scrub down before I have to head over to Nessa’s.

But lunch does not end soon. And as it stretches into its second hour — the three muscleheads having started a full-out eating contest, with Uncle Doug taking bets from the other customers in the restaurant — I start to worry I’ll miss my meeting with Nessa entirely.

I glance at my cell phone. Four fifteen. Okay, so, showering is out of the question. But I can still make it to Nessa’s — maybe just a little late — if I can get back to Uncle Doug’s shop, grab my bike, and go straight to her house. Hopefully the ride over will sufficiently air me out.

I look over to see Evelyn pounding the table and cheering her brother on as Nick tilts his head back and swallows an entire burrito like a python gulleting a rabbit.

Here’s my chance. While everyone is preoccupied.

I tap Matt on the shoulder. He turns around, looking slightly annoyed that I’ve interrupted his viewing of the freak show.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“I have to get out of here. Can you cover for me?”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t feel well,” I say, which isn’t a complete lie. I do feel a little nauseous after eating all that grease. “I just want to slip out without making a big deal out of it. Otherwise Evelyn might want to come with and I really don’t want that right now. Just tell everyone I went home to get some rest and that I didn’t want to ruin their good time.”

Matt keeps glancing over his shoulder, trying to keep track of who’s eating what. “Okay, fine, sure, whatever,” he says, then turns back to watch the festivities.

I crouch down and skulk out of the restaurant. With all the whoops and hollering, no one notices, which is just how I want it. I’ll send Evelyn a text in a little while saying I’m going to take a nap and I’ll see her tomorrow. That way she won’t decide to swing by my house to see if I’m okay.


A little less than an hour later, I hop the curb and ride up Nessa’s driveway. I’ve only been here once before, three years ago. Nessa’s mom had passed away and there was a get-together where they served crustless tuna-salad sandwiches with relish, a shrimp plate with way-too-hot cocktail sauce, a soggy lasagna, and three different brands of cola.

Mrs. Caldwell was the first parent I ever knew who had died, and I spent most of my time in the kitchen, trying to stay out of the way. Vacillating between being grateful that it wasn’t my mom who was dead and feeling really guilty for being so grateful.

I ride my bike around to the back of the house. Nessa gave me explicit instructions not to leave my bicycle in front and to be careful not to be seen by anyone who might narc us out. I lay my bike against the tree with the tire swing and walk across the frozen lawn, lugging my backpack up to the patio. The sliding glass door is cold on the knuckles as I give a light knock. A minute later, Nessa appears, all pale skinned and violet lipped — dressed in tight black jeans, a spiked choker, and a low-cut black shirt with a blue-jeweled cross dangling hypnotically just above her cleavage.