Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(71)
I smile tightly, worrying less about the “improvements” to my script and more about just how professional Mr. Nestman will be when he finds out he didn’t land one of the leading roles.
I FLOAT ALL THE WAY HOME from school on my bike, taking my time as I weave along the streets, intermittently glancing down at the back of my hand and the phone number that Leyna’s written there in red-raspberry ink. I love how she writes her fives. And don’t get me started on how sexy her eights look. All curvy and round.
To be honest, I didn’t think today would turn out as well as it has. Though, despite Leyna’s accepting my apology, drama class was torture. Mr. Nestman acted like it was his movie we were rehearsing instead of mine. Changing everything that Nessa and I worked so hard on. And that was before I read the cast list and he realized I’ve only got him playing an army sergeant.
And then, after school, we tried to film the first scene with Evelyn and Nick. That was pretty much a two-hour nightmare. Not only are Nick and Evelyn horrendous actors — I mean really, truly terrible — but they both move in slow motion. And take ten times longer to say their lines than they should. If we were actually going to use their scenes, our movie would be twenty hours long.
The good thing is, I’m more convinced now than ever that we are doing the right thing by shooting the decoy film. And so are Val and Helen, who were dubious at first. But once we met up with Leyna and Hunter — sans cell phones, of course — and shot the very same scene in one-quarter the amount of time, and with infinitely better acting, there was no one who wasn’t on board with the plan.
And that’s not even the best part. As soon as we wrapped, Leyna came up to me, all excited and full of ideas for her character. She took my hand and wrote her phone number down on the soft pad between my thumb and forefinger —“So we can always get in touch with each other”— and everything felt right again. Better than right.
I turn up my driveway, lifting my hand to my nose and breathing in the raspberry aroma of the ink. I hop off my bike, lift the garage door, and tuck my ride right in beside Mom’s old black Volvo. Even this, putting my bicycle away, feels effortless and fluid. It sounds totally weird, I know, but taking control of things and putting our movie plan into action has made me feel taller. And lighter. Like I’m half helium. Like if someone were to hand me a basketball right now, I could dribble it across the street to the Goldsteins’ and slam-dunk it in their crappy old basketball hoop.
I’m in my house and bounding up the stairs — thinking about how great it’s going to be to continue filming with Leyna this week — when I step into my room and see that it’s nearly empty except for all the baby stuff and a few scattered Pokémon cards on the floor.
I stand there in the doorway. Blinking at the void. My stomach taking a nosedive. Trying to work out how this pitch-black puzzle piece fits in to the sunny brightness of my day. But it’s like in those shows where an alien ship suddenly appears over Manhattan and everyone’s brain short-circuits because they simply can’t handle the enormity of the situation.
“Hey, there, mister.” It’s Dad, clapping me on the shoulder, a big isn’t-life-grand smile on his face. “How was your day?”
“What are you doing?”
“You’re home earlier than we thought,” Dad chirps. “Another half hour and your mother and I would have had the entire move completed.”
“We wanted to surprise you,” Mom says, waddling up behind me, a half-eaten Ding Dong in her hand. Jeez, I can’t believe how much her belly has inflated in just the last month. “Don’t worry, though. Your father isn’t letting me do any of the heavy lifting.” She takes a big bite of the chocolate hockey puck, which leaves icing smears on her lips.
“Wait.” I shake my head, unable to process anything they’re saying. “I thought . . .” I clench my eyes shut, trying to ward off the killer migraine that’s blossoming in my skull. “I thought I wasn’t going to have to move until right before the baby was born.”
“Sorry, kiddo,” Dad says, pushing past me and stepping into my bedroom. “We had to accelerate the schedule a bit. The doctor said the baby’s trending faster than she expected. We thought we’d better get started on painting the room.” He begins pulling my swords down from the wall. “It’s better this way, anyway, I think. Yank the Band-Aid off quick and clean, right? Interesting factoid about change: they actually did a scientific study where they found that people acclimate to new situations much faster when —”
“I don’t care,” I snap. “You guys said I had until May.”
“Um, no,” Mom says. “We said the baby was due in May, but now it looks like —”
“This isn’t fair.” I feel my eyes starting to well up. “I’m not ready yet. You should have told me.” I march into the room and start gathering up the Pokémon cards from the floor. “These are valuable. You could have damaged them. You should have let me organize my stuff first.”
“Sorry, guy. We thought it would be easier for you this way.” Dad leans the swords gently against the wall. “Not to have to move the stuff over yourself. That was the other thing they discovered in this study. People who were thrust into new situations were more likely to —”