Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(87)

Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaaaaaaah! Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaaaaaaah!

I flip over to my other side. When you lie in bed too long without sleeping, your whole body starts to ache. I never knew that until now. That you could actually get sore just lying down. Also, you start hallucinating. There have been several nights where I swear I saw General Grievous’s face on the ceiling. Or Uncle Doug’s giant hairy beard crawling up the walls.

He apologized. My uncle. For bailing on us. He came by when the dust finally settled, said he was sorry for hanging us out to dry but that a pillowcase full of marijuana trumps a disturbing-the-peace charge every time.

Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaaaaaaah!

The one saving grace in all of this is that Leyna’s asked me over to her house to “examine her little muffin” once I’m not grounded anymore. Which is this Saturday. She actually seemed pretty upset that I wouldn’t be able to come over any sooner, which is both thrilling and terrifying. I feel like all this extra time has only heightened her expectations. Still, the thought of actually seeing her — seeing that — is the one thing that’s kept me going. The carrot I dangle in front of myself every day.

Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaa —

Oh, my God. It’s stopped. Cathy must have rolled over onto her side or something. Here’s my opportunity. If I can fall asleep before she starts up again, I might be able to coast through the rest of the night.

I shut my eyes tight. Sleep. Sleep. Must sleep.

I count Angry Birds being slingshot through the air. One red bird. Two blue birds. Three black birds. Four yellow birds. Five toucans. One red bird. Two blue birds. Three black birds . . .

Damn it! It’s not working. I lift my head and smack it back down into the pillow. Take a deep breath and try to nestle my body deeper into the bed.

The room is eerily quiet. Too quiet, maybe.

I strain to try and hear Cathy breathing at all. But there’s nothing.

A thought, both scary and slightly satisfying, occurs to me.

What if she suddenly died? Choking on her own flapping tonsils? Sure, I’d be upset. I mean, Cathy is my twin sister after all. But haven’t I — in my most desperate, panicky, sleep-deprived hours — silently prayed for this very thing?

It’s true. I’ve wished my sister dead. But I didn’t really mean it. Not really really. It’s just that extreme sleepiness can make you antsy and frustrated and desperate — did I mention desperate? — and —

Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaaaaaaah! Zzzzzzzzzz! Zaaaaaaaah!

Well, there you go. Apparently she’s still alive. That’s a . . . relief.

I sigh loudly and try to adjust to the rhythm of her snores. But it’s no use. My mind is too wide-awake. I can’t shut it off. It just wants to keep thinking and thinking and thinking.

About Evelyn, of all things. And how I finally got thrown a bone in that whole hurricane of heinousness. Except my brain refuses to let go of how dumb-lucky I got.

You don’t deserve this, it keeps whispering to me. You aren’t blameless here, buddy. You could have stopped it all before it got out of control. If you’d had any balls.

Yeah, yeah, brain, whatever. It’s not like I got off entirely scot-free. I got a busted nose out of the deal, remember? And my movie is an epic fail. Besides that, I haven’t been able to see Leyna outside the confines of drama class. And maybe worst of all, I’m going to spend the rest of my high school life sharing a bedroom with Darth Vader until eventually I graduate or I totally crack and start cackling like the Joker and begin plotting world domination.

These little arguments have become part of my nightly ritual, which makes me worry that the Joker scenario is the likelier of the two.

There is only one thing I’ve found that gets me through these dark and troubling times. I only use it when things are really bad, because to be honest, I feel a tiny bit guilty about it.

But tonight is definitely one of those nights.

I slip out from under the covers, grab my phone, and tiptoe into the bathroom.





“WE HAVE NO MONEY. We have no camera equipment. We have no time. I thought we already discussed all this.” I’m talking to Coop on my cell phone as I pedal like crazy toward Leyna’s house — finally free to roam the world outside of school again.

“Just hear me out, dawg,” Coop insists. “It came to me in a flash last night. I don’t know why the hell I didn’t think of this sooner. We shoot the rest of the film on our cell phones.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That’ll look real professional.”

“No, it won’t. That’s the point. We don’t want it to look professional. It’ll make it seem more realistic. Like the outbreak is actually happening and Rogart and Nashira are capturing some of it on their phones. It’s totally brill. And it’s never been done before.”

“Uhhh, yeah, for a reason. Nobody’s going to sit through a film shot on someone’s cell phone.”

“It’s not going to be all cell-phone footage,” Coop argues. “I’ve got our old scenes on my computer. So we can still use those. We’ll edit the phone footage in between. It’ll be dope. It adds a voyeuristic element. Makes it more personal. And intense. Seriously. I’m actually glad that this happened because it’s going to make the film even better. Maybe we start the movie with someone in the future finding a buried cell phone. They plug it in and this is what they see: the destruction of the human race.”