Double Feature: Attack of the Soul-Sucking Brain Zombies/Bride of the Soul-Sucking Brain Zombies (The Russel Middlebrook Series Book 3) (12 page)

"Well, come
on
," said the assistant impatiently.

A couple of people tittered, but I didn't care. I still had another chance to talk to the Girl Who Had Formerly Worn Epaulets. Maybe I'd even be able to explain what in the world I had meant by "carrots and peas."

*   *   *

They led us to a classroom, which had been set up as the wardrobe department. Once there, the costumers took one look at us and said, "Cheerleaders." Then they asked us our sizes.

We told them, but then I added, "I never really thought of myself as the cheerleader type before."

"Don't have any choice," said one of the costumers. "We desperately need cheerleaders for the first scene."

"Oh," I said. "Really scraping the bottom of the barrel, huh?"

The Girl Who Had Formerly Worn Epaulets laughed.

The costumer looked up at me and smiled. "Sorry, that came out wrong. I just meant we only had six female extras show up today. You'll make a great cheerleader." She tousled my hair. "Hey, love the streaks."

"Thanks," I said.

"But we'll probably have to put you in a wig for filming. Cheerleaders and purple hair don't really go together."

"Yes," I said. "That's why I did it."

They gave us costumes in our sizes, then sent us behind this partition to undress.

"Can you believe it?" I said to the Girl Who Had Formerly Worn Epaulets. "Cheerleaders?"

"Hey, watch it," said the girl mischievously. "I was a cheerleader."

"No way."

"What?" she said. 'You don't think I have the bod?" By now, she had undressed down to her underwear.

She
definitely
had the bod. She was lean and athletic, and part of me hated her perfect bod. To make matters worse, she was wearing a pink thong. I've never worn one. I've never even touched one. The whole idea of a thong just seems so preposterous.

She also shaved her legs and wore toenail polish. I shave my legs every now and then, but not without cutting myself, and I'd never worn toenail polish in my life. Clearly, this girl liked conforming to our culture's arbitrary standard of female beauty. Even so, that didn't make it any less attractive.

All of this seemed contradictory to me. She didn't wear makeup, but she wore toenail polish? She wore that funky Union jacket, and also a thong?

In any event, I'd clearly been wrong to be interested in The Girl Who Had Formerly Worn Epaulets—not just because she was way out of my league, but because she was undoubtedly not into girls. The fact that she'd been a cheerleader and wore a thong definitely trumped the lack of makeup and the funky Union jacket—just like my 4.0 GPA trumped my purple hair.

I turned away to undress, mostly because I didn't want her comparing her body to mine. "When exactly were you a cheerleader?" I asked.

"In the seventh grade," she said. "That young, it really is about leading cheers. Well, sort of."

I relaxed a little. She hadn't been a cheerleader since the seventh grade? Maybe that didn't trump everything; maybe she was into girls. So that meant that all I had to worry about was the fact that she was still way out of my league.

"Did you do the whole pom-pom thing?" I asked.

The Girl Who Had Formerly Worn Epaulets laughed. "Yup!"

"Did you have little mini pom-poms on your shoes? Pink headbands and yellow scrunchies?"

"Unquestionably."

"The closest I've ever come to cheerleading is..." I thought for a second. "Well, now!" I was dressed, so I turned around to show her how I looked. "Well?" I said, spreading my arms.

"Very nice! And me?" Now she modeled for me.

"Even nicer," I said, and it sounded just as suggestive as I'd intended. Finally, I was back to being my usual, forthright self.

From wardrobe, they led us to another classroom, which was the makeup department. The artists there gave me a black wig, and caked enough makeup on me and the other girl to make us look exactly like teenage girls wearing too much makeup. The Girl Who Had Formerly Worn Epaulets and I chatted the whole time.

She was witty and quick, and even though we hadn't talked about anything important, I was 99 percent certain that her politics were like mine, frighteningly liberal.

It wasn't until after they'd led us back to the hospitality suite to wait for the filming that I realized that I still didn't know her name.

"Oh!" I said. "I'm Min."

"Leah," said the girl. "Hi."

"Hi." She thought for a second. "Hey, you maybe wanna get some dinner after this thing is all over?

Yes, I wanted to get dinner with Leah!

I had been quite looking forward to this movie shoot. Despite what I'd told Russel and Gunnar, I had been eagerly anticipating being an extra, seeing how things were done on an actual movie set. Once Leah and I had made our plans, however, our dinner was suddenly all I could think about.

The strangest thing about making movies is how different everything behind the camera is from what's in front of the camera. It's like two completely different worlds. This makes sense, of course, since what's behind the camera and what's in front of it serve such different functions.

The first shot took place in the school hallway near the front doors. In front of the cameras, it looked like a typical, if idealized, high school hallway. Neatly lettered posters hung from the walls, and teenage extras dressed as students milled around in front of the rows of freshly painted lockers.

Behind the camera, however, it looked like an explosion at Circuit City. Technicians in headphones twisted dials on black consoles while other technicians adjusted these banks of lights and the white panels used to reflect and focus the lights. Cables and cords snaked everywhere. The whole chaotic mess reminded me of a bees' nest, except that the worker bees—the technicians and assistants—were swarming around not one, but two queens: the director and the movie camera itself, which was black and bulky and resting on a dolly.

The two worlds even seemed to
smell
different: on the high school side with the student extras, it smelled like teen grooming products—perfumes and hairspray on the girls and body spray on the guys; on the side with the lights, cameras, and technicians, it smelled like stale coffee and sweat.

We started shooting the first scene. The main character, a teenager named Brad, comes to his new high school for the first time, but the other students tease him for wearing the wrong color socks. We extras just promenaded back and forth in the background.

"Good!" said the director when we were finished. "Let's set it up again, folks!"

While everyone moved back into place for a second take, the director had a series of little conversations, first with his assistants, then the producer, then the actors.

While we waited, I glanced over at Leah. She was deep in discussion with some of the other cheerleaders.

She saw me and smiled, but I looked away. I happened to see Kevin talking to Russel, but Russel looked angry, which was good, so I figured it was best if I just kept my distance.

Finally, the director was ready for us again, and we shot the same scene for the second time.

In fact, we kept filming that same scene, again and again, all morning. I'd had no idea that film work involved so much repetition.

"There are all kinds of things to consider," said Gunnar, coming up to me at one point.

"What?" I said, confused by his statement.

"The lighting, the sound, the performances of the actors, even the extras," he said. "If one of us looks right at the camera, they have to shoot the whole thing over again. That's why they're doing all these different takes. It's a lot of work to set these shots up, so they want to make absolutely certain they get everything just right before they move on."

"Oh," I said. "That makes sense." I was distracted; I couldn't help but notice that Leah was still chatting with the other cheerleaders. Someone must have just said something hilarious, because she was laughing uproariously. For a second, that seemed strange, but then I remembered how the girls she was talking to weren't necessarily actual cheerleaders; we were all just dressed up for the movie.

Russel joined us. "So what are you doing tonight?" he asked me.

"Tonight?" I said. "Nothing much." For some reason, the idea of telling Russel and Gunnar where I was going made me uneasy. I didn't know if this "dinner" with Leah was a date or not, but telling them about it seemed like a sure way to jinx it, of "expecting" something to happen when I should have been least expecting it.

We must have shot that scene in the hallway fifteen times. By the time we broke for lunch, I was convinced that Leah had forgotten all about our going to dinner, or at least changed her mind.

On our way back to the hospitality suite, I saw she was finally by herself again, so I couldn't resist stepping up next to her.

"We still on for dinner?" I asked.

"Unquestionably!" she said. "There's this great little Ethiopian place near here. You ever had Ethiopian food?"

I replied that I hadn't, but that I thought the idea was a good one. She told me where the restaurant was.

"Why don't we just meet at the restaurant right after the shoot?" I said.

"Sure," said Leah.

The rest of the day was a blur—but a very, very slow blur.

That night, I met Leah at the restaurant. It was just a little hole in the wall, with linoleum tabletops and macrame wall hangings. Someone had knocked toothpicks all over the floor. The fluorescent lights hummed, and the air smelled of garlic and sour milk.

Leah was waiting for me just inside. "I know it doesn't look like much," she said. "But trust me, the food's really great."

We claimed a table, and the waitress—an extremely bored twelve-year-old girl who was clearly the daughter of the owner—gave us these oversize, laminated menus. I'd had a lot of different cuisines in my life, but this one was new even to me.

"You want me to order?" said Leah. "They serve it kind of family style anyway."

Point of fact: I'm a vegetarian. For some reason, however, I was reluctant to tell Leah that. That's really not like me. I usually don't have a problem telling people my opinions. I guess I was hesitant because I really wanted Leah to like me.

"How about the vegetarian combo?" I suggested, keeping my eyes locked on the menu. "That looks good."

Leah looked up. "You a vegetarian?"

She was going to learn I was a vegetarian sooner or later. It's not like I was going to change my whole way of living, not to mention sacrifice my principles, just to get together with her. As a result, I said, "Yes."

"Yeah?" said Leah. "Me too! And the vegetarian combo was exactly what I was going to order."

"You're a vegetarian?" I said, surprised, but very pleased.

She nodded and fiddled with the sugar packets.

"For how long?"

She plucked a napkin from the dispenser. "Well, I wouldn't call myself a
strict
vegetarian."

"How so?"

"Sometimes I eat meat."

I laughed. "Yes, that's not what I call a strict vegetarian either!"

Leah laughed too; I had meant for her to be in on the joke. "I just get so sick of eating nothing but French fries."

"And salad," I said.

"God, yeah! I'm so sick of salad. With that horrible low-fat Italian dressing. That's the worst."

The "waitress" came and took our order. Then Leah asked me, "So how come you're vegetarian?"

This proved that Leah knew something about vegetarians after all. There are so many different reasons not to eat meat. I also appreciated that she didn't say "I'd heard that your kind doesn't eat a lot of meat," which people have actually said to me before.

"Animal cruelty," I said. "I like meat. I'd eat it in a minute if they didn't raise it the way they do. People always say that it's natural to eat meat—you know, that cavemen ate meat, and all that. Sure, and I agree. But cavemen didn't keep their pigs in cages so small they can't move, and grow them so fat that they can't stand up on their own, and feed them ground-up other animals for food. Anyone who's ever owned a pet knows that animals can feel pain and fear." I thought for a second, then winced. "So you eat meat, huh?"

Leah laughed again. "Don't worry. You're absolutely right, and I know it. I should be a lot better."

I may be opinionated, but I'm not an idiot. I decided to change the subject.

"What made you want to do this zombie movie?" I asked.

"Oh, I just love monster movies," said Leah. "I saw the sign in our hallway at school, and I just knew I had to do it."

"No way," I said. "You really love monster movies? So do I!"

"Yeah, but really only a certain kind of monster movie. I mean, they have to take it seriously, you know? I hate it when you get the sense that the filmmakers don't really believe it, like they're just in love with the special effects, or with being hip and ironic. Because monsters aren't 'real,' you now? But it
is
a monster! How much more serious can it be? It's like that scene in
The Ring
when the main character hears the TV on, and she runs into the family room and sees that her son has just watched the evil videotape that means the ghost is going to come for him in seven days. Sure, maybe that can't happen in real life—but it's happening in the movie! They take it seriously, so how can
you
not take it seriously?"

I agreed with everything Leah had said, even about that scene in
The Ring.
I couldn't remember the last time I had completely agreed with everything anyone said.

"What's your favorite monster movie?" I asked.

"God, there are so many," said Leah. "But my favorite is probably
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
. The original, of course. One, it's genuinely creepy. But two, there's this sense that the world really is coming to an end. And you believe it! I mean, they never really explain how those whole pod-creatures work—you fall asleep, and they somehow form your body double? I mean, huh? But it doesn't matter. The filmmakers and the actors obviously really believe it, so you do too. And it's really scary!"

Right then, our food came, which was a big round tray covered with a gigantic, bubbly pancake. Directly on top of the pancake were mounds of various dishes—stewed lentils, collard greens, garbanzo beans, split peas, and some kind of cabbage and carrot concoction.

"Wow," I said.

"That's the
injera
," explained Leah, meaning the pancake thing. "Some people think it's too sour, but I love it."

"Oh," I said. I glanced around the tabletop. "I think I need a fork. And a plate?"

"You eat with your hands," said Leah. She reached out and tore off a piece of the
injera
. Then she used it to scoop up some of the lentils and popped the whole thing in her mouth.

"Oh," I said. I felt stupid, and I thought about the times when I was younger and I'd had non-Asian friends over for dinner, but forgotten to get them a fork.

"Watch out for the cabbage thing," said Leah with her mouth full. "It's
spicy
. But damn, this is yummy."

I tore off some of the
injera
. I'd expected it to be warm, but it wasn't. I popped it in my mouth.

"Oh," I said. "It's good!" I didn't say it, but it was also fun eating with my hands.

"Back to monster movies," said Leah. "What's your favorite?"

I thought for a second, but not just about monster movies. I was trying to decide how to answer. What if I mentioned a movie Leah hated? That was a stupid thought, of course. If I answered, either Leah would like what I had to say, or she wouldn't. Either way, she would be getting to know the real me, which was the only thing I had to offer her.

"
Aliens
," I said. "That's my favorite monster movie by far. One, because it has Sigourney Weaver. What more do you need? But two, because it has my favorite movie line of all time. It's at the end of the movie, and Sigourney has just moved heaven and earth to save her surrogate daughter from the aliens—only to discover that the alien queen has secretly stowed away on board their spacecraft and is now hovering over the girl, about to kill her anyway. So Sigourney suddenly steps out of that storeroom strapped into that awesome power-loader forklift contraption, and she says to the alien queen: 'Get away from her, you
bitch
!'"

Leah busted up. "Oh, God, I
love
that line! And I love that forklift thing—it's all set up so perfectly earlier in the film. God, that movie is a
classic
."

We kept laughing and talking—both of us now. The overhead lights still hummed, and the smell of sour milk was stronger than ever, but I was having an incredible time.

In other words, it sure felt a lot like a date to me.

*   *   *

Still,
was
it a date? I had no way of knowing; I'd never actually been on one before. I had only ever met my one other girlfriend, Terese, in this abandoned warehouse at night. My one and only boyfriend, Web, meanwhile, had been an absolute jerk who I would just as soon completely purge from my memory banks.

First and foremost, I had to figure out if Leah was even into girls. If she wasn't, then this definitely wasn't a date.

After dinner, we went for a stroll in the neighborhood. The restaurant was on McKenzie Street, which happens to be the one tiny part of our town that is in any way hip and/or funky. The college where my dad teaches is nearby, which means there are just enough people to support a small cluster of vegetarian restaurants, sleepy coffee shops, and stores selling incense and meditation chimes. The air smelled like roasting cashews, which was odd because I didn't see any street vendors.