October Girls: Crystal & Bone (23 page)

“And you’re double-crossing him?”

“Worse than that. I’m blowing any chance for a stable relationship.”

Crystal felt a surge of emotion rise in her, filling her chest with warmth. She scooted forward on the bed and hugged Bone tight, wishing the warmth could seep into the dead girl and revive her. Wishing, wishing, wishing.

But it’s just another symbol. Wishing for something you can’t have.

Bone’s ghostly tears were like dandelion sap.

A minute later, Bone sniffed and said, “Pity party’s over. We’ve got a real party to get ready for.”

“I’d guess I better go as a witch.”

“How original. I’ll go as a ghost.”

“As a real ghost, or are you wearing a sheet?”

“That’s what I’ve been meaning to tell you. Dempsey’s movie. It’s called
The Halloweening
.”

“As stupid as all his other titles.”

“Yeah, but the idea is pure gold. The set-up is this high-school Halloween party, kids in costumes messing around, and all of a sudden a real ghost appears.”

Crystal shook her head. “Boring. A supernatural
Scream
without the Neve Campbell. You already had that idea, remember?”

“You don’t get it. Halloween. And a real ghost appears. A ghost named Royce.”

“Whoa. Isn’t that against the rules or something?”

“They’ve got an agent. They can do anything they want.”

“And Dempsey’s got the camera rolling the whole time.”

“It’s like reality TV, only it’s a movie.”

“And the world will finally have proof of life after death. Royce will be bigger than… bigger than….”

“James Dean. Heath Ledger. Taylor Lautner with chest hair.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of God and Satan.”

“We don’t talk about that, remember?”

Momma called from the kitchen, reminding Crystal that she had to be at work in an hour. Crystal went to the closet, wondering how she’d pull together a witch’s costume without a credit card. Why couldn’t Momma be a
normal
witch and have black robes, pointy hats, and ugly old-lady shoes?

Crystal had been planning to go through the motions, walk through the party with Pettigrew, say hello to the right people, and be out of there before midnight, in time to help Momma save the world.

Suddenly the evening had become much more complicated. She owned no black panty hose. “So where do Cindy and Pettigrew fit in?”

“The basic storyline is Pettigrew doesn’t believe in ghosts, so Cindy wants to prove they exist by summoning a restless spirit through an Ouija board. A little conjure session at the party, Royce struts in, love triangle erupts. Of course, there’s a romantic subplot—”

“Any kissing?”

“I haven’t read the script,” Bone admitted. “But if it’s like Dempsey’s other movies, then you can count on locked lips, swapped tongues, and some partial nudity.”

“I’m going to kill that jerk.”

“I know a UPS van you can hotwire that’s got a pretty good track record.”

Crystal selected khaki Capri pants, a scarlet T-shirt, and a white cotton sweater, changing in front of Bone without shyness or pretense. “Maybe I should warn Momma.”

“I wouldn’t do that. They’re watching her very closely. If they suspect something’s up, they will be on to me, and it won’t be pretty. Besides, she’s got enough to worry about just watching the portal and making sure she has enough candy corn for the neighborhood kids.”

“Why do I get the feeling this is more about saving you than about saving the world?”

“I’m on borrowed time. I lied to get away—”

“Like that’s the first time that’s ever happened.”

“—and I’m passing up a hunka hunka burning love with a movie star. See? I’m choosing you over Royce.”

“I’m moved.”

“Does this mean I get to keep the blouse?”

Bone’s development had stopped once she’d died, and though she’d been ripe and lush for a sixteen-year-old, Crystal had since gained a full cup size on her. She didn’t want to think of Bone as a little sister.

People were meaner to family members than to friends, simply because friends could leave you. She’d already lost Pettigrew and she didn’t want to be stuck with just Momma and Roscoe.

“Sure, I’ve outgrown it anyway. Got a hot date or something?”

“A girl’s always got Plan B. In
my
script, Royce discovers that the dead and the living are doomed like Romeo and Juliet, so he decides only a ghost chick can understand him. And I plan to understand him, if you catch my drift.”

“Your drift is smoke on the water.”

“We got each other’s back, then?”

Crystal thought about it. She really should be here at midnight to help Momma when the portal got wide and the veil was thin. Plus there was this business of the Underlings. If she abandoned her watch, then the powers of darkness would be let loose on an unsuspecting Parson’s Ford.

On the other hand, if she skipped the party, Pettigrew might make a play for Cindy Summerhill.

And she still wasn’t sure which side Bone would choose when push came to shove and the dead demanded their day in the sun.

But you didn’t drop your best friend over a little thing like everlasting life.

“All right,” Crystal said. “Here’s how we’ll do it.”

Before they could make plans, Momma banged on the door. Crystal thought it was odd, because Momma’s style was to yell from the far end of the trailer, leaving Crystal to her privacy.

“What is it?” Crystal shouted, as Bone hid in the closet.

The door shook again with her insistent blows.

Annoyed, Crystal answered the door. Then she understood why Momma wasn’t yelling.

She had no mouth.

T
he Summerhill house was in the older section of town, where Colonial-style brick, white trim, and black shutters were the basic ingredients of the upper-class lifestyle. The house was set back from the street with a neat lawn, and two old, gnarled oaks stood sentinel, shedding brown leaves on the driveway. A portico was supported by high, white columns, and the evenly spaced windows suggested order and safety.

Nice, normal suburban house. Bummer.

Dempsey figured a little special effects and clever use of shadows would work wonders, though, and the place could make a convincing haunted house. He peered through the camera’s viewfinder, making sure he could get his establishing shot before the lawn filled with high-school kids.

“Back in my day, all we had was the school newspaper,” Martin Summerhill said. His tie was askew and his sleeves rolled up, projecting the air of a man who’d rather be playing golf.

“Yes, sir,” Dempsey said. “Multimedia is all the rage now. Social networking, video blogging, Tweets. Real-time entertainment.”

“Nothing but the best for our children,” Martin said. “I’m a strong supporter of education.”

Dempsey smiled, letting the man make his political pitch. He’d seen a “Re-elect Summerhill” sign by the mailbox and figured the election was coming up in a few days. Dempsey had already promised his vote, not that he had any intention of being in Parson’s Ford when Tuesday rolled around.

“Are you registered to vote?” he asked Snake, whom Dempsey had brought along as a production assistant.

“Too young,” Snake said. “Plus I’m a convicted felon.”

Martin drew back with a confused, startled expression, as if a felon in his yard was as unthinkable as a pile of steaming giraffe poop.

Dempsey gave an exaggerated giggle and said, “He got ya, didn’t he? That Snake. Such a comedian. The next Bill Murray.”

He jabbed Snake in the ribs, and the skinny guy yelped in pain. Then, catching on, he started giggling, too. “Felon, heh heh. Get it? They can’t vote.”

Martin nodded, dubious, eyeing the “Live free or die” tattoo on Snake’s forearm. “So the whole school will be able to watch this, right? After you edit it, I mean.”

“Sure, we’ll make her look good,” Dempsey said, flashing his own political pedigree. “I know the vote for Homecoming queen is coming up, and a little interactive social media certainly can’t hurt.”

Cindy was inside putting on her make-up. Judging by the spin she’d put on the project, her father thought it was a blend of Bible-verse study, Red Cross fundraiser, and class project. She’d sold it well enough that her parents were leaving her home unattended. Dempsey suspected she’d had lots of practice fooling them.

“Okay,” Martin said, straightening his tie for the road. “Tell Cindy we’ll call her from Raleigh. And to keep an eye on Lacey.”

“Royce,” Snake said.

“Excuse me?” Martin said.

“Royce,” Dempsey cut in. “Isn’t he a candidate for Senate?”

“Halloween,” Snake said.

“Halloween,” Martin agreed. “As much as I’d rather stay here giving out candy, the party’s having a party.” He winked at Snake. “Republican, right? Straight ticket.”

“Royce.”

“You got it.”

As Martin and his wife drove away in their Lexus SUV, Dempsey gave the thumbs-up to Snake. “Let’s set up the extra cameras.”

Rounding up that many extras and having them to pretend to be smashed teenagers would have been a logistical nightmare. The real thing was so much easier.

Dempsey wished it had been his idea, but the agent had pulled it all together. He’d even revised Dempsey’s script, the one act that had left Dempsey feeling uneasy. The agent had described the editing pass as a “tweak,” but the dialogue was weaker. Leave it to the Money People to screw up a good story in the interest of box office.

“If you’re going to sell out, better add a few zeroes at the end,” Dempsey said to Snake, who didn’t get it but gave a gap-toothed grin nonetheless. They unpacked the utility van Dempsey used as his production vehicle, Dempsey reviewing the schedule in his head.

The first act called for Pettigrew and Cindy to make out a little in the kitchen, nothing too heavy, just enough to get the teenyboppers in the audience riled up. Then Cindy and Lacey had a little scene playing up the house as haunted, telling stories about the TV turning on by itself and silverware sliding off the counter.

There was a bit about a knife that had flown across the room and buried itself in the wall. Dempsey wasn’t sure how Cindy would explain the gouge to her parents, but before the film wrapped, the kitchen was going to be a mess.

“That Ouija board thing,” Snake said, lugging a light stand onto the porch. “You ever messed with one before?”

Of course. People always ask how you get an agent, and there’s only one way I know of.

“I’ve played around a little bit,” he said. “The little plastic wheely thing kept coming up on
M
. At first I thought it was like ‘
mmmm
,’ but then I wondered if it was M & M’s. You know, the candy.”

“
Mmmm
,” Snake said. “Candy.”

Dempsey wondered if Snake had been smoking strange vegetables, and then decided it wouldn’t make any difference. “Act two is all about the séance, the kids all sitting around the board laughing and joking. Then there’s some moaning and Cindy has the little pointer and she spells out ‘R-O-Y-C-E.’”

“Royce.”

Dempsey didn’t know if Snake was speaking on impulse or had correctly spelled a five-letter word for the first time in his life. “The mood gets serious when Royce shows up. Just fades in like a trick, right in the middle of all these kids who think they’re acting in a movie. A real live ghost.”

“A live ghost?”

“Just carry the lights,” Dempsey said, as Pettigrew steered his rumbling truck into the driveway.

Pettigrew had shaved for his acting debut, though his wardrobe of oily coveralls and flannel shirt would need a serious makeover. Still, the agent had insisted, and the supporting cast really didn’t matter. This was a Royce vehicle, and Dempsey could have band-aided the project with “High School Musical” castoffs and still come out with a winner.

Creativity is so much easier when the audience is guaranteed. Now I know why Hollywood loves remakes.

“Yo, Pettigrew,” Dempsey called. “Break a leg.”

Pettigrew, who was shuffling through pages of the script as he walked across the lawn, said, “What page is that on?”

“It’s an expression of good luck in the industry.”

“I get it. Sort of like ‘bust a gut.’”

“Or ‘cut a fart,’” Snake said with a moist, unpleasant snicker.

“Get in there,” Dempsey shouted at Snake, whipping him with a cable and driving him into the house.

Pettigrew glowered at the script as if it were written in Sanskrit. “When does this Royce guy come in? I don’t even see any lines for him.”

“That’s all improv. Veteran actors do it all the time.”
Much to the annoyance of directors the world over.

Pettigrew flipped through a few pages. “And this part here, where it goes ‘Royce drifts in from the doorway.’ I got a chain in the truck if you need it. You know, to hook him from the ceiling.”

“Just leave the special effects to me,” Dempsey said. “Go on in and practice with Cindy. She’s in her bedroom.”

Pettigrew swallowed hard. “We’ll be alone?”

“Just you two lovebirds and an Ouija board.”

“We’re not lovebirds.”

“Come on, you know how these things go. Nothing gets tabloid coverage like an on-the-set romance.” Dempsey lowered his voice. “You don’t have to marry her or anything. These flings usually end when the next project comes along.”

“I’m going to marry Crystal Aldridge.”

Dempsey gave him a friendly slap on the back that was just a little too solid. “Sure, sure. Hometown sweetheart and all that. But Hollywood is three thousand miles from Parson’s Ford. In L.A., even the homeless are beautiful.”

“I ain’t sure I want to go through with this.”

A vehicle sped down the street, a sleek SUV with tinted windows. It was packed with teenagers. The driver honked and the kids shouted and waved. Dempsey grinned and waved back, and Pettigrew stuck up his hand as if giving an oath.

“Do it for the fans,” Dempsey said. “They need dreams. They need something larger-than-life to make their own lives meaningful.”

“Parson’s Ford was doing just fine before all this glitz and glam came in,” Pettigrew said. “We didn’t need no French accents or fancy coffee.”