The Accidental Siren

8.1 The Zombie-Ferrets Strike Back

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE ZOMBIE-FERRETS STRIKE BACK

“She's focused. She knows what she likes. She doesn't talk too much--”

“Mara?” I exclaimed and blinked hard. “She talks all the time!” I blinked again. Four hours in Whit's room and my eyes were still watering from the stench of cheap cologne.

“She listens to me rant about computers. She likes video games--”

“You wish! Mara likes books and movies, not Metroid and Zelda.”

“Then why did Ms. Grisham get her a Nintendo for her tenth birthday?”

I slouched in the chair and plopped my feet on the TV stand. Mara never told me about a Nintendo.

“She rocks at Duck Hunt,” Whit continued, “but she couldn't figure out how the plastic gun knew where she was aiming.”

“I suppose you explained it to her.”

Whit pressed fast-forward on my camera. The fairytale war zipped across his nine-inch TV. The image was cut to pieces by lines of silver static. He pushed play just as a masked creature leapt into frame and a fireball exploded from the tip of its torch. “Cooking spray in an aerosol can,” he said. “Never thought I'd say it, but A.J. had a good idea.”

The dramatic whoosh of the fireball was muffled by the hum of the four-wheeler's engine. “Blah.” I said. “We're gonna need a lot of folli.”

“Folli?”

“Background sound. The torches, footsteps, sword clanks, rustling leaves...”

“Do you have any idea how much work that'll be? We have three weeks to--”

“It's gotta be perfect. Mara’s counting on me.”

Whit shrugged and paused the shot. “Keep or cut?” he asked, his pen hovering an inch above the production notebook.

“The fireball is killer,” I said. “Keep it.”

He scribbled a note, popped the cassette from the camera, placed it in the “finished” pile with two others, then grabbed a tape labeled “19” from the leaning stack of “to-dos.” He yawned.

“Wake up,” I said. “We can sleep when we finish the tapes.”

Whit ignored me and pressed play.

The pretty face of Ryan Brosh filled the screen. He was wearing makeup, but donned a basketball jersey instead of a costume. He looked at the camera, opened his mouth, and pretended to eat the lens.

I scoffed.

“Why do you hate him?” Whit asked.

I snatched a two-liter of Diet Coke from the floor and took a swig. “He kissed Mara.”

“Yeah. On a dare.”

“He likes her too.”

“Everybody likes her. You don't get dibs on a girl just 'cause you live in the same house.”

“This is different. Ryan--”

“--has muscles where you have lard?”

“I'm down fourteen pounds, scrotum-hugger.”

“I thought your goal was ten?”

“I’m at one-thirty-one. For my height, that's still six pounds overweight.”

“So you’re gonna hate Ryan until you weigh one-twenty-five?”

I gave the bottle to Whit, leaned forward, and sighed.

“There’s somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me,” he said.

“Mara likes him back.”

“She told you that?”

“I read her diary.”

“I thought you said--”

“She says he's a great actor. Says he's funny and smart.”

Whit chugged the cola and wiped his lips. “She called him by name?”

“She says he's super cute. Even wrote 'super' all uppercase.”

Whit winced as if my pain was his. “What are you gonna do?”

“I called him last night.”

“You called Ryan Brosh?”

“I told him we don't need his help. Told him to stay away from my house.”

“You threatened Ryan Brosh?”

I smirked. “I felt like The Claw on Inspector Gadget.”

“It won't be enough. He's never gonna stop.”

“I told him off.”

“You pissed him off.”

I didn't respond, but watched the TV as the mannequin fell along the castle brick. “Radical shot,” I said. “Keep it.”

Whit didn't reply. Except for the ballpoint pen wobbling between his fingers, his body was frozen.

“Hey,” I said. “What's wrong with you?”

He didn't budge.

“Whitney Conrad!” I shouted and kicked his wheelchair.

“What?” he asked. The pen stopped bouncing.

“The shot, doofus. Mark it as 'keep.'”

“Sorry.” He clicked the pen and jotted down the note.

I took another sip of caffeine and capped the bottle. “What a psycho.”