Freaky in Fresno

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  Dedication

  To Jamie Lee Curtis,

  the ultimate scream queen

  and ambassador of self-esteem.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  chapter 20

  chapter 21

  chapter 22

  chapter 23

  chapter 24

  chapter 25

  chapter 26

  chapter 27

  chapter 28

  chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from Pretty in Punxsutawney chapter 1

  About the Author

  Praise for Freaky in Fresno

  Copyright

  chapter 1

  I nearly have an out-of-body experience as I watch Jake lean in to kiss me.

  It’s the moment I’ve been dreaming of, and my adrenaline is pumping so hard I’m afraid I’ll pass out. It feels like everything has shifted into slow motion as a voice in my head screams, This is it, Ricki! Your first kiss from a nonrelative!

  Jake is so close I can sense the warmth of his breath on my lips as I draw in the fresh afternoon air. I close my eyes and . . . execute a full-body spasm to duck out of the way.

  I basically react as if the two of us are in a slasher flick and Jake is coming at me with a butcher knife instead of those perfect lips of his.

  My evasive action is not subtle.

  The fact that Jake’s romantic timing is completely wrong really shouldn’t matter. After all, I’ve been hoping for a kiss from him for the past three months as we’ve worked side by side, trying to save the Starlight Drive-in movie theater from closing forever.

  And it makes perfect sense that Jake would be caught up in our victory—getting ready to light up the enormous outdoor movie screen we’re currently painting. A kiss right now would make our impending triumph even sweeter.

  But when I envisioned our first kiss, never once did I picture myself covered in spatters of bright white paint and buried under eight layers of perspiration.

  All afternoon Jake and I have been painting over the stained and rusted places on the Starlight’s giant outdoor movie screen in preparation for Friday’s grand reopening. We’ve been goofing off and “accidentally” getting paint on each other while working our way down the scaffolding to where we’re now standing on the ground, and my stomach muscles ache from laughing so much.

  Despite my two-dollar sunglasses, I’m fairly blind from the sun’s constant glare off the giant wall of white, and on top of everything else, my lips are so dry, I’m afraid a soft, tender kiss from Jake could draw blood. Not to mention I’m hours beyond the power of my last breath mint.

  It’s not like I’m the type of girl who needs things to be overly romantic; I’d just prefer my first kiss to be minty fresh.

  And okay, since I’m listing things, I’d really love for it to happen Friday night underneath the stars at the drive-in’s grand reopening. The magical movie night Jake and I have been working toward for months. I know that makes it sound like I am overly romantic, but trust me—my favorite romance is the 1935 horror classic, The Bride of Frankenstein.

  Jake and I actually met at a Classic Horror Movie Tuesday right here at the Starlight last spring. The theater could never afford to switch to digital projectors, so it hasn’t been able to screen new movies for a few years now. Wes, the owner, who is so bonded to the Starlight he probably sprang to life from the drive-in’s dust, was doing his best to stay afloat showing only older films.

  Wes was working really hard, making up theme nights for every day of the week based on classic films. He had things like Monday Movie Musicals featuring Grease and The Sound of Music, as well as Eighties Movie Saturdays with a John Hughes tribute each weekend.

  Jake and I share an obsession with classic horror flicks, but not everyone appreciates the iconic sensation of sitting in a folding chair beside your car, watching a double feature of The Birds and Creature from the Black Lagoon. Ticket sales at the drive-in were already dangerously low before the big flood forced Wes to close last fall.

  The fancy, high-tech digital projectors for showing newly released movies are astronomically expensive. I’m talking, like, eighty-thousand-dollars expensive. So, six months ago, when waist-high floodwaters ruined the outdated equipment that had allowed the theater to keep barely scraping by, Wes was sure he’d need to close the Starlight’s front gate forever.

  The passion Jake and I have for the drive-in inspired me to write a stirring letter to our local paper about how important the Starlight is to our community. The paper printed my email address along with the piece, and Jake and I were thrilled over how many volunteers wrote to ask how they could help. That one letter kindled a fund-raising drive that is actually on the verge of saving the Starlight.

  Besides contacting local businesses to donate supplies (including the white paint I’m presently speckled with), Jake had the brilliant idea to organize a weekend Park ’n’ Swap right here on the lot. Professional vendors paid to participate, and the flea market folks gave Wes a portion of their profits. The way people in the community rallied was truly inspiring, and we raised enough money for all the necessary repairs as well as extra funds to rent a digital projection system for our big reopening in two days. Someone even donated a new speaker sound system that’s being installed tomorrow.

  All Wes needs now is a successful night on Friday to prove to the bank they should give him a loan. If he can just borrow enough for a down payment on the digital projector system, he can start showing new releases, and the future of the theater will be secure. Of course, he’s already promised Jake and me he’ll keep running Classic Horror Movie Tuesday once a month as a thank you for all our hard work.

  Out of everything Jake and I accomplished, I think Wes is most excited about the T-shirts we designed, because he wears one constantly. The front of the shirt has a cartoon silhouette of two people about to kiss inside a car with the words “Experience the magic of the Starlight” written among the stars over their heads. For the design, we wanted to play up the local legend that claims a first kiss exchanged at the Starlight guarantees a long and love-filled relationship.

  After all the stories Jake and I heard from so many couples of all ages, still together after sharing their first kiss here, I don’t even think it’s false advertising to call kissing under the stars at the Starlight “magic.”

  Which is why I can’t believe Jake decided to try and shift our relationship from buddy comedy to blockbuster romance right now instead of waiting two days for opening night on Friday. Magic never happens on a Wednesday afternoon.

  “Whoops!” I say as I flinch away from his near-kiss.

  We’re almost done painting the bottom section of the screen, standing in the grass with our paint rollers on long extension poles. Jake must’ve interpreted the quick wink I gave him before detaching the pole from the handle of my paint roller as a “this is it” moment.

  Except that I’ve turned it into a “what was that?” moment by acting like Jake just tried to murder me. I’m practically shaking as I try to act casual, bending down to dip my roller into the tray. I pretend my maneuver was just to reload with paint, despite how awkward the angle of
my arm is now.

  Jake blinks a few times in confusion and quickly shoves his long bangs out of his eyes. I look down at the now-dripping paint roller in my hand and try to come up with a diversion. Inspired, I wave the long, detached pole back and forth, wishing it were a wand that could turn back time and give me a do-over.

  Jake just blinks rapidly as he watches me.

  In desperation, I give the pole a playful spin, knocking myself lightly in the forehead. “Ow!” I drop the paint-filled roller onto the grass at our feet.

  I laugh and Jake doesn’t, and my heart clenches as I bend back down to pick up my roller. Green blades of grass now stick out from the white paint. Great.

  By the time I’ve finished picking the grass from the roller, Jake has turned his focus intently to the section of screen just above him. His face is bright pink as he rolls on yet another coat, ignoring the fact it has plenty of paint already covering it. I clear my throat, but he refuses to look my way, and so I turn my attention to my own already-very-much-finished section.

  I’ve been crushing on Jake ever since we first made eye contact, each setting out our lawn chairs beside our cars at dusk early last summer as cartoon hot dogs and sodas paraded by onscreen. We lined ourselves up close enough to start a casual conversation and quickly discovered our mutual obsession with old horror films.

  It was a happy accident that the battery in his Bronco died from having the radio on throughout the whole movie and I had to give him a jump from my parents’ minivan after the film ended. Which of course turned into the perfect excuse to keep our connection sparking.

  And now, after having so much fun together for almost a year, summer is starting again and we’re finally getting to the part where we share a magical kiss, and I’ve just ruined everything. My mind feels as blank as the screen we’re both over-painting.

  Finally, an idea moves into the white space of my brain. I simply need to get us back on track by casually mentioning I’m super psyched about going to opening night together. Surely he’ll get the point I want to save our first kiss for underneath the stars during the movie.

  Except that now the dryness has moved from my lips to my throat and I can’t seem to say anything.

  Finally, Jake says, “Hey, Ricki, I’m sorry about that, um—” He gestures to my general mouth area. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable. I just thought . . .”

  “Oh no, don’t be sorry!” I’m shocked he’s choosing to actually talk about what just happened. I was fully prepared to never ever, ever acknowledge it. “That was, um, cool.”

  “That was horrible,” he says. “I just tried to kiss you and you dodged me like I was the Wolf Man or something.” He gives me a small smile, and I’m so grateful he’s still clearly into me that I could kiss him. On Friday night, that is.

  I joke, “I’d call it more of a dodging-Dracula move.” I pretend to cover my neck.

  Jake doesn’t laugh, and I wonder if I can use the leftover white paint to cover up how much I am blushing right now.

  I must shift our conversation to how great our first kiss will be at the grand reopening. But instead, all my idiot blank brain comes up with is, “So, who’re you coming as on Friday?”

  It’s actually a valid question since we’ve given the reopening a fun costume theme. People who come dressed as their favorite movie character get a free bag of popcorn. But asking Jake about his costume now just sounds like I’m refusing to acknowledge our near-kiss and changing the subject. How am I so bad at this?

  After a few beats, Jake says, “I was actually considering classic Dracula. Or maybe the Wolf Man.”

  “Such a coincidence,” I say, trying to pretend away the lingering awkwardness. “But either one of those guys will take a lot of work to get right. And I can’t imagine you shaming Lon Chaney or Bela Lugosi with some nonauthentic version.”

  “True,” Jake says. “I’d need to go all in. Wouldn’t want to embarrass myself with a lame, generic attempt.”

  I smile, but it feels like this whole conversation is a lame, generic attempt to hide our embarrassment. The silence washes over us as I continue my futile paint rolling, while also trying to think of something else to say about dressing up on Friday.

  “I’m just happy for a chance to use my horror makeup skills,” I say. “I was thinking about being the Bride of Frankenstein, but I haven’t figured out a way to get my hair to stand up so high.”

  “Cool.” Jake’s voice sounds like he’s forcing it to sound casual. “I’d love to come as something over-the-top, like a giant tomato from Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, but I have a feeling Wes would like us to wear costumes we’ll actually be able to work in.”

  “Yeah, he already warned me, nothing super gory.” I laugh, and it feels almost natural. “He still hasn’t forgiven me for the time my cousin Lana and I did our faces all ‘bloody victim’ for a Halloween Horror Night here at the drive-in.”

  “I didn’t know they did a Halloween theme night.”

  “It was a year and a half ago,” I say. “Before you started coming. Wes only remembers because I gave him a bad jump scare as my dad was buying our tickets. He still sometimes calls me ‘Gore Girl’ as a joke.”

  I frown at the memory of goofing off with Lana. We had a total blast that night, but it was probably one of the last times the two of us hung out together, totally engaged and doing something fun.

  Jake must feel the shift in my mood because he says, “Looks like this screen is as painted as it’s going to get. Here, I’ll rinse off the rollers and you can go wash up.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m sweating so much I’m starting to stink.” Jake looks vaguely grossed out, which just further proves I’ve killed any romantic tension that may’ve still been lingering between us.

  I blame my stupid cousin Lana, which I know is a stretch, but it’s her fault we don’t hang out anymore. She utterly rejected me, and now just thinking of her makes me automatically frown unattractively.

  All I can hope is that I’ll be able to redeem things with Jake by Friday night. And maybe then I’ll get that perfect first kiss and truly experience the “Magic of the Starlight.”

  chapter 2

  It’s still light out when I get home, so I lower my blackout shades and block the horror of my exchange with Jake by watching Hitchcock’s The Birds in my darkened bedroom. During a break in the movie’s soundtrack of screeching and fluttering and screaming, I hear a knock at our front door. This movie always creeps me out, and I’m unusually nervous as I hit pause and head to see who’s here.

  The sun is low in the sky, and I squint at the beams of light streaming in through the bay window in our living room.

  Jake made a fast departure when he dropped me off, and yet I’m hopeful he’s come back.

  When I fling open the front door, I picture my tall, lanky crush standing there. But instead, I find my petite and loathsome cousin, Lana, giving me a smug grin. I frown.

  I can tell right away she’s just finished filming one of her makeup tutorials. Every last one of her freckles is buried under thick foundation and her eyelashes look ready to crawl down her face like two spiders.

  “Hello, Ricki.” Lana’s vivid lips are tightly pressed together. “I’m here to smack you with an epic proposition.”

  “As long as you don’t literally smack me.” I close the front door behind her. “Or attack me with a makeover blitz.”

  “It’s not about that,” she says. “Although your eyes would look epic with a little purple liner to accentuate your brown eyes. And those cheekbones—”

  “I have no desire to put on one of your phony masks, Lana,” I say.

  “Hold on.” She yells up the stairs, “Aunt June! Can we talk?” I marvel at the volume achieved by such a tiny creature.

  “I’ll be right there,” my mother calls down. “Let me grab the new top I found for you.”

  Lana gives quick little claps and squeals, “Yay, new clothes!”

  It figures my cou
sin is actually here for my mom. I curse the glamour gene that bonds the two of them together. That gene totally skipped me. Along with my father’s dark hair and tan skin, I inherited a brain that blocks my ability to care about what clothes I wear. Lana says it’s a crime I don’t wear high heels because she loves tall girls who can rock a pair of stilettos, but I’m pretty sure a blurry photo of me would end up on some website with the headline, “Sasquatch Discovered in Fresno, California.”

  “I’ll wait for your mom to come down so I can tell you two together.” Lana flings herself into my favorite spot on our leather couch. I can’t help but think her bony bottom is going to ruin my perfectly formed butt groove. “You’re both going to freak.”

  “I’m freaking already,” I say in a dull voice.

  “You still wear that shirt?” She points to my Wolf Man movie poster T-shirt. I put it on when I got home as a tribute to the least-cringy part of my embarrassing exchange with Jake.

  I gesture to the faded front of it. “Um, obviously.” I wonder if Lana remembers she was with me the day I bought it at the mall. Of course, that was before she evolved into the beauty guru who’s too cool to be seen with me. Particularly at the mall, aka her tribe’s mecca.

  “Huh,” she says while staring at my shirt. She definitely remembers being with me.

  “Do you still have that Beauty and the Beast shirt you bought?”

  “God no. I mean, I didn’t throw it away, but I have no idea where it is.”

  “Yeah, you never were all that sentimental.”

  “Oh, but Ricki, I am totally sentimental! And just wait until I tell you. This news that I’m about to share is seriously epic.”

  “I think you may be abusing the word epic.” Lana blinks her spider-rimmed eyes at me and I shrug. “I’m just saying . . .”

  “You’ll understand when you hear,” she says. “Epic-ness is guaranteed.”

  My mother walks down the stairs with her Chihuahua, Zelda, prancing neatly at her heels. The tiny white dog is perpetually attached to my mom like a pointy-eared parasite.