Beach Party Surf Monkey

by Chris Grabenstein

  I hustled back to my post on the diving board.

  I had to focus on the movie. If it was a hit, Mr. Conch wouldn’t be able to do any kind of hit job on our motel.

  “You ready?” asked Gloria when I took my position at the edge of the pool. She could tell my brain was somewhere besides on location.

  “Yeah.”

  I quickly thought about flailing my arms to make the dive funnier, but if I wasn’t fully tucked when I hit the water, that might take away from my big splash. Plus, my arm flailing might distract Kevin the Monkey in the middle of his jump.

  It’s tough being a movie star. You have to think about so much stuff, but they don’t give you a lot of time to think about it. Plus, I was still thinking about Mr. Conch taking a wrecking ball to Grandpa’s rocket.

  “Scene 701,” said the lady with the clapper board, holding it in front of the camera lens again. “Take fourteen.”

  “Quiet on the set!” shouted the A.D.

  “Aaaand…”

  Before Kurt could say “action,” I heard a very loud, very annoying noise.

  And this time it wasn’t coming from Aidan Tyler.

  “Hold the roll!” shouted the soundman, whipping off his headphones and killing the playback on the Surf Monkey song.

  When he did, all anybody could hear was the rattling clink of a heavy chain coupled with the throaty rumble of a motor.

  It was coming from next door.

  The Conch Reef Resort.

  Man, oh, man, I thought. They are totally trying to sabotage us!

  Dawn Foxworth, the producer, who had been sitting in a director’s chair behind the camera next to Kurt, marched over to the pool. Mr. Carnes, the locations manager, followed her.

  “P.T.? Gloria? Ms. Wilkie?” said the producer. We need to go next door and have a word with your neighbors. Kurt?”

  “Yes, Dawn?”

  “Take an early lunch.”

  “That’s lunch,” said Kurt.

  “That’s lunch!” boomed Dawg.

  “Lunch!” shouted all the crew heads.

  “We’re eating next door at the Conch Reef Resort’s buffet,” announced Dawg. “Thirty minutes and then we’re back in.”

  As you might recall, the Wonderland doesn’t have a restaurant. The Conch Reef Resort, on the other hand, has those World-Famous Grouper Fingers with Tartar Sauce. So even though Mr. Conch was more or less our number one enemy at the moment, we were basically giving him a ton of money (I guess to make it easier for him to buy the Wonderland if the movie flopped).

  The entire cast and crew trooped over to the world-famous buffet—except Aidan Tyler, Cassie McGinty, and Kevin the Monkey. They’d be eating in their air-conditioned trailers. Cassie was having a leafy-green smoothie. Kevin was munching monkey kibble. Aidan was probably popping more M&M’s into his mouth. Just the green ones.

  While everybody else grabbed lunch, Mom, Gloria, and I went searching for the source of the clinking and clanging with the movie’s producer and locations manager.

  It was pretty easy to find.

  Veronica Conch was out back, near the Conch Reef Resort’s kidney-shaped pool, watching a crane install—are you ready for this?—a thirty-foot-tall statue of a buccaneer.

  “Isn’t it sweet?” she shouted. “Daddy gave it to me!”

  “Hey there, Mrs.—I mean, Ms. Wilkie,” said Veronica Conch as the fiberglass pirate creaked into place behind her. “Oh, hi, Ms. Foxworth, Mr. Carnes. My father and I met you guys over in Tampa when you were looking for a location but didn’t pick ours. Remember? Is everything okay?”

  “Is your father available?” asked Ms. Foxworth.

  “Nuh-uh. He and the construction engineer just left to go talk to some lawyers because we need to knock down more shabby old motels that nobody wants to stay in anymore. Daddy’s closing another mega-huge deal. Hey, speaking of deals, Ms. Wilkie, are you guys ready to sell your motel to Daddy because he always gets what he wants?”

  “No,” I answered. “We’re too busy making a major motion picture!”

  “I know. I heard the song about the monkey. Gosh, that sure was loud.”

  “Not as loud as your crane!”

  “What’s going on over here?” said Grandpa, joining us by the Conch Reef pool. When he saw the giant pirate statue, he nearly dropped his can of Cel-Ray.

  He did belch.

  “Is that one of mine?” said Grandpa. “Young lady, did you steal that pirate from us?”

  Veronica scoffed. “Hardly. Do you think you guys are the only ones on Gulf Boulevard who can attract customers with goofy statuary? This is Pirate Pete and he’s all ours!”

  “Veronica,” said Gloria, “I don’t know if you realize this, but Surf Monkey Productions arranged for their entire cast and crew to take their lunch here at your restaurant today.”

  “Well, it is the biggest, best, and most bountiful buffet on the beach. Try saying that three times fast.”

  Gloria kept going. “That’s one hundred and twenty-six lunches at fifteen dollars apiece, which equals one thousand eight hundred and ninety dollars in revenue for your restaurant. Comparing that with your average daily sales…”

  “Wha-hut? How’d you get those numbers?”

  “Immaterial. Eighteen hundred and ninety dollars is triple your typical lunch take. Surf Monkey Productions had planned on buying one hundred and twenty-six more lunches tomorrow…if…”

  “If what?” asked Veronica, blinking a lot.

  “You can keep the noise down over here!” snapped Ms. Foxworth.

  “Well, there’s no need to get all snippy about it, ma’am. Golly, you Hollywood people sure are pushy.”

  “What Ms. Foxworth is trying to say,” said Gloria, “is we’d sincerely appreciate your cooperation. In return, we won’t be calling Crabby Bill’s Casual Seafood Shack down the block to make alternate lunch arrangements.”

  “Oh. I see. This is what they call playing hardball.”

  “Correct.”

  Veronica nodded.

  “Daddy does it all the time. So when, exactly, is your lunch break over?”

  “Half an hour,” said Ms. Foxworth.

  “No problem. The crane guys should be finished by then.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “We just need to get it set up for our big promotional event this weekend. Will you be filming this weekend?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Because we expect to attract quite a crowd. We’re doing our first-ever Pirate Chest Treasure Quest. I’m printing up treasure maps, burying a chest filled with sparkly goodies….”

  I couldn’t believe it.

  Neither could Grandpa.

  “That’s our gig!” he said.

  “You mean that used to be your gig,” said Veronica with a big smirk.

  Fact: while the Wonderland was busy making movies, Veronica Conch was swooping in and stealing our best ideas. Gloria and I had already done a Pirate Chest Treasure Quest!

  “By the way,” said Veronica, “would you and your movie crew like to eat breakfast in our restaurant, too? If so, I can double-triple guarantee there won’t be any more noise problems.”

  Gloria nodded with what looked like reluctant admiration. “You’re good, Veronica—if not entirely ethical.”

  “Ethics don’t put pennies in my piggy bank.”

  “I see. Is that your personal motto, Veronica?”

  “No, it’s Daddy’s. So do we have a deal or what?”

  “You have a deal,” said Ms. Foxworth.

  Veronica triumphantly pumped her arm. “Ka-ching!”

  By the end of the day, I’d done so many cannonballs into the pool I had to sit on a pillow to eat dinner.

  And my toes were all sorts of wrinkly. They reminded me of a box of those weird golden raisins.

  But such is the price of fame.

  The next day, I was back in the makeup tent at six o’clock—in the morning. Cassie started at five!

  That’s another t
hing about being famous—you have to wake up really, really early.

  “How’s your butt?” asked Gloria, because she’s my best friend and can ask me stuff like that.

  “Still sore.”

  She checked a grid clipped to her board. “Well, according to today’s schedule, you’re all done cannonballing into the pool. Today you’re just a background player.”

  “Excellent!”

  I noticed some paparazzi hanging around in the parking lot behind a rolled-out line of security tape.

  “Let’s do this thing, man!” Aidan Tyler marched out of his trailer, which was parked pretty close to our neon Welcome to Wonderland sign. It was perfect! Cameras started clicking. Aidan started waving. The Wonderland was in the background of every shot.

  “You can’t buy that kind of free advertising,” said Gloria. “Well, you can. But it would cost a bajillion dollars.”

  “Did you share Aidan’s schedule with the press?” I asked.

  Gloria grinned. “Maybe.”

  We knocked knuckles. Using the movie to market the motel was working, big-time!

  “Look!” shouted a guy lugging a video camera. “It’s Cassie McGinty with Kevin the Monkey!”

  All the other photographers and reporters went wild.

  “Kevin!”

  “From YouTube!”

  “Over here, Kevin!”

  Fifty cameras swung away from Aidan to catch the more exciting scene: Cassie with Kevin riding on her shoulder. The monkey was clapping and blowing lip farts. It was hysterical. Luckily, Cassie and Kevin were near our neon sign, too!

  “That’s so super cute,” said Gloria.

  I gave her a look. Gloria doesn’t usually say girly-girl stuff like “super cute.”

  “Well, it is!” she said defensively. “It will also ensure maximum media exposure and retweets.”

  “Yo,” said Aidan, smiling and flicking his fingers through his bangs. “Check it out, guys. I’m going to do the Look.” He did an over-the-shoulder backward pout.

  The cameras clicked and flashed.

  At Cassie and Kevin.

  “Cassie?” shouted a reporter. “Who’s cuter? Aidan or Kevin?”

  “It’s a toss-up,” she answered. “But Kevin’s the better kisser.”

  The monkey puckered up and gave Cassie a wet smack on the cheek. Everybody laughed.

  Except Aidan Tyler.

  Security guards politely asked the reporters and camerapeople to stay behind the yellow tape as Aidan, Cassie, and Kevin waved good-bye and took their places around the corner at our swimming pool—where the paparazzi couldn’t see them.

  “Okay, Aidan,” said Kurt, ready to set the scene. “This takes place right after Surf Monkey jets around the pool. You’re a preppy. Cassie’s a hippie. You come from different worlds. But that can’t stop Cupid from shooting an arrow straight through your heart. You ready?”

  “Yo, I’m the Tyes. I was born ready.”

  “Perfect. Cassie?”

  “All set.”

  “J.J.?”

  “Kevin’s ready to rock.”

  The monkey struck a pose.

  “Then let’s roll,” said Kurt.

  The lady with the clapper board marked the scene. The cameras started rolling.

  “Aaaaand action!” called Kurt.

  “Hello,” said Aidan. “I’m Eric Von Wipple. Who. Pray tell. Are you?”

  “Cut!” cried Kurt.

  “We got it?” asked Aidan.

  “No,” said Kurt, tugging at the hair on the right side of his head. “It sounds too stilted. Loosen up a little.”

  “Totally, ace. You got it.”

  “Take two,” said the lady with the clapper board.

  “Aaaand action!” said Kurt.

  “Yo, hello,” said Aidan, his limbs all loose and floppy. “What’s shaking, baby? I’m, like, you know, Eric Von Wipple.” He flounced toward Cassie. “What do they call you, besides gorgeous?”

  “Cut! Give it more energy!”

  “Cut!” shouted Kurt, tearing at the hair on the left side of his head.

  “We got it?”

  “No! Let’s do it again. Give it a little more authority.”

  “You mean like I’m the big boss?”

  “Sure,” said the director. “Try that.”

  The clapper board lady slated the scene again.

  “Aaaaand action!” said Kurt.

  Aidan puffed up his chest. “HELLO!” he barked like a drill sergeant. “I’M ERIC VON WIPPLE. WHO, PRAY TELL, ARE YOU?”

  “Cut,” sighed Kurt, yanking hair clumps on both sides of his head.

  Aidan’s two lines would be repeated twenty more times.

  Kurt would keep pulling his hair out of his skull.

  Because Aidan Tyler was even worse the next twenty times he tried to act.

  On take twenty-three, Kurt said, “Try it a little faster, Aidan.”

  So Aidan did.

  “Hello. I’mEricVonWipplewhopraytellareyou?”

  On take twenty-four, the director said, “Slow it down.”

  Aidan did that, too.

  “Hellooooo. Iiiiii aaaam Eeeeriiiic Vooooon Wiiiii­iiiii­ipple.”

  “Cut!” shouted Kurt. “Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut!”

  “Yo?” said Aidan. “We got this or what, man?”

  “Um, Kurt?” said Dawg, touching his earpiece. “Just got word: Boris has arrived. He’s in Mr. Tyler’s trailer.”

  “Finally,” said the director. “Aidan?”

  “What?”

  He motioned for Aidan to step out of the scene so they could discuss something privately. They moved away from the pool and into the side parking lot.

  “Uh-oh,” said Gloria. “They’re in camera range.”

  “Not really,” I said. “Cassie still is, but Aidan and Kurt aren’t….”

  “I’m not talking about the movie camera,” said Gloria. “I meant those guys.”

  She nodded toward the pack of press people. Gloria and I hurried over to warn Kurt and Aidan. It was too late.

  “We’ve flown in an acting coach from New York,” Kurt told Aidan. “Boris Kolenkov.”

  “Why, man?”

  “He’s going to work with you. Help you with your line readings.”

  “What?” shouted Aidan. “You’re cray-cray, Kurt. I don’t need no acting coach.”

  All those photographers behind the yellow tape line? They were merrily shooting Aidan’s latest meltdown like mad.

  “Bad publicity,” Gloria whispered in my ear. “If this goes viral, it could become toxic. People will say Beach Party Surf Monkey is a flop long before it even hits a single screen.”

  She was right. If everybody was saying the movie was a disaster, the money people out in Hollywood might cancel the whole production. And if they did that, Mom might really sell out to Mr. Conch so she could hike in an Arizona desert.

  I had to go into damage control mode, pronto!

  So while Aidan and Kurt screamed at each other, I strolled over to meet the press as casually as I could. Inside, I was panicking.

  “Awesome, isn’t it?” I said with a proud smile. “That’s Kurt Stroh’s famous emotional immersion technique.”

  “Huh?” said one of the reporters, lowering her camera.

  “It’s a method Mr. Stroh uses to mine the deep, inner emotions of his cast. Did you catch his musical masterpiece Put On Your Shoes? How do you think he got those dancing street urchins to cry like that? I’ll tell you.” I gestured toward the ugly scene behind me. “Sometimes to build up a character, you need to tear down an actor’s emotional walls. Mr. Stroh learned this technique over in Russia, studying with the famous acting teacher Boris Kolenkov, who, as you heard, just arrived here at the Wonderland Motel. I’m curious if he brought any of his other famous clients with him.”

  “Like who?”

  “You know. Bradley, Matt, Leonardo. Jen, Scarlett, Angelina.”

  “Are they all here?”

  I shrugge
d. “Not sure. But Mr. Kolenkov is very beloved by all his star pupils, most of whom only need first names. I’m just saying they might all be here in St. Pete. And since Mr. Kolenkov is Russian, they might all be enjoying some early-morning chicken Kiev and herring at the new Russian theme restaurant downtown.”

  The paparazzi forgot all about Aidan Tyler.

  They bolted for their vehicles and took off on my wild Russian goose chase.

  As soon as they were gone, Gloria and Dawg escorted Aidan to his trailer for Acting 101 lessons with the renowned coach from Moscow.

  I went over to make sure Cassie was okay.

  “You good?”

  “Fine. I haven’t had to say a word all morning. I just had to wait for Aidan to say his.”

  “Let’s move down to the beach,” said the director. “Aidan’s not in that scene until the very end.”

  “Good idea,” said Cassie, handing Kevin off to J.J. “Maybe the acting coach can work a minor miracle. Because I hate to say it, but Aidan Tyler is the worst actor I’ve ever worked with.”

  “Can you say that louder and with more authority?” I joked, doing my best to sound movie-director-ish.

  “AIDAN TYLER IS THE WORST ACTOR I’VE EVER WORKED WITH!”

  Everybody on the crew laughed.

  “Let’s hit the beach,” hollered Dawg.

  I went to grab my stuff.

  When I picked up my towel, I saw Veronica Conch standing on the other side of the fence separating our two properties. She must’ve been up on a ladder—because the fence is six or seven feet tall.

  She waved at me.

  I waved back.

  She waved again.

  I pretended the sun was in my eyes.

  Gloria rejoined Cassie and me down on the beach.

  “Excuse me, Cassie,” she said, consulting her clipboard. “Do you want the same thing for lunch?”

  “Not really,” said Cassie.

  “Was there something wrong with your smoothie yesterday?”

  “No. It was fine. I’d just rather—I don’t know—hang out with you guys and have more bologna sandwiches and rippled potato chips. You know—a normal kid lunch.”