by Georgia Byng
“Hello-o,” said a squeaky woman’s voice on the intercom. “Can I help?”
“I’ve come to see Barry Bragg.”
“Come on up to the fifth floor.” The door buzzed open. Molly and Petula stepped inside into a dark, mirror-lined lobby that smelled of oranges and vanilla. They crossed its shiny stone floor to a small elevator. Soon they were at the fifth floor.
“Good morning,” said the receptionist, who looked like a Barbie doll. She cast her black-lashed eyes over Molly, registering her scruffy clothes. Then she noticed Petula. “Ah, so it’s a dog act, is it?”
“No.”
The receptionist looked in Mr. Bragg’s calendar. “I wasn’t expecting anyone this morning,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes,” said Molly, thinking of how she’d made up her mind to see Barry Bragg after watching him on TV. “Yes. I made my appointment in person, with Mr. Bragg, this morning.”
“Oh, I see,” said the receptionist. It didn’t cross her mind that Molly might be lying. “Mr. Bragg will be out in a minute. Please take a seat.”
Molly sat down to wait. She and Petula watched, fascinated, as the secretary took out a makeup box the size of a tool kit and spent ten minutes painting her very pouty lips.
“Well, thank you for coming,” came Barry Bragg’s treacly voice. His office door opened. A young boy with a big duck puppet emerged with his parents. They were all smiling.
“Well, thank you for seeing us,” said the mother. “Shall I call you?”
“He was fabulous, fabulous, fabulous,” said Barry Bragg. “But don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the boy, and his duck said, “Tankya, mister!”
“Oh, Jimmy…. He’s unstoppable,” said his father proudly.
“I see, I see,” said Barry Bragg, laughing loudly. “Well, good-bye—and keep practicing.”
The visitors left. Barry Bragg loosened his pink bow tie and breathed a sigh of relief. “Gee whiz, talk about a tired act.” Then he noticed Molly. “Who are you?” he asked, frowning.
“She said she’d made an appointment with you,” explained the receptionist, realizing slowly that she’d been duped.
Molly nodded, steeling herself for what she was about to do.
“No … parents?” asked Barry.
“No,” said Molly.
“Well, how refreshing!” exclaimed Barry Bragg. “I tell you, the worst part of this job is the parents. Pushy parents. They’re the bane of my life. Gee, a kid on its own is welcome! Come in!”
This was the first time that having no parents had been to Molly’s advantage. “Thank you, Mr. Bragg,” she said as she stepped into his purple-and-gold office.
“So,” said Barry Bragg, eyeing Molly’s scruffy outfit as he sat down on his desk. “What kind of act you got? Some sort of Cinderella thing? I like the raggy getup—it’s got real authenticity!” He opened a cigar box. As he lifted its lid, it started to sing “You’ve Got to Pick-a-Pocket or Two.” He selected a short, fat cigar and bit the end off, spitting it out behind him, and picked up a lighter shaped like Charlie Chaplin. A flame came out of Chaplin’s hat, and after sucking and puffing cigar smoke into the room, he said, “Okay, kid, let’s see what you can do.”
As the smoke cleared, he turned his blue eyes toward Molly. She was holding a pendulum, which she was swinging slowly backward and forward, backward and forward, and her soft voice was saying, “Just look at this.”
“Oh, so it’s a hypno …” Barry Bragg tried to finish his sentence but couldn’t remember what he was going to say. The pendulum was so beautiful to watch. Its middle was a strangely spinning spiral that drew him toward it. “That’s beautif …” No more words seemed able to leave his mouth, but he didn’t mind at all.
Molly slowly stopped the pendulum swinging and said calmly, “Look into my eyes.”
That was it. Molly’s green eyes zonked Barry within seconds, and Molly set to work.
“Barry, you are now under my command, and you will do whatever I tell you, is that understood?” Barry nodded. Molly smiled. “First thing, I want you to put out that cigar….”
Half an hour later, Barry was talking enthusiastically on the phone. “I’m tellin’ ya, Rixey, she’s fabulous. You just gotta come see her.”
After a quick cab ride from her apartment, the producer and director of Stars on Mars arrived at the Derry Street office. Her name was Rixey Bloomy and she was one of New York’s hottest personalities. She was thirty-six years old and was the most expensively dressed woman Molly had ever seen. She wore a black-leather trouser suit and zebra-skin ankle boots, and carried a matching furry handbag. Her hair was as bouncy as if she had just walked out of a shampoo commercial, her lips were plump and luscious (they had been plumped up by one of New York’s top plastic surgeons), and her eyes were searingly blue. She looked suspiciously at Molly.
“Well, Barry, I know you brought me Davina,” said Rixey Bloomy, “but, honey, this girl’s no looker. Look at her blotchy legs. Sweetie, I think you’re losing your touch.”
“She’s great, she’s great,” insisted Barry. “Even Molly will admit that she’s no beauty queen, but don’t you see, there’s something about her. She’s magic.”
Rixey Bloomy looked astonished.
“Shall I show you what I can do?” suggested Molly.
Within the time it takes to sharpen a couple of pencils, both Rixey and Barry were gazing glazy eyed at her.
“So what I want,” Molly instructed, “is a part in a big musical here in New York, and I want one that pays well. What have you got?”
“Nothing,” said Rixey Bloomy, her head swaying. “All the—shows we’re—doing have—adult parts in—them.”
Molly faltered. There must be some big acting job out there that she could take. She wanted one. More than that, she needed one. She simply had to get some money.
Then she saw Davina Nuttel’s picture on the wall. Molly was reminded again of Hazel. Davina had the same spiteful glint in her eye. Memories of Hazel being mean fired through Molly’s mind.
“Right, then I’ll have Davina Nuttel’s part in Stars on Mars,” she said.
“If you—say so,” said Rixey.
“Good,” said Molly. “I’ll learn her songs, I’ll learn her dances … oh, and I want my dog in the show.”
“There—are—no—parts—for—dogs—the—show’s—set—on—Mars,” said Rixey Bloomy.
“Well, make her a part,” said Molly. “And design Petula some astronaut outfits.” Petula looked at Molly as if she liked this idea. “And,” continued Molly, “I’ll need all the bills at my hotel paid for I want to get paid twice as much as Davina Nuttel. Er, how much will that be?”
“Forty—thousand—dollars a—month.”
“Mmnn.” Molly gulped. “Yes, well, that is the amount you must pay me. And I want loads of new clothes, because as you can see, mine are a bit shabby, and I’d like a chauffeur-driven car that waits for me at all times, and while you’re at it, make that a Rolls-Royce. And I want a never-ending supply of candy. I’ll tell you which ones I like later. And here’s something very important. I must meet all the people in the show separately, before we start working, and all the people who work behind the scenes, and I really mean all of them…. Is that clear?”
The two New Yorkers nodded.
“Lastly, I don’t want to meet Davina Nuttel. Have you got some other show you can put her in?”
“No.”
“Oh, well, never mind…. And why do I want all this?” asked Molly, leaning back in her chair to look proudly at her puppet creations.
“Because you are the most talented kid ever to have hit Broadway.” Barry sighed.
“Because you’re pure genius.” Rixey Bloomy nodded.
Molly shivered inside. This was going to be a mammoth challenge. She hoped she was up to it.
Seventeen
It was all so easy!
At four o’clock that
afternoon, Molly was dancing around her hotel room sucking a chewy candy and singing along to the CD of Stars on Mars.
Scattered around were opened boxes full of tissue paper, with new clothes spilling out of them. Rixey Bloomy had chosen them, and Molly had spent the afternoon trying on jackets, dresses, trousers, and shoes. The coffee table was now a candy table, with two huge bowls filled with all sorts of candy and one full of multicolored marshmallows.
Petula had taken to patrolling the windowsill, barking at scrawny pigeons whenever they landed.
After the last number Molly switched off the CD player and lay on the bed, wearing new jeans and a very cool T-shirt with a shiny moon on it. She wished she could tell someone about all this. Namely Rocky. Maybe he had telephoned Miss Adderstone and left his new address by now. It was five hours ahead in England—nine o’clock—so Adderstone would still be up. Molly picked up the telephone and dialed. After six rings the telephone was answered. “Good evening, Hardwick Orphanage,” said the familiar voice of Gerry.
“Oh, hello, Gerry,” said Molly.
“Molly! Molly, where are you? Adderstone said you’d gone on a plane!”
“I’m in New York,” said Molly, thinking how impressive that sounded. “And the plane was brilliant. But look, can I speak to Adderstone?”
“Adderstone’s gone.”
“Gone shopping? Gone to have her bunions done? When will she be back?”
“She’s never comin’ back,” said Gerry, suddenly whispering. “She’s gone, and Edna, too. Adderstone said they wanted to be nice to children from now on, so they were leavin’ us to rule ourselves an’ we could do anything we liked.”
This was the last piece of news Molly expected to hear.
“Why are you whispering, Gerry?”
“‘Cause Hazel’s nearby, down the passage. She’s in charge now, see, and … gotta go … ‘bye!”
The line went dead. Molly dialed again, but this time the phone was busy. The idea of the orphanage being run by Hazel was horrifying! Then Molly supposed that Mrs. Trinklebury would keep an eye on everyone, and she relaxed. She wondered where Miss Adderstone and Edna had gone and felt responsible. She hoped they weren’t doing anything dangerous. Visions of Miss Adderstone snipping up other people’s suits and Edna hitting people who didn’t like Italy filled Molly’s mind.
Molly telephoned the orphanage once more.
Gerry picked it up again.
“Hello, it’s Molly.”
“Hi, Molly,” came Gerry’s tiny whisper. “Look, the thing is, Molly, I’m not s’posed to answer the phone. Hazel gets very cross. I’ve gotta go.”
“Gerry, stop, before you do, I want to give you my number in New York. In case Rocky calls. It’s important. Have you got a pen?”
“Erm, yes, I think there’s one in my pocket with my mouse. No, no, Squeak, you stay there…. Sorry, Molly, Squeak nearly escaped…. Oh yes, here’s a pen and, um, some paper.”
“Okay,” said Molly, and she gave Gerry her number at the Waldorf. The line crackled. “And if Rocky calls, give him that number—”
“Gotta go, Molly. Hazel’s not in a good mood, and I don’t want her catchin’ me. ‘Bye.” The phone clicked.
“‘Bye,” murmured Molly, not at all confident that Gerry would relay her message to anyone.
But she didn’t worry for too long. Molly looked at a box of clothes and marveled at how quickly her dreams were coming true.
Petula gazed through the window to watch the November lights of the city start to come on. If she’d had magic X-ray eyes, she would have seen that twenty-five blocks away, in a cheap, dingy room, Professor Nockman was stretched out on a bed, snoring, underneath a single lightbulb that hung from the ceiling. On the floor of the room and all over the bed were newspapers. Professor Nockman was gambling that whoever this M. Moon was, she was going to be in the papers sooner or later for doing something extraordinary. And like a bloodhound he was ready to pick up the scent.
In his dreams he saw the girl again, sitting in the back of the minibus with the hypnotism book in her lap and a pug dog next to her. In his sleep Professor Nockman growled.
Back in her hotel room, Petula sniffed the air. Somewhere out there, a long way off, someone was thinking about her—she knew it. And she didn’t like the way he was thinking. Petula barked, then shivered. She jumped onto Molly’s bed and pushed her nose under the covers to find one of her stones.
Molly had a nightmare. She dreamed that she was a big, ugly cuckoo in a forest with no friends. In the background Mrs. Trinklebury’s song echoed through the branches, as if the very trees were singing it.
“Forgive, little birds, that brown cuckoo
For pushing you out of your nests.
It’s what mamma cuckoo taught it to do-
She taught it that pushing is best.”
All the other birds ignored Molly. Some had the faces of the smaller children from the orphanage. When Molly walked toward them, they flew away. In the dream Molly felt desperately lonely. She was searching for Rocky and tried calling out his name, but all that came out of her beak was a squawk.
However, in the morning she soon forgot the heartache of her sleep. For she had work to do and money to make. She was about to become rich. Soon she would be popular as well, and, in other people’s eyes, even lovely looking, too. Rehearsals for Stars on Mars were starting, and Molly had no time to pine for her friend.
Eighteen
The Manhattan Theater, where Stars on Mars was playing, closed its doors suddenly. None of the newspapers knew why. Behind the doors Davina Nuttel had been fired and the theater staff had been sworn to secrecy. Molly hypnotized every single person who was working on the show: the conductor in the orchestra, the musicians, the ticket people, the sellers, the light operators, the stagehands, the makeup artists, the other actors, and the boy who swept the stage. Everyone thought she was marvelous.
Then rehearsals began. They started at ten every morning, with a brief break for lunch and more rehearsing all afternoon. Molly had to learn where to stand, how to dance, and what to sing and say.
To Molly’s surprise, she discovered that rehearsals were really fun. And she was determined to try her hardest to be good. Of course, whatever she did, the rest of the cast thought she was fantastic. When she sang out of tune, no one noticed. When she got moves in the dance wrong, no one cared. Her tap dancing was useless, but everyone thought it was perfect.
Petula was enjoying it too. She didn’t like the Martian monsters, which were like enormous red peppers with antennae. But she loved the red astronaut’s outfit that had been tailor-made for her. She also enjoyed barking on the stage.
And then, on her third day at the theater, came a meeting that Molly wasn’t expecting.
Molly was in her dressing room when she heard a horrible screamy voice in the corridor shout, “WHERE IS SHEEE?”
“She’s in there, Miss Davina,” a sequined chorus girl said. “But Davina, don’t be too angry…. When you meet her, you’ll see why…. I mean, you’ll like her.”
“LIKE HER??!!!” yelled the voice furiously. “LIKE HER …? SHE’S JUST RUINED MY CAREER. She’s stolen what’s mine. What’s the matter with all of you? Rixey, Barry, all of you … you know I made this show what it is.”
The chorus girl squeaked, “Sorry, Davina, but …”
When Davina stormed into Molly’s dressing room, where Molly was trying on an astronaut suit, Molly was ready.
“So,” said Davina, slamming the door behind her and stamping her high-heeled boot. “Who do you think you are? How dare you?” Then her mouth plunged open. “Are you Molly Moon?” she said in disbelief.
Molly looked at Davina, the singing, dancing prodigy. The starlet whose performances everybody loved to watch. And Molly was fascinated. For, close up, Davina didn’t look like anything special. Without makeup her face was pale and rather sickly looking. Her blond hair was limp and greasy. Her eyes were bulgy and had gray rings underneath them.
>
“B-but you’re so ordinary,” said Davina, amazed.
“So are you,” said Molly, equally bewildered.
“They said you were really, really special,” said Davina, too dumbstruck to register Molly’s remark. “How could someone as ordinary and as lumpy-nosed as you take my part?” She was overwhelmed for a moment. Then, grinding her teeth, she took a step toward Molly and in a calm, charming voice said, “That’s my costume. I think you’d better give it back.” Her eyes fixed on Molly’s.
Molly calmly looked back and suddenly noticed that the pupils of Davina Nuttel’s eyes were huge. More than that, in fact, they were spiraling and dark, like swirling black whirlpools. Molly felt unsteady, as if the ground were starting to disappear. Quickly she concentrated and gave Davina a strong blast of her hypnotic eyes. But she was shocked to find, as she increased her voltage of glare to maximum power, that Davina’s eyes had a strong pull. With every ounce of focus that she possessed, Molly stood firm, until the ground felt balanced again under her feet.
This was a big surprise. Davina Nuttel had the gift. She could sing and dance, but on top of this she had the gift. She had the gift without really knowing what it was. It wasn’t as finely tuned as Molly’s, but she obviously used this power over other people, to influence them and charm them. Molly felt as if she almost wanted to make friends with Davina. She could train her and they could become partners. They’d be unbeatable! But these ideas went out of her head when she heard what Davina was saying.
“You’re so plain, so ugly even…. You’re not the kind of girl anyone would like to watch on stage, so why don’t you just give up? You’re not made for stardom, you’re just too boring, you’ve got no charisma at all, and your dog is revolting.”
Petula whined, and Molly determinedly increased her eye beam again. But Davina’s angry glare shot back. It was a tug-of-war between green and blue eyes. Molly’s hands began to sweat. She was concentrating so hard on her look that she couldn’t even begin to think how to use her voice. She began to worry that she wouldn’t win. And as this negative thought clouded her mind, she weakened. She wondered what would happen if Davina managed to hypnotize her. Maybe Davina would rob Molly of all her powers and leave her empty-headed. Molly imagined herself as a tramp, on the New York streets, lost and confused, with a mind blanked by Davina. It was a future too horrid to contemplate, and so scary that it gave Molly a surge of energy. With a sizzling knockout stare that made her hair stand out from her head, the tension snapped, and Molly had won.
