Lights, Camera, DISASTER!

by Gordon Korman

  * * *

  An hour after lights-out that night, Bruno and Boots crouched in the window of room 306 in Dormitory 3, scanning the deserted campus.

  Boots stuck his head and shoulders out the window and looked over toward the Housemaster’s room.

  “Fudge’s light is still on,” he whispered.

  Bruno glanced at his watch in annoyance. “Doesn’t he know what time it is? Anybody up this late has no business being a Housemaster. What a lousy example he’s setting for us students. Okay, he’s got five minutes. Then I’m going, no matter what.”

  Boots laughed. “You’re just looking for someone to keep you company on garbage patrol.”

  “I hate waiting,” growled Bruno. “It’s almost as thrilling as making a movie! Do you believe those idiots? Thirteen hours of Cutesy Newbar walking around! And tomorrow the shooting schedule calls for thirteen more hours of Cutesy Newbar walking around. I mean, what kind of a movie is this — a training film on walking?”

  “You heard Mr. Dinkman,” said Boots. “They don’t just film the script scene by scene. They do it out of order and edit it together at the end. They’re not even shooting the whole movie here — just the outside stuff. They’re doing the interiors in California.”

  “I think they’re just covering up the fact that they’re not too bright,” grumbled Bruno. “I mean, stupid Cutesy must have changed his clothes twenty times today. And for what? Walking around.”

  “Mr. Dinkman explained all that,” said Boots. “They need to get him in every outfit. That way, when they cut from an inside shot to him walking, he’ll be wearing the right stuff. Hey, Fudge’s light just went out.” Now that the coast was clear, the two boys eased themselves over the sill and stepped outside into the cover of the bushes. Then, silently, they darted past the dormitories, scampered across the highway and scaled the wrought-iron fence surrounding Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. “It’s amazing to see the place so quiet,” observed Boots, gazing up at the darkened windows.

  “It’s amazing to see the place still standing,” said Bruno in disgust, “after the display they put on every time his Royal Cutesiness blew his nose. I’m going to have something to say to Cathy about that.” He picked up a handful of pebbles and tossed them at a second-floor window.

  A shadowy head appeared. “Come on up.”

  Boots in the lead, they shinnied up the drainpipe.

  “Just don’t start chewing them out until we’ve heard their side of the story,” Boots whispered. “I’m sure Cathy and Diane had nothing to do with that teenybopper stuff. They probably don’t even like Jordie Jones.”

  At the window, blonde Diane Grant helped them into the room.

  Bruno and Boots stared. The walls were plastered with posters of Jordie Jones movies, with eight-by-ten glossies of the actor himself filling in every available space. Several of the WELCOME, JORDIE signs lay in the corner under a stack of movie magazines that featured the teen idol. Diane wore a Jordie Jones T-shirt and a button featuring three-year-old Jordie’s face as Cutesy Newbar.

  At that moment, the door opened and Cathy Burton whirled in. “Great news, Diane! Wilma sold us the mug!” She waved a glass coffee cup with Jordie Jones’s smiling face, then caught sight of Bruno and Boots. “Oh, fantastic, you’re here! What’s he like?”

  Bruno knew exactly what she was talking about, but he folded his arms in front of him and set his jaw. “What’s who like?”

  “Jordie, of course!”

  “Jordie — Jordie —” mused Bruno. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Cathy exploded. “You walked right by him! You spoke to him! We saw you!”

  “Oh,” said Bruno in sudden recognition. “You must mean Cutesy Newbar. Well, let me think. It’s kind of hard to judge because he had his pants on. But on the whole, all things considered, I would estimate that, on a scale of one to ten, I liked him about negative twelve.”

  “Why?” wailed Diane. “What did he say to you?”

  “Say?” repeated Bruno, as though she had suggested the impossible. “Speak to a common peasant? Don’t be ridiculous. He might lose his standing as a conceited jerk.”

  “To be fair,” Boots put in, “you were in the middle of where you weren’t supposed to be. They gave out scripts, and I don’t remember any part where a guy in a red velvet jacket comes by for a conversation.”

  “You’re just jealous,” added Diane.

  “Of Cutesy Newbar?” Bruno exploded. “I feel sorry for the guy. How would you like it if, by your third birthday, everybody on earth with a TV set had already had a good look at your derrière? Frankly, I don’t see how he can show his face in public.”

  “Cut it out,” pleaded Cathy. “We need your help to figure out some way to get to meet him!”

  “Wait a second,” said Boots in annoyance. “What do we look like — marriage brokers?”

  “Oh, please!” Diane wheedled. “Just do this one little favour!”

  “Seems like we’re doing you a lot of favours this year,” Bruno snapped. “How about all those fireworks we’re hiding for Miss Scrimmage’s golden anniversary celebration?”

  “Who can think of a bunch of dumb fireworks when Jordie Jones is right across the road?” squealed Cathy.

  “I can,” said Boots feelingly. “Especially if The Fish calls a dorm inspection and finds thirty kilos of dynamite under our beds! Or worse, if they go off and blow us to kingdom come!”

  “Now you’re being paranoid,” said Cathy. “See what jealousy does to a person? Look how mad you’re getting.”

  Bruno swung a leg over the windowsill. “This isn’t mad at all. This is a friendly disagreement. Mad is when the guy goes home and never comes back again. And if he sees Cutesy Newbar on the way, he gives him a good swift kick in the part that made him so famous.” He heaved himself outside and began to descend.

  After a shrug at Cathy and Diane that was half reproach and half apology, Boots followed.

  Chapter 2

  Tap-Dancing Garbage Picker

  Wilbur Hackenschleimer, amateur weightlifter, gourmet and Macdonald Hall’s largest student, was also on garbage detail. Wilbur was there when Bruno arrived at the caretaker’s office to pick up his pointed stick and trash bag.

  “Yeah, it was a food rap,” Wilbur was saying as the two took to the campus. “The Fish didn’t mind me having the toaster oven and the microwave, but he got kind of steamed about the indoor barbecue with rotating spit. He said it violated the dorm fire code.”

  “Picky, picky,” said Bruno sympathetically. “Well, I’m here for exhibiting the kind of creative thought that made this country great.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” said Wilbur. “You snuck into the movie, eh?”

  “What movie?” snarled Bruno. “All I see is a conceited snot-nose walking back and forth. Not my idea of an action flick.”

  “They gave us copies of the shooting script,” Wilbur pointed out. “Didn’t you read it?”

  “I tried to,” said Bruno. “It didn’t make any sense. It was all about this kid Steve. I mean, who’s Steve?”

  “Steve’s the main character,” Wilbur explained patiently. “Jordie Jones plays Steve. His folks send him to Georgetown Academy, and he really hates it —”

  “Okay. I got that far,” Bruno interrupted. “But then the guy starts flushing all this weird stuff down the toilet, like socks, baseball cards, flowers, a grapefruit —”

  “He’s trying to mess up the school’s plumbing so they’ll have to send everybody home.”

  “That’s stupid!” Bruno exploded. “Does The Fish close up Macdonald Hall every time one of the guys clogs up his can? We’d never get to class.”

  “Yeah, but Steve’s going for a total block-up. Only, he forgets about it and starts trying to escape from school. But the teachers always catch him.” Wilbur’s eyes gleamed. “Here’s the best part — meanwhile, the grapefruit has completely jammed up the main sewer pipe.”

  “Leave it to
Cutesy Newbar to co-star with a grapefruit,” muttered Bruno in disgust. “I wonder who gets top billing. I vote for the grapefruit.”

  “The pipe breaks, but they fix it wrong,” Wilbur continued, warming to the Academy Blues story. “Natural gas leaks into the plumbing and, right at the end of the movie, the whole Faculty Building explodes.”

  Bruno stared at him. “They’re going to blow up the Faculty Building?”

  The big boy shrugged. “I think they’re using a model.”

  “Too bad,” said Bruno airily. “Actually, the thing that really bugs me is that all of Scrimmage’s has gone totally gaga over that bonehead Cutesy Newbar, the Rear Admiral.”

  “He doesn’t seem like that bad a guy to me,” said Wilbur. “In the interviews I’ve seen, he wasn’t conceited at all.”

  Bruno made a face. “Just remember that while you ate slop in the dining hall last night, he got into a limo and was whisked off to Toronto for the best meal in town.”

  “That snob!” said Wilbur angrily. “He could have at least brought us a doggie bag!” He stopped and speared a gum wrapper. “I suppose this is as good a place as any.”

  “Says you,” said Bruno. “I’ve got a gut feeling that they really need a cleanup over on the east lawn.”

  * * *

  The largest of the film company’s trailers was the portable screening room, outfitted like a miniature theatre. Director Dinkman, his cameramen and cinematographer, star Jordie Jones and his personal manager, Goose Golden, were scattered among the trailer’s thirty seats, watching the day’s footage on a large screen.

  Jordie yawned.

  Goose leapt to his feet. “The poor child is exhausted! You’re running him into the ground! He’ll collapse!”

  Dinkman looked at his star. “Want to call it a night, Jordie?”

  “Of course not. It’s only eight o’clock.”

  “You could go to your trailer and gear down,” urged Goose.

  “And do what?” asked Jordie. “Play checkers with myself?”

  “If you keep up this frenetic pace, you’ll get sick!” Goose persisted.

  “Hey, Goose,” called the director, never taking his eyes from the screen, “maybe you can settle a little bet for us. Dave here says you’d shut up for five minutes if we shoved a projector down your throat, and I say no way. What do you think?” Suddenly he leapt to his feet. “Hey, stop! Run that back!”

  The projectionist complied, and all eyes were on Jordie, jogging briskly from one of the dormitories. In the background were two boys tossing around a football, a jogger in sweat pants, three students coming back from class and a lone figure picking up litter with a pointed stick.

  It happened in a split second. The garbage picker turned away from his work, looked directly into the camera and waved.

  Dinkman slapped himself on the forehead. “Great! Another undiscovered star! Okay, we can cut that part out. Keep rolling.”

  But a few minutes later, it happened again. Jordie was seated against a tree, doing some homework, when the garbage picker entered the frame, stabbing and stuffing his way in from the left.

  “It’s him again!” howled Dinkman. In a rage, he turned on his cameramen. “What are you guys — asleep? Don’t you notice when there’s an unauthorized person on camera?”

  “Aw, boss, we got kids out there. He looks like all the others. We can still use some of this. He isn’t doing anything.”

  But at that moment, the garbage picker interrupted his work to employ his stick as the baton of a great symphony conductor.

  Dinkman hit the ceiling. “I’ll kill him! I’ll find him, and I’ll kill him! Fourteen grand an hour, four bucks a second, and we’re wasting it shooting him!”

  “Keep on going,” laughed Jordie. “It’s just getting interesting.”

  The scene changed. Now Jordie was walking along with an armload of books, which he dropped, then knelt to pick up. As the shot moved in tight on the star, the garbage picker appeared in the corner of the frame. From the angle of the camera, he looked like a tiny little person perched on the shoulder of a giant.

  “I’m not even upset,” said Dinkman. “I’m numb. A whole day’s shooting down the toilet. How could it be worse?”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the tiny figure began to tap dance. Then he pretended to stab himself with his stick and performed an elaborate death scene. And before Jordie stood up again, blocking him out of the picture, he looked into the camera and distinctly mouthed the words, “Hi, Mom.”

  Jordie Jones was in hysterics, out of his seat, rolling on the carpeted floor.

  “Stop that!” cried Goose, horrified. “Don’t laugh so hard! You’ll get hoarse! You’ll get the hiccups! You’ll get hepatitis B!”

  Jordie only laughed harder. “I’ve got to meet this guy!”

  “Wait a second!” said the director. “I know that face! That’s the kid with the red coat!” He snapped his fingers suddenly. “Hey, get the lab on the phone!”

  * * *

  In the Headmaster’s cottage, Mr. Sturgeon placed an eight-by-ten glossy photograph on the kitchen table in front of his wife.

  “Mildred, what do you make of this?”

  She examined it. “Why, it’s Bruno Walton! Doesn’t he look handsome!”

  “This photograph is being distributed to the entire motion picture crew with instructions to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “Whatever does that mean?”

  “It seems that this handsome fellow has been appearing in several scenes in the movie as an uninvited guest star,” sighed Mr. Sturgeon. “They’re not pleased with him, Mildred. Nor am I.” He smiled grimly. “This picture was taken from a frame of film where Walton was performing what was described to me as a rather creditable soft shoe.”

  She laughed. “I suppose you’ll have to punish him.”

  “That’s just the point,” the Headmaster said in perplexity. “He was on punishment when he did this. The boy is determined to get into Academy Blues or die trying. I’ve extended his punishment and changed it to dishwashing, which will at least keep him indoors. But I really don’t see how much further I can go. After all, Walton lives here; the film people are the outsiders.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to let the movie company on campus,” said Mrs. Sturgeon worriedly.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said the Headmaster. “Look at the Davies boy. He’s out there with his video camera every spare second. I’ve never seen anyone so absorbed. And the boys who are legitimately extras are glowing with enthusiasm. It’s just Walton.” He shook his head. “Who knows what he’s planning even as we speak!”

  * * *

  Boots O’Neal opened the door of room 306 to find a large globe cedar shrub sitting dead centre on the floor.

  “Bruno?” he called. “What’s this bush doing here?”

  “Hey, Boots,” came the reply. “How was class?” Boots looked around nervously. Bruno was nowhere in sight. “Where are you?”

  The bush trembled, then rose, and Bruno appeared from its depths. “Hah! It works!”

  Boots was still confused. “Are we going to a costume party?”

  Bruno laughed diabolically. “Dinkman squealed to The Fish about me yesterday. I bet Cutesy Newbar put him up to it. He can’t stand to share the spotlight with anybody else. I don’t mind that so much. What gets me is all my scenes are cut out of Academy Blues.”

  Boots laughed. “There probably isn’t a tap-dancing garbage picker in the script, you know.”

  “Well, they’ll never spot me in this bush. I’ll just blend right into the scenery.”

  Boots threw himself down on his bed with a groan. “You promised The Fish that you’d stop bugging Mr. Dinkman.”

  Bruno shrugged. “How can a bush bug anybody? It just sits there.”

  “Are you going to just sit there?” demanded Boots. “Or is this particular bush planning to jump up and recite Shakespeare?” />
  “Of course not,” said Bruno indignantly. “I don’t know any Shakespeare.”

  * * *

  Jordie Jones was up early the next morning. While the cast and crew were at breakfast, he had finished his and was sipping a glass of orange juice, leaning against his trailer and watching the dawn break over the deserted campus.

  The outline of the ivy-covered Faculty Building became defined, and the three long dormitories appeared in pale gold light and began to cast their shadows over the lawn. The young movie star sighed and wished himself a part of it all.

  And then one of the shadows moved.

  A large round shape came away from Dormitory 3 and ran stealthily around the side of the building. Intrigued, Jordie jogged over to investigate. But there was nothing there — just the shrubbery that hugged the brick wall.

  He frowned in perplexity, positive he had seen something. Finally, with a shrug, he turned to go, taking a big swig of juice. He winced. Jordie hated orange juice, but Goose insisted that he drink lots of it because the vitamin C would fight off scurvy, elephantiasis, paper cuts, etc. Checking that Goose was nowhere around, he tossed the remaining half glass into the bushes and jogged back to his trailer.

  A certain globe cedar sputtered and spat.

  * * *

  “Freeze frame!” barked Seth Dinkman at that night’s screening. He got up and stared at the screen intently. “That bush,” he said, pointing at a globe cedar, “is not supposed to be there!”

  “How’s that, boss?” questioned a cameraman.

  “Because ten minutes ago it was over by the door!” They all watched closely as the footage continued. When Jordie stood by a window, the bush was there; when he came out the front door, the bush was there; when he appeared around the side of the building, so did the bush.

  “Okay,” said the director. “How did this happen?”

  “Well, come on, boss, how are we supposed to know it isn’t a real bush?”

  Dinkman was raving. “You don’t have to be a botanist to know that bushes don’t have feet!”