Lights, Camera, DISASTER!

by Gordon Korman

  “Yeah!” agreed Pete. “For a second I thought Boots had come back.”

  Even Bruno was impressed. “You know something, Cutesy? You’ve got talent.”

  “Hey,” said Sidney suspiciously. “Where’s Wilbur?”

  Six pairs of eyes darted around the room. Wilbur was nowhere in sight. Then they heard chewing noises from the closet, along with the loud crack of a lobster shell being broken open.

  Bruno wrenched the closet door open. There sat Wilbur, prime rib in one hand, a lobster claw in the other.

  “I got hungry,” he mumbled, his mouth stuffed.

  Bruno folded his arms. “That’s Cutesy’s poker money! You have to give him the equivalent in crackers before we start playing!”

  Wordlessly Wilbur motioned toward his peanut butter and crackers, indicating that Jordie should help himself. By this time, Sidney had sliced up the watermelon, and Larry was nibbling at the cheese. Mark opened up his chocolate chip cookies, and Pete was making a potato chip sandwich on French bread.

  With a sigh, Bruno ripped open his chips. “Forget poker,” he mumbled, cramming his mouth full. “Let’s hit the chips.”

  * * *

  A dozen girls crouched in Miss Scrimmage’s apple orchard, receiving instructions from Cathy Burton. The group was dressed in black pants and black sweaters, and their hair was stuffed under wool caps. They looked like what they were — an assault force.

  “Now, we’ve got to be really quiet,” Cathy was saying, “because there’s this guy with a lopsided toupee and white pyjamas who hangs around Jordie all the time. We can’t let him stop us.”

  “Do we tell Jordie we’re giving him a birthday party?” asked Wilma Dorf.

  “It’s a surprise party,” answered Diane. “If we told him, it would spoil the surprise.”

  “And no talking,” ordered Cathy. “This is a silent mission. We get in, grab him, and get out. Anyone who messes up dies. Okay, let’s move.”

  Commandos on a raid, the girls hopped the orchard fence, stole across the highway and moved like shadows over the darkened Macdonald Hall campus towards the east lawn and their idol.

  In front of the trailer, all twelve girls flattened themselves to the ground. Cathy reached up and tried the door. Locked. From underneath her cap, she produced a tiny hairpin and tossed it to Diane, who set to work at the keyhole. There was a click, and the camper door swung wide.

  The raid was as swift as lightning. All twelve poured into the trailer, pounced on the figure lying in the bed, wrapped him like a mummy in his own blankets and sprinted back to their campus, holding their prize like a battering ram.

  At the wrought-iron fence surrounding Miss Scrimmage’s, the commandos formed a human conveyor belt, passing their captive up, over and down. They ran straight in the front door and along the main hall to the cafeteria. There waited the entire student body, some three hundred girls, a sea of Jordie Jones T-shirts and party hats.

  Cathy rasped. “We’ve got him!” It was a whisper and a scream all rolled into one.

  What would have been a roar of anticipation was scaled down to a mighty hiss from many throats. Then three hundred voices began whispering “Happy Birthday To You,” along with applause in mime.

  As they headed into the last chorus, the commandos lovingly placed their bundle on the floor and watched expectantly as it began to writhe and unravel.

  “Happy birthday, dear Jor-die …”

  The cocoon burst open, and out peered a pyjama clad Boots O’Neal.

  “Happy birthday to — aaagghhh!”

  “Boots, you idiot!” wheezed Cathy. “Where’s Jordie?”

  Boots shrugged miserably. “It’s poker night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us it was you?” demanded Diane.

  “Well, you didn’t exactly give me a chance!” Boots tried to defend himself.

  Cathy slapped her forehead. “Well, this is typical! You let a man do something and he ruins it!”

  “Me? I was sleeping!”

  But his protest fell on deaf ears. The girls were booing and hissing and pelting him with party hats. Ruth Sidwell dumped the birthday cake over his head, and Vanessa Robinson added the contents of the punch bowl. Then the angry and disappointed girls began to file out in a dignified and orderly fashion.

  “But I didn’t do anything!” Boots sputtered plaintively.

  Cathy was unsympathetic. “Let’s face it, Melvin. You screwed up.” She and Diane joined the line of exiting girls.

  “You can’t leave me here!” Boots quavered.

  “You think about that,” advised Diane coldly, “the next time you try to pass yourself off as Jordie Jones!”

  Showering punch-soaked cake to the cafeteria floor, Boots staggered after them, trying not to scream. “Wait! Wait! Come back!”

  But the girls were gone, and he was trapped in the middle of the night at the wrong school, in his pyjamas, looking like he’d just been run over by the Good Humor man. This, he reflected, was what always happened when you did what Bruno told you to. Sure. Sleep in the trailer. Who’ll know the difference? Heaving a deep sigh, he began to wander the halls, hoping to find the front door.

  Suddenly he felt a nudge in the small of his back. He wheeled to find that this nightmare was a sunny day at the beach compared to what faced him now — Miss Scrimmage, her gigantic and often misfired shotgun aimed at his belly.

  “Hands up!” ordered the Headmistress.

  Somehow she hadn’t noticed that her entire student body was throwing a party, but she had managed to corner him.

  Boots reached for the sky.

  * * *

  By two o’clock in the morning the first poker hand got dealt, but by then the food was all gone, so there was nothing to bet with. Wilbur and Larry were in a spirited argument over whether a straight beat a flush, and Sidney sliced his hand open on the jack of diamonds, bleeding all over Pete’s cards. Mark abandoned the game to film the crisis, and that was when Bruno decided it was time to call it a night.

  “This was a great party,” he pronounced happily. “I don’t know if it beats Hollywood but, Cutesy, you’re welcome any time.”

  “Just bring more of that lobster,” added Wilbur, full to bursting.

  “This is the best birthday I ever had!” Jordie declared with conviction. “Thanks a million!”

  Bruno opened the window. “Just kick Boots out and send him home.”

  A demented shriek cut the air. “Call security! Call the police! Call the coast guard! J.J.’s gone!”

  “Oh, no!” moaned Jordie. “That’s Goose!”

  “But you’re here,” said Pete in perplexity. “That means someone’s kidnapped —”

  “Boots?” finished Bruno. “Who’d want to kidnap Boots?”

  Larry’s voice was anxious. “Maybe — well — what if they thought they were kidnapping Jordie Jones?”

  Wilbur stuck his head out the window. “There are lights on at Scrimmage’s. Oh, no — Miss Scrimmage has somebody! She’s marching him back to the Hall!”

  Bruno followed Wilbur’s pointing hand. “Boots!”

  “Macdonald Hall to the rescue!” exclaimed Jordie, really getting into the role of being a student.

  “Are you nuts?” cried Bruno. “You’ve seen too many movies! That’s Miss Scrimmage! We were better off with kidnappers! She’s armed to the teeth!”

  “Get out of my way!” Grabbing his camera, Mark was out the window and sprinting across the campus.

  “Mark — no!” cried Bruno. “If you scare her with that camera, she’ll shoot Boots! Awww —”

  Out of options, Bruno hurled himself out the window and raced toward the south lawn. The rest of the boys, Jordie included, followed.

  “Mr. Sturgeon! Mr. Sturgeon!” howled Bruno. “Wake up, sir!” He roared up the steps of the small wood-frame cottage and began pounding on the door. “Mr. Sturgeon! Quick!”

  After a moment, the door opened, and the Headmaster appeared, slightly dishevelled, wrapped in
a red silk bathrobe.

  “Walton, it’s after two in the morning,” he said angrily. In some confusion, he spied Jordie among the boys standing behind Bruno. “What is the meaning of this disturbance?”

  “It’s Boots, sir! I mean Melvin! I mean O’Neal!”

  “I know the boy to whom you are referring,” said the Headmaster irritably. “What about O’Neal?”

  “He’s been captured by Miss Scrimmage!”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Sturgeon. He hit the porch running, his slippers flapping loudly, and took off in the direction of Miss Scrimmage’s.

  The scene was chaotic. Mr. Sturgeon led the boys in a sprint for the highway while Goose Golden ran around the east lawn, waking up all the movie people. Lights were flashing on in all three dormitories, and pyjama-clad boys appeared, investigating the cause of the ruckus. They were greeted by the sight of their dignified Headmaster in full flight, his bathrobe flowing behind him like Batman’s cape.

  “Go back to bed at once!” he tossed over his shoulder. “Everything is under control!” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Miss Scrimmage, put down that weapon this instant!”

  But the Headmistress continued to wield her trusty shotgun, prodding Boots with righteous indignation. “March, you villain, you beast! How dare you terrorize my students?”

  Quaking in his filthy pyjamas, Boots complied.

  The two parties met in the middle of Highway 48.

  Mr. Sturgeon’s face was bright red from outrage and the exertion of his run. Bereft of speech, he reached out, grabbed Boots and shoved him forcibly into the crowd of boys bringing up the rear. Then he snatched the shotgun by the barrel, wrested it from Miss Scrimmage’s hands and popped out the shells. In a remarkable display of strength for a man of his years, he bashed the gun against the pavement until the stock shattered and the mechanism flew in all directions.

  “How dare you?” shrilled Miss Scrimmage. “I need that to protect my poor innocent girls from marauders like him!” She glared at Boots.

  Mr. Sturgeon had never been so angry. “Madam, I warned you what would happen if you ever pointed that thing at one of my boys again! Consider yourself vastly fortunate that it is not you lying dismantled on the highway instead of your weapon! You have my solemn vow that if I ever see you in possession of a firearm at any time in the future, I shall assemble witnesses, have you declared a danger to the public safety and see you clapped up in jail! Now” — he drew himself up to his full height and pointed imperiously toward Miss Scrimmage’s school — “go!”

  Gathering the shreds of her dignity, Miss Scrimmage retreated.

  Still smouldering, Mr. Sturgeon turned his murderous countenance on his own students just in time to see Mark Davies lowering his camera in awe and triumph. His steely grey eyes fell on Jordie.

  “Jones,” he said with deceptive calm, “please take yourself off and assure your manager that you are not dead. His caterwauling is disturbing the county.”

  Jordie ran off to calm Golden.

  The Headmaster turned to Boots and the veterans of poker night. “The rest of you have until eight o’clock this morning to formulate an explanation for this night’s extracurricular activities — which I will hear in my office at that hour. And let me assure you, it had better be magnificent!”

  * * *

  “Mildred, don’t you dare touch that phone.”

  It was after 3 AM, and the telephone in Mr. Sturgeon’s kitchen was ringing.

  “But it might be Miss Scrimmage, dear. The poor woman must be terribly upset.”

  “Let it ring,” said the Headmaster grimly. “If she is merely upset, you may assure yourself that she got off easy.”

  “Oh, William, don’t be insensitive,” coaxed his wife. “Miss Scrimmage is no longer young, you know.”

  “And I’m sixteen, I suppose,” said her husband dryly. “Your sympathy is misplaced, Mildred. Sympathy begins at home.”

  “That’s charity, dear.”

  “Don’t correct me. I used to be an English teacher. Of course, now I specialize in disarming deranged women.” The ringing stopped. “Thank heaven. Perhaps now she’ll have the decency to go to bed so we can all get some sleep.”

  There was a persistent rapping at the door.

  Mr. Sturgeon stood up and retied the sash of his bathrobe. “If that’s Walton and O’Neal, they will be packed and gone by sun-up.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said soothingly, “don’t do anything you’re going to regret.”

  On creaking legs, the Headmaster stepped to the front door. “At this point, Mildred, my only regret is answering the ad for a teaching position at Macdonald Hall more than thirty years ago.” He flung the door wide. “This had better be good!”

  There on the porch stood Jordie Jones. “Mr. Sturgeon, may I have a word with you?”

  “My door is always open,” said the Headmaster, looking pointedly at his watch.

  “Thank you.” Jordie allowed himself to be led to the kitchen. “Ma’am,” he acknowledged Mrs. Sturgeon politely, “I’m so sorry to be disturbing you.”

  “Oh, my goodness, it’s Jordie Jones!” she exclaimed. “I’m one of your biggest fans!”

  “Thank you,” said the actor.

  “Well, Jones,” said Mr. Sturgeon, “might we get to the point? It’s rather late. Or early, if you prefer.”

  “It’s just that you can’t punish Bruno and Boots.”

  Mr. Sturgeon raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

  “See, tonight was all my fault,” Jordie explained. “It was my birthday, and I was totally depressed because my parents are away on business and all my friends are in L.A. So Bruno and Boots threw me kind of a party. But we had to leave someone in the trailer because of the way Goose is, and we picked Boots because he’s got blond hair and he’s about my size.”

  “Why, I think it was just wonderful of Bruno and Melvin!” enthused Mrs. Sturgeon. “Such dear, thoughtful boys!”

  “They’re great,” Jordie agreed. “But from then on, things got kind of crazy, because some of the girls from across the street kidnapped me. At least, they thought it was me. But it was really Boots. And then came the lady with the gun — but you were great, sir! You went in there with no thought for your own safety! You could get a medal for what you did!”

  Mr. Sturgeon coughed away an insane desire to giggle, convinced that a hundred medals would not cover his heroism since Walton and O’Neal had arrived at Macdonald Hall. “Well, Jones, I appreciate the input. It does show the events of tonight in a different light.” He stood up. “However, I must insist you remember that our boys are bound by many rules and regulations to which you are not subject. Now, do you wish for our students to leave you alone to your work?”

  Jordie turned pale. “Oh, no!”

  “Then, while you are socializing, you will consider yourself temporarily a student here and behave accordingly. Is that acceptable?”

  Jordie leapt to his feet joyfully. “Are you kidding?”

  “The proper response, Jones, is ‘Yes, sir.’”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Fine,” said the Headmaster. He consulted his watch. “You are presently violating the curfew by five and a half hours. You will return to your trailer and go to bed.”

  “Not until you sign my autograph book,” said Mrs. Sturgeon brightly.

  Smiling, Jordie reached for her pen.

  Chapter 5

  Getting into Character

  Mark Davies manipulated the zoom on his video camera and focused in on the Academy Blues crew.

  “I screened last night’s footage. I’ve got the most amazing angle of The Fish bashing up Miss Scrimmage’s shotgun. Wait till you see his face!”

  Pete looked thoughtful. “Maybe you could blackmail him.”

  Boots laughed mirthlessly. “That’s probably the only reason why we’re not all expelled. I can’t believe he didn’t punish us.”

  Bruno nodded. “I’ve got a theory about that. I bet Cutesy went to
him and took the heat for us. When you think about it, all we did was violate curfew. Most of the blame goes to Cutesy, Miss Scrimmage and the girls. And even Cutesy was sort of a victim.”

  “I was the victim,” said Boots accusingly. “None of you guys got kidnapped, beaten up, drowned and marched at gunpoint.”

  “And you missed a great snack,” added Wilbur. “These movie people really know how to eat.”

  “Hey, what are you doing here, Bruno?” asked Larry. “I thought you had to stay away from the east lawn.”

  Bruno shrugged. “I was sent for. They want me in this next scene, so The Fish said I could come.” He looked pleased. “I told you I’d get into the movie.”

  Seth Dinkman was pushing through the crowd towards them, with Jordie Jones at his side.

  “Okay, Walton, congratulations. You’re in this scene.” The director gave Bruno a dirty look. “You can thank your friend Jordie for that. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have you on my set unless I was filming Jaws V and I needed someone to play shark bait.”

  The cameras were focused on a remote corner of the campus, where a deep, muddy trench had been dug. Two actors, dressed in plumbers’ overalls and hip boots, were in the hole, working on a section of sewer pipe.

  Bruno was flushed with excitement. “You’re the greatest, Cutesy!” Jordie flashed him the thumbs-up sign.

  “Okay,” said Dinkman, “you extras stand here with Jordie, watch the plumbers and look amazed. No words, no gestures. You’re watching something that you don’t see every day.” He backed out of the scene and called “Action!”

  “Cut!” yelled Bruno.

  Dinkman was confused. “Who said that? Who yelled ‘Cut’? Only I yell ‘Cut.’”

  Bruno raised his hand. “Uh — Mr. Dinkman, sir — Cutesy here isn’t following instructions. We’re supposed to look confused, and he’s grinning.”

  “Don’t worry about Jordie,” said Dinkman. “He’s got different instructions. You just worry about yourself. And don’t yell ‘Cut’ on my set, got it?”

  “Well, why is he smiling?” Bruno persisted. “Why isn’t he confused, too?”

  “Because he just isn’t, okay? All right — action!”