Aldo's Fantastical Movie Palace

by Jonathan Friesen

  Welcome to Aldo’s magical world, as Grandpa often said.

  Chloe sighed. “Nobody can see us in here.” She squeezed Streak and walked up and down every row. Mom hadn’t missed a single Whopper or Sticky Dot.

  “Streak,” she whispered. “It’s time.”

  Back in the lobby, Mom wrung her hands. “We okay?”

  Chloe nodded.

  “So then, we are in competition with what?”

  Chloe straightened and prepared for the premovie ritual. “Everything.”

  “What’s our objective?”

  “Get people in the door.”

  “Why?”

  Chloe smiled. “To sell them junk food.”

  “Not to see a movie?”

  “No, to sell them junk food.”

  “Because how do we pay the bills?”

  “By selling stale wieners and week-old popcorn.”

  “And so if Mr. Simonsen complains about the price of popcorn today, what will you do?”

  “Smile and stand firm.” Chloe saluted.

  “We’re set.” Mom retreated into the ticket office. “Lose the cat and get ready to sell.”

  A half hour later, there was still one truck in the lot.

  Chloe leaned over the glass counter and shouted, “Maybe there’ll be a late rush! Remember the first day we got Indiana Jones?”

  “That was a first day. Not a last day.”

  “Maybe they’re all saving up for The Vapor!”

  “Maybe.” Mom stepped into the lobby, raised her arms, and let them flap at her sides. “Maybe they’ve all just forgotten we’re here.” She sighed and turned a slow circle. “Maybe we fight a losing battle. It’s just there are so many memories locked up in this place.” She exhaled, walked over to Chloe, and stroked her hair. “You may as well head on up. I can sure handle it down here.”

  “Come on, Streak.” Chloe climbed into the projection booth and nestled in the chair. She watched the clock above and scanned the seats below. “Nobody, and it’s time to start.” Chloe paused. “Mom’s right. How could we give up on the Palace? All our memories are here.” She placed Streak on the ledge. “You might as well keep mousing.”

  Chloe lowered her out the projection window, flicked the switch on reel one, and dimmed the lights.

  “One hour, forty-six minutes, and sixteen seconds of boredom.” She exhaled long and loud, reached beneath the splicing table for the mirror, and stared. In the flickering light of the machines, there was only the outline of her face and a few features. But no scars. Not in Aldo’s Palace. In the Palace, she was beautiful.

  Setting down the mirror, Chloe glanced at the big screen. The actress was beautiful too.

  Suddenly, Streak leaped through the window and clawed at Chloe’s chest.

  “Stop it,” she hissed. “I don’t need more scratches.” She pried the cat loose. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Below, the auditorium doors creaked.

  Customers!

  Chloe stretched her neck out the window and peered down.

  It was a kid, maybe her age. A slow-walking kid swinging a cane back and forth across the aisle. A kid and a dog. A dog that never left his side.

  What’s a blind kid doing at a movie?

  They eased down to the front row and walked all the way to the end, where the boy lowered himself into a chair. The dog sat in the aisle.

  “Don’t worry, Streak. I don’t think guide dogs ever leave their owners.”

  Chloe spent the next hour and forty minutes watching the back of a blind boy’s head. It swiveled, like he was watching the movie. He looked up toward the clouds and to the side at blooming buildings.

  And when the parrot bit the pirate on the ear, he laughed.

  Just like he could see.

  CHAPTER

  4

  ONE TICKET,” Mom muttered as she locked the theater doors.

  Chloe scooped Streak into her arms. “And one hot dog.”

  “One ticket, one hot dog.” Mom sighed. “Do you know what our take was tonight?”

  “Five dollars and twenty cents.”

  “Do you know the expenses we incurred this evening?”

  “Second-run movie, last showing — four hundred twenty-eight dollars, give or take.”

  Mom reached her arm around Chloe and squeezed. “It’s lovely. Let’s walk home.”

  The night was cool with no breeze. It was still and silent, except for the scratch of gravel beneath their feet.

  Mom said nothing, which was fine — it gave Chloe time to think.

  “Mom, that boy who came …”

  “Hmm?”

  “He was blind.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he come?”

  “He didn’t say.” Mom grabbed Chloe’s hand and swung her arm. “But his mother and I had a nice talk in the lobby during the movie. They just moved to Hemming from Rochester. Courageous boy.”

  Chloe kicked at the gravel. “But it doesn’t make sense.”

  Mom took a deep breath of evening air. Around them, frogs and crickets woke up and filled the air with noise, and in the distance a lone coyote howled.

  “Some things don’t make sense.” She drew Chloe close. “You’ll give yourself headaches trying to figure it out.”

  “You sound like Grandpa.” Streak leaped down from her arm.

  “Good reason for that.”

  Mom’s voice was distant. Chloe knew she’d again entered her worried place, the place where she wondered if she’d be able to keep the theater. Chloe hated it when Mom visited there; she couldn’t help but follow her there too.

  Their feet crunched onto the drive, and Mom paused. On top of the hill, where their farm stood, red lights flashed.

  “Grandpa!” They both broke into a run. Chloe raced ahead, turned the driveway corner, huffed, and stomped to the top. Behind her, Mom ran straight for the sheriff on the porch.

  Chloe tried to piece it together. An ambulance sat in front of the hen house. An EMT tried to shoo the chickens away, but the guinea hens had him surrounded and squawked something fierce. Two police cars were parked up near the well, next to the house. Q talked to one officer, while Mom had the sheriff pinned against his squad car, both hands raised. It wasn’t easy to calm Mom down.

  Chloe forced her legs to move and bolted toward Grandpa’s trailer. He stepped out just as she arrived.

  “You … You’re okay?” she asked.

  “I shot your brother.” He smiled. “One of my finest shots.”

  Chloe glanced at Quentin. “Q looks fine.”

  Grandpa nodded. “Ah, not Q, it was Grif. Yes, filled his buttocks with buckshot.”

  “You what?”

  Grandpa pointed over his shoulder. “Can you see a motorcycle leaning against my trailer?

  “Yeah … Wait, where did you get a motorcycle?”

  “That! That is an excellent question. Grif or Q could answer this. They acquired it tonight, leaned it against my trailer, and hid in the high grass.”

  “Wood tick city.”

  “One can only hope, but let me tell you the story of how I came to hunt your brother. It was late, and Officer Yovich knocked on my door. He asked me if I had purchased a Harley. I told him what I suspected, that Q and Grif were up to no good. He left, and I decided it was a beautiful night for a walk.”

  “Hey, we walked home too.”

  “Splendid! So as I walked I heard a coyote. He or she — I do not know the difference — howled very near. I walked on, and again the howl, very near. I think to myself, the situation is worse — it follows me. I sped my walk. The coyote quickened. It rustled at my heels, always out of sight.”

  Grandpa’s eyes grew big. “I broke into the clearing, nearly in a jog. I rounded my trailer, reached beneath the step, and grabbed the gun. Moments later, it rustled again and I shot. It screamed. I thought, this is not the scream of a coyote. It is the scream of a Grif.”

  “No,” Chloe said.

  “Yes. And slow
ly Q stood with his hands in the air.”

  Behind them, the ambulance lit up and eased away down the lane.

  “Now Grif lies on his stomach with lead filling his backside. I’m not pleased I shot your brother, but perhaps it will teach a lesson.”

  Mom ran up to Grandpa, grabbed his shoulders, and shook.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?” She swallowed hard and ran her hands through her hair. “You could have killed him. As it is he’ll be scarred —” She winced and stroked Chloe’s head. “Sorry, honey.”

  “Pebble dots on the backside.” Grandpa cracked oversized knuckles. “This is true.”

  “Dad, do you have any idea what happened or what you did or …” She dropped her gaze. “Anything?”

  Grandpa smiled. “Dear Dalia. Yes, I know. And I imagine the story you just heard from Q was convincing in its own creative way, but the night is beautiful, Grif will heal. All is well.”

  Mom peeked up and looked at Grandpa. Like she wanted to believe him. Like she wanted to think her family and her business were fine. But she shook her head like she couldn’t believe it; not when her oldest son was shot by her father, her husband slept in the barn’s hayloft, and the only ticket she sold was to a blind boy from Hemming.

  Mom threw her hands in the air, spun, and shuffled toward the house. And Chloe’s heart sunk with each step.

  “Go be with her.” Grandpa’s hand gently pushed Chloe’s back. “Remember, The Vapor begins tomorrow and you will be needed. Badly needed. Good night, Chloe.”

  “Good night back!”

  Chloe scooped Streak up from the flowerbed and followed Mom into the kitchen. Her brother was leaned over, his head in the fridge.

  “Q!” Mom pounded on the picnic table.

  He jumped and smashed his head on the freezer door. “What did I do?”

  “Si sieda! Now!”

  He rubbed his head and eased down onto the bench. “It wasn’t my idea. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Now you tell me the truth?”

  Chloe snuck by Mom’s angry words and out onto the back porch. She turned the swing, faced it toward the screen door, and plopped down. Through the mesh she could watch the event from a distance. Mom’s silhouette jabbed a finger and flailed a hand above her head. Her words came out loud and fast and slipped in and out of Italian, while Q stuttered in a language Chloe’d not heard before. It looked and sounded just like the final scene from a recent feature, The Last Trial.

  “Sit right there, Streak. Right by my side.” Chloe set her down and closed her eyes. “You can be the world’s first guide cat.”

  She tried to imagine blind; a dark that would never go. She cracked an eyelid — just to be sure the eyes still worked — and then squeezed them tight again.

  “And what were you planning to do with the motorcycle?”

  Chloe bit her lip and focused on Mom’s voice, but it muddled; the cricket song was too loud. She peeked down. No cat. She sighed and leaned back in the swing.

  Night always felt good and safe. Being alone felt safe too. But school would soon be here, and that meant kids with staring eyes and the nickname she couldn’t bear. She wondered if they’d stare at the blind kid too.

  It doesn’t matter. At least he won’t know.

  CHAPTER

  5

  EACH YEAR IS A NEW START.”

  Grandpa stomped on the paint can lid, and a drop of white spattered onto his chin. “Look, Chloe.” He pointed at his wrinkled face. “Aldo would be proud. Even he never thought of using his face as a canvas.”

  “I think you should stick to painting your trailer home.” Chloe glanced around the farmyard, quiet and still on the first day of school. She grabbed Grandpa’s arm and glared at his watch. “Fifteen minutes until the bus comes. Why do I have to go? I don’t want to hear that nickname —”

  He lifted a finger to her lips. “I don’t think your classmates will call you Sugar-nut.”

  “That’s not what they say.”

  “What do they say?”

  Her stomach fluttered. She would not repeat it. Ever. “I, uh — I need to grab my backpack and get to the bus stop.”

  “Then go.” Grandpa stroked her head. “And remember, your grandpa Salvador wishes you the most wonderful of days.”

  Chloe cleared her throat and ran toward the house.

  Most wonderful of days. Most wonderful of days …

  She jumped up the steps and burst through the screen door. Clinking forks fell silent. Mom and Dad and five men she didn’t know sat around the picnic tables.

  Mom rose, grabbed Chloe’s face between her hands, and squeezed. “My Chloe. Bella. Now in your first year of secondary school.” Chloe pulled back and grabbed her backpack off the table.

  “Just think,” Mom said. “You and the twins in the same building again.”

  She didn’t want to think about that. Or the bus ride. Or her classmates. Or staring eyes or whispering lips. She wished she could turn off her brain.

  “Well, I’m late for the stop. Gotta go.”

  Mom slapped Dad on the shoulder. He nodded, his gaze fixed on the table. “Get a move on then, Chloe. I’m right proud of ya.”

  Mom rolled her eyes and grabbed Chloe by the shoulders, then kissed her on both cheeks. “I’ll meet you at the Movie Palace. Four thirty. Don’t be late.”

  Chloe bit her lip, hard.

  Only eight hours, forty-one minutes and … She glanced at the wall clock. Twenty seconds. Late? Not a chance.

  Chloe nestled down in her homeroom seat. The bus had been quiet, filled with nervous, sleepy kids. Maybe the nickname disappeared over the summer. More likely, with kids from all three towns sardined into one building, the name got squeezed out. She glanced around the room. Riley and Madison were the only kids Chloe knew, and she’d never heard them speak the word.

  Ms. Romero lowered her glasses and glanced over the class. Her gaze reached Chloe’s face and stuck. Chloe slumped in her chair and shielded her face with a math book.

  The door opened and Chloe straightened. Principal Garret came in first, and a walking stick poked in second. Lastly, a dog and a boy. The blind theater boy.

  It was the first time Chloe’d seen him up close. He looked like an average kid. Lots of brown hair and a load of freckles. He wasn’t tall or short, he was … well, normal, except for the eyes. They stared off in strange directions.

  His dog was definitely not normal. It was a beautiful golden retriever and it stood statue-still at his side. Its tail didn’t even wag.

  Ms. Romero and Principal Garret spoke softly and whispers filled the room.

  “Excuse me, class,” Ms. Romero announced. “While I get our new student settled, you can locate your lockers. You have assigned numbers, and you’ll find your name taped below them. They’re on the opposite wall just outside the door. Go store your things, and to start this year right … please leave quietly.”

  The blind boy whispered in her ear.

  “Oh, and class. Please do not pet the do —” The kid yanked on Ms. Romero’s blouse and whispered again.

  The teacher nodded. “Excuse me, this is Hobo. So please do not pet Hobo. He’s working.”

  The class filed out in silence.

  Chloe exhaled and reached down for her backpack. Life just got much easier. The blind boy would certainly be the center of attention for a while.

  “Ms. Lundeen? Will you please leave the room?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

  Locker 245. She double-checked the number printed on her schedule, rose quickly, and scampered out.

  The clank of metal and the chatter of students filled the hall. So did words that had nothing to do with her: blind, dog.

  Grandpa Salvador was right. Each year is a new start!

  She walked down the row of bright green lockers, squinting at the tiny numbers. 236, 237 …

  Melmanie Secondary wasn’t a big school, but it was a green one. Green carpet. Green lockers and green-flecked brick.
Chloe hoisted her pack higher on her shoulder and glanced around the forest. Nobody stared back. This was turning out to be the best first day in years.

  239, 240 …

  Up ahead, a laugh. It wasn’t the nervous laugh like the ones she’d heard all morning. This was different, and her steps slowed.

  241.

  A small group of students clumped in front of her.

  “Excuse me.” She weaved between them.

  242, 243 …

  Chloe froze.

  Two girls stopped snickering and stepped back. Chloe moved in front of her locker. Her shiny, new, green locker. The one with 245 on the top and a sheet of paper taped to the front.

  She stared at the word, the one scribbled in big letters and with permanent ink.

  SCARFACE

  Chloe dropped the pack, and her head fell against the locker with a bang. The name found her here, today.

  On the most wonderful of days.

  CHAPTER

  6

  CHLOE’S AFTER-SCHOOL BUS rumbled by Aldo’s Movie Palace. It used to stop right in front of the theater, but apparently the blind kid sitting in back changed all that. If only I could get off this bus now. The steady taunts from the back of the bus had worn thin miles ago.

  Bus brakes squealed and the vehicle hissed to a stop.

  Oh, wow.

  The blind boy’s parents must have bought Finnegan’s farm, the nicest property in the county. Set on two hundred acres of gorgeous rolling hills, the farm had solid brick outbuildings, two new barns, a horse ring, a pond, and a beautiful view of the Rum River. Not only was it her idea of the perfect house, pleasant memories filled that place. Before Mr. Finnegan died, he gave the locals free sleigh rides along his stream.

  Mom said it would sit empty. She said nobody from around here could afford the land, not these days, and since people rarely moved up here that pretty much sealed the deal.

  Chloe craned her neck out the window to see over the wrought iron gates. Even in September, Mr. Finnegan’s annuals and wildflowers splashed the green lawn with color. A blind kid’s going to miss a lot of beautiful.

  “Nick Harris, isn’t it?” Big Tex took his hands off the wheel, peered up into the bus’s mirror, and then muscled his body around. “We’re at your stop. Welcome to the neighborhood.”