by Georgia Byng
Molly was having a horrible nightmare in which she was at the Academy Awards in a cage on the stage. Primo Cell stood beside it, laughing as the audience threw dead magpies at her. Then the scene froze and she was the only being alive in a still world where nothing would ever move again.
Molly awoke to find she’d drooled all over the pillow. Her forehead was hot and clammy. Petula licked her face as Molly struggled to sit up. Then Molly grabbed the phone from the bedside table and dialed Lucy Logan’s number.
She could hear the phone ringing thousands of miles away in Lucy’s little cottage. It rang on and on. She thought of Lucy’s clocks ticking in accompaniment. The clocks. For the first time Molly wondered about them. Surely Lucy knew something about time stopping. Why else would she collect clocks? Molly needed desperately to speak to her, but no one answered. She finally put the receiver down. Where was Lucy? Had something happened to her? Molly chewed her hand. Petula barked.
“Petula ….” She hugged her. “You smell fantastic … and who gave you this lovely collar? Where have you been?”
Petula wagged her tail, but Molly still felt as if she was in a nightmare. She didn’t want to think of the terrifying prospect of the Academy Awards. But she knew that as surely as land approaches a falling parachutist, the afternoon would come. And so it did.
By two o’clock, Molly and Rocky were dressed. Rocky wore his smart black tuxedo and new black sneakers. Molly put on the outfit that she’d bought. It was an emerald-green dress with green shoes that matched.
“Molly, you ought to do something about your hair. It looks like your hairdresser was a tornado,” said Rocky.
Molly wrestled her hair down.
“It’s gone loony-bin curly. You should look a bit more, well, Oscar-y,” said Rocky. “Do you think we’ll get in? I mean, do we look like stars’ kids?” He tugged at his bow tie. “I’m taking this off. It looks stupid, and anyhow I don’t know how to tie it.”
“We have to get in—otherwise dehypnotizing all these stars is going to take years.” Molly picked up a piece of white card that she had been writing on and reread the instructions on it.
“I won’t be much help getting in,” said Rocky. “Your eyes will have to get us past the door people.”
“This card will get us in, or at least I hope it will. You can help dehypnotize stars inside, Rocky. We’ll find a quiet place where you can work on them with your voice.”
Molly pulled out a list of Hollywood names from her dress pocket.
“How long do the Oscars last?”
“Six hours, Mrs. Trinklebury said,” replied Rocky. “That’s plenty of time to get lots of hits.”
“We might be the ones that get hit.”
Petula trotted in. She was ready for an evening out and barked at Molly to show her that she was coming. Molly picked her up.
“You look much more starry than we do,” she told Petula. “Your coat is as shiny as your diamonds!”
The phone rang and Rocky answered it.
“Ready or not,” he said, “the car’s here. Oscars, here we come.”
Eighteen
In front of the hotel steps, a black limousine waited like a shiny wheeled beast. A smart, gray-suited driver with dark glasses opened the car door, and Molly, Petula, and Rocky climbed in.
No one noticed them going. Mrs. Trinklebury was glued to her TV set, watching a pre-Academy Awards commentary program, Nockman was practicing opening his room’s safe without knowing its combination, and Gemma and Gerry were training Gerry’s mice to race along a cardboard track they’d made. Roger was busy up his tree, getting ready to spend the night there.
The limousine coasted away from the hotel and drove toward Hollywood Boulevard. This had once been the most important movie and theater street in the world. Now it was more a souvenir of the past, but it was still exciting, with the famous Grauman’s Chinese Theatre with its copper-green, pagoda-style roof. Here the biggest stars in movie history had their footprints and handprints set forever in concrete.
As they continued toward the Kodak Theatre, venue of the Oscars, the traffic thickened.
“Whoa, look at the people,” their driver said as they slowed to a crawling pace. Molly could see, through the darkened windows, policemen waving flags, urging on cars with gawping passengers and telling other cars to drop their loads quickly. Halfway up the street there was a stationary glut of vehicles, and the sidewalks thronged with crowds who had come to catch a glimpse of their favorite celebrities. The limousine crept closer.
“I bet you guys are excited about walking up that red carpet.”
Molly nodded vaguely. She was hoping that her legs would remember how to walk without tripping over each other. She felt sick. She thought of all the TV cameras and newspaper photographers waiting alongside the famous red carpet.
“You don’t think anyone will recognize me from Stars on Mars, do you?” she whispered to Rocky nervously. “It could really mess things up. I don’t want anyone taking a picture of me while I’m hypnotizing the guards on the gates.”
“New York’s the other side of America—and you weren’t on Broadway for that long,” said Rocky uncertainly, picking nervously at his trousers. “If people recognize you from the TV, they’ll just think you’re the nice girl from the charity commercial. That’s all.”
Molly fell silent as they pulled up behind a shiny Lincoln. Their driver got out, eager to see for himself what was going on, and opened Molly’s door.
The challenge ahead made her stomach churn and her head dizzy. As she swallowed the lump of nerves that had lodged in her throat, she managed a “Thank you” and stepped out of the car. Petula bounced after her. The noise of cheering and whistling filled the air. Molly was so shaky that the ground felt as if it was moving.
Under her green shoes, bronze stars embedded in the sidewalk showed the names of bygone movie icons. After fifteen paces, and after pushing through a throng of people, Molly, Petula, and Rocky stepped into the cordoned-off area and onto the shore of a bloodred carpet that rolled like a river through the security gates. This carpet would take them through the fenced-off part of Hollywood Boulevard and into the Kodak Theatre itself. There was no turning back now.
Only people who had Oscars invitations stepped onto the red carpet. Immediately people were interested in who she and Rocky were. A thousand cameras seemed to flash. The carpet turned into a blur as Molly walked along it.
“Are they actors?” she heard someone ask.
Ahead were the gates—low arches covered with flowers. As Molly saw guests pass through them, giving their bags to be put through the X-ray machines, she realized that the arches were camouflaged metal detectors, to check for hidden weapons or explosives.
“High security,” said Rocky.
“Hope it’s not so high that I can’t hypnotize them,” muttered Molly, clutching her white card. For luck, she touched her diamond, hidden under the top of her dress.
Behind them, someone extremely famous arrived. The crowds began yelling and screaming. This was good. It gave Molly a chance to work without people watching her.
Molly gritted her teeth, turned her eyes up to full glare, and prepared to floor one of the gatekeepers. Her hypnotism would have to work swiftly, without anyone else being aware of it.
The man on this particular gate was tough and professional. Molly didn’t look him in the eye until she was right in front of him. When she did, her hypnotism was like a wallop in the face.
“Look at my invitation,” Molly said quietly, and of course the man did.
It read:
THIS IS A GENUINE
ACADEMY AWARDS INVITATION.
LET ME, MY FRIEND, AND MY DOG
THROUGH WITHOUT ANY TROUBLE.
BEHAVE NORMALLY.
FORGET US ONCE WE ARE IN.
The man nodded, and he saw exactly what he expected to see—a fancy invitation with curly, goldembossed letters on it, and with the picture of the gold Oscar statuette at the top.
He ushered Molly, Petula, and Rocky through the metal detector. Then Molly gave the “invitation” to Rocky, who folded it and put it in his pocket. They were in.
Hollywood Boulevard lay ahead of them, flanked by tall palm trees and completely covered with red carpet. The road looked like a calm, flat, red lake. And on it stood hundreds of people, mostly stars Molly recognized, who looked like gods walking on water. They were all dressed impeccably in the most spectacular, most expensive evening clothes that money can buy. The men wore mostly black silk or velvet or fine-weave suits; the women were in gorgeous gowns from the world’s most exclusive designers. Some were in flimsy, short dresses, but a lot were in long ones. And because Molly couldn’t see their feet, they looked as if they were gliding, like multicolored swans, on the red lake. Behind brass barriers were tiered platforms or bleachers on which stood hundreds of lucky people who had won standing-room tickets to watch the glitterati of the film world arrive.
“Oh no,” said Molly. “Look at the cameras.”
Arching over the boulevard was a bridge. On this stood banks of photographers. Stars waved up at them and smiled professionally. Alongside the carpet stood TV cameras and interviewers holding microphones. The stars posed and smiled, knowing that the whole world was watching. Enormous lenses pointed left and right, and even though it was still broad daylight, the air prickled nonstop with electronic flashes.
“Hey,” said Rocky happily. “So this is what it feels like to be a star.”
Molly had experienced the world of stardom for a few brief weeks in New York, but she felt very out of practice and much more unsure of herself than Rocky. The feeling that gnawed at her most was the fear that someone would put a hand on her shoulder and shout, “Hey, you aren’t supposed to be here. You can stop right now, turn around, and get out!”
“Rocky, do you think anyone will realize we’re not supposed to be here?”
“Only if you talk like that,” said Rocky, smiling at a camera. “There’ll be lip-readers watching this on TV.”
Miles away in Oklahoma, a deaf boy called Ben was watching the Oscars on TV. He always enjoyed reading the lips of people on television. Being able to lip-read was one of the good parts about being deaf. Television was much more interesting. For instance, he knew the president and his wife very well because he lip-read what they said to each other when they were away from the microphones. Tonight, as he watched a film director being interviewed, he noticed a couple of kids standing close behind. He saw them speak.
“Just enjoy this, Molly. No one knows you weren’t invited. I’ve already persuaded myself that I was,” said the good-looking black boy who, Ben thought, did look like a young star.
Beside him, the girl in the green dress with the messy hair said, “You’re right. This is too good to worry about. But let’s get into the theater as soon as we can.”
“Go for it,” thought Ben, wishing he could be with the kids on TV too.
Cameras flashed constantly. White, bright light bounced off pearly sets of teeth that smiled superperfect Hollywood smiles. It sparkled on diamond necklaces, platinum bracelets, and gold cufflinks.
Petula’s new collar shone, and so did Petula. She loved all the energy and excitement in the air.
Molly glanced around at the famous faces. Right away she saw five or six of the celebrities whose names were on her list—Primo Cell’s victims.
There was Stephanie Goulash, in a dark-blue seethrough dress, her piled-up hair red as flames. A few steps away, Cosmo Ace, in a silver suit, was talking to a TV journalist. Molly could see Hercules Stone, dressed in a white tuxedo, stepping though the throng with a beautiful Chinese woman on his arm.
Then she saw something that made her insides jump. A few feet away from her, a short woman in a dark suit was studying Molly. Her microphone had a large shield on it that read THE NEW YORK REPORTER. Molly recognized her as the arts correspondent of New York’s biggest newspaper. She had interviewed Molly when she performed in Stars on Mars. Molly pulled Rocky away, but it was too late.
“Hey, excuse me, Molly! Molly Moon!” the journalist cried excitedly. The heads of nearby cameramen swiveled in Molly’s direction.
“Molly, what a lovely surprise to see you here! And Petula, too! People have been wondering when you’d be back.”
Nineteen
Molly’s past had caught up with her, and there was no escape.
“So have you and Petula recovered from her kidnaping?” the woman questioned.
“Er, yes, thank you,” said Molly, trying to avoid a large lens that had zoomed in on her. Petula looked up at it and barked happily.
“And is your appearance here a sign that you’ll be coming back to the stage, or maybe to the screen instead?”
Molly tried not to look flustered. “Er, no,” she said. “I’m just here to spend some time with a friend. Thank you—I have to go.”
“This is the friend who made the commercial with you? The one about checking out the kids in your neighborhood?” pushed the journalist.
“Yes, I am,” said Rocky. “Nice to meet you.” Rocky smiled at the camera and would have happily given an interview, but Molly stepped on his toe and gave him a “don’t you dare” look.
As Molly tugged Rocky away, she heard the journalist say, “As usual, Molly Moon is as mysterious as ever. But it’s great to see her back. Perhaps a film career is in the cards.”
Molly led Rocky deep into the crowd.
“Uuurgh,” she said, “that was scary. These newspaper people have really good memories.” Then she noticed that Petula hadn’t kept up with them.
“Oh, no, Petula’s got stuck back there,” Molly said, looking worriedly over her shoulder. “I hope she’s all right.”
Molly needn’t have worried. Petula was having the time of her life. She’d loved the limelight when she was in New York. It felt good to be bathing in it again. She turned her face this way and that for the cameras. She stood on her hind legs and begged. She hopped around in circles. The photographers loved her. Then she gave a foxy bark and trotted off to find Molly. On the way, she passed a tall, velvet-clad man with a deep tan and black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Petula paused—he smelled like someone she’d met before, who’d been behind the camera at some TV studios in New York.
Although Petula didn’t know it, the man who smiled down at her was in fact a top Hollywood director. He was an Italian called Gino Pucci. His latest movie, Blood of a Stranger, was nominated for Best Picture tonight. Petula liked his smell. She stood up and put her paws on his leg, and as he bent down to talk to her, she shot him one of her most charming expressions. It was a devastating look. Gino was too stunned to say anything. Petula barked seductively and then trotted off.
Molly and Rocky were now standing near a heavy stone arch—the entrance to the Kodak building. A giant golden Oscar statue, almost as high as the arch itself, stood like an ancient idol, as if the Kodak Theatre was a temple to worship stars in.
“Wow,” said Rocky, laughing quietly. “There are so many actors here that I feel like I’m in a film!”
Molly was struck by how many of the actors were smaller than she’d imagined. Watching them on big movie screens had made her think they were superhuman size. In fact, a lot of them were short. Up close, the stars were all so human. There was one scratching his nose, another one itching her ear. Molly was surprised by the ordinariness of them all.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” said Molly. “We know all their faces so well, but they don’t know ours at all. At least I hope they don’t.”
For a few minutes, Molly and Rocky absorbed the scene, knowing that it was something they’d remember all their lives.
“Okay,” said Molly, “enough of this starstruck stuff. Let’s get inside.”
Petula had caught up, and the three of them hurried ahead.
Inside the covered forecourt of the Kodak, it was cooler and quieter. Cameras weren’t allowed in here, and it was less crowded. The wide pa
ssage before them, which was normally a shopping promenade, was decorated with flowers, and its walls were hung with piped red curtains. A grand, red-carpeted staircase, like an enormous red tongue, led to the theater entrance.
Groups of celebrities were standing about greeting each other and star-spotting other celebrities.
A sudden hush fell as none other than Gloria Heelheart came through the door. She was accompanied by a distinguished-looking old man. The waiting crowd tensed with admiration. Gloria Heelheart was such a huge star that everyone watching felt they were tiny sparks compared to her.
Tonight she was dressed in what looked like a golden coil. It was shiny silk sewn into long spaghetti-thin tubes that had been coiled and stitched together into a shimmering dress that clung to every inch of her famous body. Her swanlike neck was strangled in a real golden coil, so it looked like an expensive spring joined her head to her shoulders. The same coils were on her upper arms. Her oriental eyes were as beautiful and mysterious as ever. A few people greeted her with polite good-evenings while others looked on in silent respect, wishing that they knew her too. Gloria Heelheart smiled her glorious smile and stepped past, raising her bejeweled fingers in a gracious wave.
Molly, staring at the spectacular golden curves stalking majestically across the foyer, thought how incredible it was that the Queen of Hollywood could ever have been caught in Primo Cell’s net. She seemed so dignified, but really she was as helpless as a slave.
“This is the perfect place,” said Molly.
“But how are we going to nail them?” whispered Rocky. “We can’t just walk up and hypnotize them in front of everyone. Besides, Cell is bound to be here somewhere.”
Molly looked around nervously. This was an extremely disturbing thought—one that she had not dwelled on before. The idea that Primo Cell was there felt as scary as seeing a tiger on the loose.
