The Mistaken Masterpiece

by Michael D. Beil

  “Humph,” says Mom. “We’ll see if you change your tune when you have pneumonia.”

  “That is such a mom thing to say,” I retort. “Tell Dad I said thanks again. I’ll call you later, from the … set.”

  Oh yeah, I am quite full of myself.

  Leigh Ann and Becca are right on time, which is a clear indication of how psyched we all are. I mean, it’s seven-thirty in the morning on a day off from school. Living in New York, we’ve all walked past miles and miles of those “movie star” trailers and trucks full of lighting and camera equipment, but this time it’s something special—we’re something special, or at least it feels that way. We’re about to cross over to the other side. To become part of the club. People will see us and wonder who we are. That and, well, hate us for being there when they’re not.

  The police have set up barriers in a big circle around the ball field next to the carousel, and a crowd of (mostly) girls is already four or five deep all the way around. When we get to the entrance, there’s a big, dangerous-looking guy with a headset and a clipboard blocking our way.

  “Sorry, ladies. You have to stay behind the barriers,” he snarls.

  “We’re invited,” I say. “We’re Nate Etan’s guests—we should be on the list. St. Pierre?”

  He stares at me for a full second before consulting his clipboard, running his index finger down the long list of names. “St. Pierre?”

  “Sophie,” I say, trying to be helpful.

  He grunts, then turns to Margaret. “And the rest of you?”

  “Wrobel, Chen, and Jaimes,” Margaret replies. “And that’s Jaimes with a J, not an H.”

  He checks their names off his list and then hands us laminated guest passes on bright orange lanyards. A little clashy with my outfit, but that’s okay—perfect, even. I want people to see it. He steps aside to let us through the opening.

  “Go straight back to that yellow and white tent—one of the assistants will be able to help you find Mr. Etan.”

  We can’t stop grinning as we thank him. Behind us, I hear the chatter of the girls who are standing outside the barrier, and it is beautiful music to my ears.

  “Hey, who are they?” one of them asks. “How did they get in?”

  “They don’t look like anybody,” another answers. “They’re just kids.”

  “Well, they got in, so they must be somebody,” a third says.

  “Did you hear that, guys?” I whisper. “We’re somebody!”

  Starting across the field, we all freeze when sixty pounds of black dog bolts out of the tent we’ve been told to go to. The beast is coming straight for me, and barking in a not-so-friendly way. I’m already visualizing the next day’s tabloid headline: “Mad Movie Mutt Mauls Girl Detectives.”

  Instead of leaping at our throats, though, the killer canine stops suddenly right in front of me, wagging her tail so hard that her whole body is wriggling. Relieved that I’m not going to become just another tragic headline, I kneel down to rub her behind the ears, something that I know all dogs love, even though I don’t have one of my own. Yet.

  And then a miracle happens. I’m so busy petting the dog that I don’t notice him. Nate Etan, mere inches away.

  “Tillie!” he scolds. “Bad girl. Thank you for catching her—she usually doesn’t run off like that.”

  From my point of view—kneeling—he seems ten feet tall. He’s looking down on me and smiling that same gazillion-gigawatt smile that’s plastered all over my bedroom. Okay, I know nobody has used this word in like a hundred years, but I’m pretty sure I swoon. My vocal cords, along with my legs, are paralyzed.

  “This is Tillie,” he says, clipping a leash onto her collar. He holds out his hand for me to shake. “Hi, I’m Nate Etan.”

  Well, of course you are. And I’m … I’m … Jeez, snap out of it, Sophie!

  “H-hi, I’m So—So—Sophie. St. Pierre.”

  “Well, hello there, So-So Sophie.” A nickname is born, I fear. “Oh, wait—you’re Guy’s daughter!” He even pronounces Dad’s name right. “Excellent! Here, let me help you up.” He takes my hand in his (deep breaths, Sophie!) and lifts me with astonishing ease. He is taller, thinner, stronger, and better-looking than I expected—and my expectations were high, believe me.

  Seeing him in the flesh makes it obvious why he was cast in the role of James Blancpain, the impossibly handsome vampire in No Reflections, the book that Leigh Ann and I have recently become obsessed with. His pictures don’t do him justice at all. Suddenly I’m feeling really small and extremely self-conscious about my nose.

  I introduce the rest of the gang, and maybe he’s acting, but he seems to be really pleased that we’re there. He hands me Tillie’s leash and starts leading us toward the tent. “I have one little favor to ask. Since Tillie seems to have bonded with you, can you hold on to her for a while? If she gets to be too much of a pain, I can put her in my trailer, but she likes to be outside. You’re not allergic or anything, are you?”

  “No, I love dogs,” I say. “I want one so bad, but I haven’t convinced my parents yet.”

  “Great! Let’s go get something to eat, and then I’ll show you around. My scene won’t be ready to shoot for a little while. First time on a set for everybody?”

  We all nod. Becca, Leigh Ann, and Margaret continue to stare openmouthed at him.

  “Tell me, So-So Sophie—do your friends talk?” he says, laughing.

  “Uh, definitely. Especially this one,” I say, pointing at Becca. “We usually can’t get her to shut up.”

  She sticks her tongue out at me.

  And then I realize that he’s staring at me—at my nose, to be precise. When he realizes what he’s doing, he laughs and apologizes. “I’m sorry, but I just have to ask. What happened to your nose? And do you have two black eyes? Are you, like, a boxer or something?”

  “A swimmer,” I say.

  “No kidding. I didn’t realize swimming was such a violent sport,” he says, nodding earnestly. “I may have to pay more attention in the future.”

  “It was an accident.”

  Becca scoffs. “Ha!”

  “It was. I swam right into another girl’s hand. Broke my nose.”

  “Ouch,” he says. “Well, I’ll try to keep flying objects away from you today—except for Tillie. I guess it’s a little late for her. She’s kind of a self-propelled missile.”

  Finally, Leigh Ann speaks. “Um, Mr. Etan—”

  “Nate. Please. Mr. Etan is my dad.”

  Her face lights up. “Right. Nate. I have a lot of questions for you, about acting and agents and stuff. I hope that’s okay.”

  “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” he says. “I suppose you’re all big fans of the book, right? Every girl in America is obsessed with it.”

  “Huge,” Leigh Ann gushes. “I’ve read it twice—I just started the third time.”

  “Yeah, Margaret’s the only one who’s really not crazy about it,” I reveal. “She’s read it, but she’s used to more—”

  “Boring stuff?” offers Becca.

  “I was going to say more serious things.”

  “Have you read the book?” Margaret asks him.

  Nate grimaces and puts his arms around all of us, pulling us in close. “This is top-secret, okay? I don’t want this out there in the gossip magazines—the producers would kill me. Officially, yes, I have read No Reflections. And officially, I love it. Between us, though?” He shakes his head and holds his index finger to his lips. “Couldn’t get through it. I tried, but I have to be honest. I’ve never been much of a reader.”

  A little warning bell goes off in my brain. Nate Etan not a reader? That can’t be right. He’s perfect, isn’t he? And if he’s perfect, he must love books the way I do. It’s only logical. Right?

  He leads us into a tent that has a table covered with an amazing selection of breakfast foods—doughnuts, lox and bagels, pastries of every size and shape, a colossal fruit tray, every kind of juice imaginable, and th
ose adorable miniature boxes of cereal, which are completely irresistible to me.

  “Help yourselves to anything you want,” he announces as I zero in on the Lucky Charms. “I’m going to have to head over to makeup, but I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Is that okay?”

  We assure him we’ll be fine. I mean, what are we going to do—say no to a big star?

  A few minutes later, we’re digging into the breakfast buffet, but just when I take a big spoonful of cereal, with milk dripping down my chin, in walks the other star of the movie, Cam Peterson, who is only a year older than me. I have to be honest here; even though he has been in a few movies, I didn’t even know who he was until I started checking out all the websites about the movie. He plays James Blancpain’s archenemy, the young vampire hunter Hector Kreech.

  Right now, though, it’s not a wooden stake or an antique pistol loaded with silver bullets he’s scaring me with—it’s his cell phone. He is yelling into it, using the kind of language that I never use. Someone, somewhere, is getting an earful of profanity and abuse—all because Cam’s email isn’t working on his phone.

  When he spots us sitting there stuffing our faces, he stops screaming for a few seconds and stares at us with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Are you supposed to be in here?” he whines. Instead of waiting for us to answer, though, he picks up right where he left off—wireless network this, incompetence that, and on and on.

  I lean over to Margaret. “Should we leave? He doesn’t seem pleased that we’re in here.”

  Margaret digs in her heels. “No way. We’re Nate Etan’s guests and this is where he told us to wait for him. That guy’s the one who should leave. He’s acting like a jerk.”

  If she wasn’t my best friend, I would be tackling Margaret and stuffing a pair of dirty old socks in her mouth. “Shhh! Do you know who he is? That’s Cam Peterson.”

  “So? Being almost famous is no excuse for bad manners,” Margaret says. “I can’t believe he’s talking like that in front of us. He’s just being rude.”

  I don’t know if he heard her or not, but he turns to face us once more; this time he glares. And then he leaves, still yapping into his phone.

  Oh yeah. Our first day among the beautiful people, and we’re off to a great start.

  In which Becca walks in on a make-believe artist and I step into a minefield

  The rest of the day is just about perfect. Nate shows us all around the set and introduces us to everyone, even the director, Kim Faraday. She is super-nice, if a bit intense. I guess when you’re spending a kajillion dollars of other people’s money to make a movie based on an insanely popular book with completely unreasonable, rabid fans who won’t settle for anything less than a perfect adaptation, you have an excuse to be a little stressed out.

  Because it’s a story about vampires, most of it takes place in the dark, but the scene we get to see filmed is where James Blancpain is trapped—after sunrise!—in Central Park by his nemesis, Kreech. He’s hiding in the carousel and has to make a run for one of the vampires-only secret tunnels before Kreech has a chance to take a shot at him—this time with a wicked-looking crossbow that is armed with silver-tipped arrows.

  The scene has taken hours to set up, but finally everything and everyone is in place. We’re sitting in folding chairs just behind the director and her assistants, one of whom is petting Tillie.

  “Action!”

  Even though I’m a mere spectator, my heart is doing the old ka-whump ka-whump in my chest when James Blancpain—he’s no longer Nate Etan—races out from behind the carousel horses, knocking an off-guard Kreech to the ground. After the way Cam acted earlier, we especially enjoy that part; Blancpain hits his enemy at a full run, lifting him off his feet and sending the crossbow flying. Kreech recovers quickly, though, pulling Blancpain to the ground. The vampire and the hunter are then supposed to wrestle for a few seconds before Blancpain makes his escape to the tunnel.

  Tillie, however, decides to rewrite the scene at the last moment. When she sees Cam pull Nate to the ground, she breaks away from the assistant director in order to rescue her human, grabbing Cam’s pant leg in her teeth and trying to pull him away from Nate.

  “Cut!” cries the director. “Nate! I thought we talked about this.”

  “Sorry,” he says, taking Tillie by the collar. “She never does stuff like this. She’s just not the protective kind.”

  “Well, can you get someone to hold her before she decides to tear my leg off?” whines Cam. “Look, she tore my pants.”

  Nate brings Tillie to me. “Sophie, can you do me a big favor and hold Tillie for me again?”

  “Sure,” I say, my head swelling with pride. Nate Etan asked me—me!—to watch his dog for him, and he did it in front of other people.

  “Super,” he says. “I totally owe you.”

  So I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.

  While I hold tightly to Tillie, they do fourteen more takes of the same scene. I’m not sure I have what it takes to be a director, because they all looked pretty much the same to me. However, we are all secretly enjoying the sight of Cam Peterson getting more and more annoyed; after the fifteenth take, he suggests having his stand-in take the hit from Nate, but the director promises him “just one more take,” and he agrees, still grumbling under his breath.

  The director guessed right; the sixteenth take is just perfect, she says, and then everyone cheers as an assistant director announces that they are “wrapped” for the day. After Nate changes out of his wardrobe clothes and removes all his makeup, he joins us back in the catering tent for a celebratory soda. We thank him over and over for his hospitality and pose for lots of pictures, individual and group shots, so we can show the whole world how we spent our Friday.

  And then, as we’re packing up all our goodies and getting ready to go, he hits me with the big one.

  “Uh, Sophie … remember earlier when I asked you for that favor? Well, I have one more, and this one is really huge. And, I mean, you can totally say no to this, and if you need to call your parents first, that’s cool, too, but I was wondering if you could take care of Tillie for a few days. I’ll pay you fifty dollars a day. You see, I have to go to London for a few days, and I would usually have my girlfriend take care of her, but we just kind of broke up, so …”

  “I’ll do it!” I say without thinking.

  “Really?” he says.

  “Really?” Margaret says.

  “Really,” I say. “My parents are cool. When do you want me to start?”

  “Um, today. Like, right now?”

  “Oh. Wow. Right now. Okay. I mean, sure, why not?”

  “Great! C’mon, I’ll walk you guys out, and we can stop at my trailer so I can get her food and toys and stuff. And I’ll give you money for a taxi home.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to call your parents first?” Leigh Ann asks.

  “I think that’s a really good idea,” says Margaret, giving me her you-seriously-need-to-listen-to-me look.

  “They love dogs,” I reason. “It’s no problem.”

  “It’s your funeral,” Becca says. “I know what my mom would do if I came home with a dog.”

  I turn to Nate. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. She’s a good dog. I mean, she’s house-trained and everything, right?”

  A question, perhaps, that I should have asked before agreeing to watch her.

  “Oh yeah. Of course. And she’s quiet. She never barks. It’s easy. Feed her twice a day. Take her for a walk when you wake up, another in the afternoon, and one more before you go to bed. Maybe bring her over here to the park every once in a while so she can run around a little. Nothing to it. You’ll be ready for your own dog by tomorrow.”

  There you have it—Dogs 101, taught by Professor Nate Etan.

  “She has been acting a little weird the past few days,” the professor adds. (This information, too, might have been more useful a minute or two earlier.) “You know, like running off to greet
you, and trying to protect me. And she doesn’t seem interested in any of her old favorite toys. It’s probably just the excitement of being in New York. She’s used to California.”

  “Maybe it’s jet lag,” Rebecca says.

  We reach the gate, where Nate says his good-bye to Tillie and thanks us for coming, and—here’s the best part—he gives me his cell phone number and email address in case I need to reach him about Tillie.

  “But you have to promise not to give them to anyone else, okay?” he says, opening the door of the taxi. Tillie hops right in and makes herself comfortable.

  “Cross my heart and hope to die,” I say.

  “Good enough for me,” he says. Then he kisses us all very dramatically on both cheeks and shouts “Ciao!” as we drive off.

  Becca snickers. “Please tell me he didn’t just say ‘Ciao!’ ”

  “I’m afraid so,” says Leigh Ann. “But he kissed us first. That has to count for something.”

  Oh, it counts. It counts.

  Okay, confession time: my parents are considerably less than thrilled when I walk in the door with Tillie, who promptly sweeps a picture frame off the coffee table with her tail. Nor are they impressed when I tell them whose dog she is. Sheesh. Some people are just hard to please.

  “How long did you agree to do this for, exactly?” Mom asks.

  “I don’t know exactly how many days,” I admit. “But I’m getting fifty bucks a day, so I hope it’s five or six at least. Christmas is just around the corner, and I need some shopping money. You want a nice present, don’t you? I’ll do everything—walk her and feed her—and she can sleep in my room.”

  I should just shut up right there, but something compels me to add these fateful words: “You won’t even know she’s here.”

  Saturday morning, four-fifteen. My parents know. I know. The neighbors know. I’m reasonably certain that Connecticut knows. Ladies and gentlemen, Tillie is in the house.

  I think my head bounces off the ceiling at her first howl. It takes me a full five seconds to realize what’s going on—there really is a dog in my room howling at the moon, which is shining straight through the window. I mean, we’re talking Hound of the Baskervilles stuff here.