Rogues

by George R. R. Martin

  It took us twenty minutes just to find the end, and in the process we nearly lost Kett twice, once at Pretty in Pink—”Oh, my God! They have stilettos in fifty shades of gray!”—and again when she saw that Hope Floats, Shakes, and Cones was selling cranberry malts.

  Zara and I dragged her out of both and into the end of the line, which was getting longer by the minute. “We’re never going to get into the movie,” Kett grumbled.

  “Yes, we will,” I said confidently though I wasn’t sure. There were so many people in line, though most of them were little kids, who were obviously going to The Little Goose Girl or The Muppets’ It’s a Wonderful Life or Dora the Explorer Does Duluth. The adults around us who I asked were all going to A Tudor Affair or Return to the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, and everybody else was wearing an Ironman 8 T-shirt. “We’ll definitely get in.”

  “We’d better,” Kett said. “Why are you so set on seeing this Christmas Caper, anyway? I never heard of it. Is it a romcom?”

  “No,” I said, “more like a romantic spy adventure. Like Charade. Or The Thirty-Nine Steps.”

  “I haven’t seen previews for either of those,” she said, looking up at the schedule board above us. “Are they still playing?”

  “No.” I should have known better than to mention an old movie. In this day of reboots and remakes nobody watches anything older than last week. Except Jack. He’d even liked silents.

  “You know, the kind of movie where the heroine gets accidentally caught up in a crime,” I said, “or some kind of conspiracy, and the hero’s a spy, like in Jumpin’ Jack Flash, or a reporter, or a detective who’s pretending to be a criminal, like in How to Steal a Million, or he’s a scoundrel—”

  “A scoundrel?” Kett said blankly.

  “A rebel,” I said, “a rake, a rogue, like Michael Douglas in Romancing the Stone, or Errol Flynn—”

  “I haven’t seen previews for those either,” she said. “Is Arrow Flin still playing?”

  “No,” I said. “A scoundrel’s a guy who’s cocky and doesn’t care about rules or laws—”

  “Oh, you mean a slimewad,” Kett said.

  “No, a scoundrel’s funny and sexy and charming,” I said, trying desperately to think of a movie recent enough that she might have seen it. “Like Ironman. Or Jack Sparrow.”

  “Or Jack Weaver,” Zara said.

  “No,” I said, “not like Jack Weaver. In the first place—”

  “Who’s Jack Weaver?” Kett asked.

  “This guy Lindsay used to be in love with,” Zara said.

  “I was not in—”

  “Wait,” Kett said. “Is that the guy who put a whole bunch of ducks in the dean’s office last year?”

  “Geese,” I said.

  “Wow!” Kett said, impressed. “You went with him?”

  “Briefly,” I said. “Before I found out he was—”

  “A scoundrel?” Zara put in.

  “No,” I said. “A slimewad. Who got himself thrown out of Hanover. The week before he was supposed to graduate.”

  “He didn’t actually get thrown out,” Zara explained to Kett. “He took off before they could expel him.”

  “Or press criminal charges,” I said.

  “That’s too bad,” Kett said. “He sounds totally depraved! I’d have liked to meet him.”

  “You might get your chance,” Zara said in an odd voice. “Look!” She pointed toward the lobby.

  And there, leaning against a pillar with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the movie schedule, was Jack Weaver.

  “Exciting fun! Sets your pulse racing!”

  —USA Today

  “It is him, isn’t it?” Zara asked.

  “Yes,” I said grimly.

  “I wonder what he’s doing here.”

  “As if you didn’t know,” I said. No wonder she’d been so insistent I come with them. She and Jack had cooked up a—

  “Oh, my God!” Kett cried. “Is that the guy you were talking about? The—what did you call him?”

  “Wanker,” I said.

  “Scoundrel,” Zara said.

  “Right, the scoundrel. You didn’t tell me he was so hot! I mean, he’s positively scorching!”

  “Shh,” I said, but it was too late. Jack had already looked over and seen us.

  “Zara,” I said, “if you set this up, I’m never speaking to you again!”

  “I didn’t, I swear,” she said, which didn’t mean anything, but two things made me inclined to believe her. One was that, even though this looked suspiciously like a movie “meet cute,” the expression on Zara’s face had been completely stricken, the reason for which became apparent a few seconds later when a trio of Sig Taus, including Noah, sauntered up way too casually.

  “Wow!” Noah said. “I had no idea you three were coming to the Drome today, too.”

  Except for Zara’s texting you fifteen times while we were in the security lines, I thought. But at least their being here would keep Jack from coming over to talk to me.

  If he even wanted to. Because the other reason I thought Zara didn’t have anything to do with Jack’s being here had been the look on his face. He’d looked not just surprised to see me here, but dismayed. Which meant I was right—he wasn’t a scoundrel, he was a slimewad. And probably here with some other girl.

  “I’m especially surprised to see you here, Lindsay,” Noah, who would never make it as an actor even in the Twilight movies, said. “What are you doing at the Drome?”

  “The three of us,” I said, emphasizing the word “three,” “are going to a movie.”

  “Oh,” he said, frowning at Zara, who gave him a “go on” look. “We were just going to get something to eat at the Mos Eisley Cantina, and we wondered if you’d like to come with us.”

  “Oh, I love the Cantina,” Kett cooed.

  “I’ll buy you a Darth Vader daiquiri,” Noah said to me.

  “Lindsay prefers Pimm’s Cups,” Zara said. “Don’t you?”

  I glanced toward the lobby, hoping against hope Jack hadn’t heard that.

  He wasn’t there. He wasn’t at the end of the line either, or at the ticket machines. Good, he’d gone off to meet his new girlfriend. I hoped she hated movies.

  Noah was saying, “What the hell’s a Pimm’s Cup?”

  “It’s a drink from a movie,” I said. My favorite drink, I added silently. Or at least it used to be. The drink Jack had made me after we’d watched Ghost Town and Téa Leoni had said it was her favorite drink.

  “We could have lunch and then go to the movie, couldn’t we, Lindsay?” Kett asked, looking adoringly at Noah. “I just got a text coupon for Breakfast at Tiffany’s breakfast bar.”

  “No,” I said.

  Zara gave Noah another nudging look, and he said, “Maybe we could go with you. What are you going to?”

  “Christmas Caper,” Kett said.

  “I never heard of it,” Noah said.

  “It’s a spy adventure,” Kett explained. “A romantic spy adventure.”

  Noah made a face. “Are you kidding me? I hate romcoms. How about we all go see Lethal Rampage instead?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Maybe we could meet you at the Cantina after the movie,” Zara suggested.

  “Yeah, I don’t know,” Noah mumbled, looking at the other guys. “We’re pretty hungry. Listen, I’ll text you,” he said, and the three of them wandered off.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Zara said. “I was just trying to help you forget about—”

  “That Noah guy was scorching,” Kett said, looking after him, and sighed. “This better be some movie.”

  “It is,” Jack said at my elbow. “Hi.”

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “Going to the movies,” he said. “What else?” He leaned toward me. “Traitor,” he said in my ear. “You promised you’d go to Christmas Caper with me.”

  “You weren’t here,” I said coldly.

  “Yeah, about
that,” he said. “Sorry. Something came up. I—”

  “Is it really a good movie?” Kett asked, sidling over to him. “Lindsay didn’t tell us what it was about. All she said was that there was a scoundrel in it.”

  “Scoundrel,” Jack said, raising an eyebrow at me. “I like the sound of that.”

  “How do you like the sound of ‘loser’?” I said. “Or ‘slimewad’?”

  He ignored me. “Actually,” he said to Kett, “he’s an undercover agent working on a case,” he said, “and it’s classified, so he can’t tell the heroine about it or why he had to leave town—”

  “Nice try,” I said, and to Kett, “What it’s really about is this creep who tells the heroine a bunch of lies, does something staggeringly stupid, and then goes off without a word—”

  “Why don’t you come with us, Jack?” Kett interrupted, looking up at him hungrily. “I’m Kett, by the way. I’m friends with Lindsay, but she didn’t tell me you were so—”

  Zara pushed between them. “Kett and I actually wanted to go play drone tag with these Pi Kappas, Jack,” she said. “We—”

  “What Pi Kappas?” Kett demanded.

  Zara ignored her. “We were just going to the movie with Lindsay to keep her company, but now that you’re here, you could take her.”

  “I’d love to,” Jack said, frowning, “but unfortunately I can’t.”

  “He has to put a flock of geese a-laying in the theater where The Twelve Days of Christmas is showing,” I said. “Or is it partridges this time, Jack?”

  “Swans a-swimming,” he said, grinning. “I’ve got eight of them in my pocket.”

  “Really?” Kett said, as if it was actually possible to get anything through security, let alone a flock of swans.

  “That would be so depraved!” she purred. “What you did to the dean’s office was so amazing! You definitely should come with us to Christmas Caper!”

  “I have no intention of going anywhere with Jack,” I said.

  “Then I will.” Kett tucked her arm cozily in his. “The two of us can go see it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure that would be fun,” Jack said, disentangling himself from her like she was barbed wire, “but it’s not gonna happen. We can’t get in. It’s sold-out.”

  “It is not,” I said, pointing up at the schedule board. “Look.”

  “Not right now maybe, but trust me, it will be by the time you get to the front of the line.”

  “You’re kidding,” Zara said. “After we’ve stood in line all this time?”

  “And told Noah we couldn’t go to the Cantina with him,” Kett added.

  “It’s not going to be sold-out,” I said confidently.

  “Wrong,” Jack said, pointing at the board, where NO TICKETS AVAILABLE had begun flashing next to Christmas Caper.

  “An engrossing mystery …”

  —flickers.com

  Oh, no,” Zara said. “What do we do now?”

  “We could go see A Star-Crossed Season,” Kett said to Jack. “It’s supposed to be really good. Or The Diary.”

  “We’re not going to either one,” I said. “Just because the 12:10 of Christmas Caper’s sold-out doesn’t mean the other showings are. We can still get tickets to the 2:20.”

  “And wait around for another two hours?” Kett wailed.

  “Why don’t we get lunch first and then get the tickets?” Zara said. “We could go to Chocolat—”

  “No,” I said. “This is not going to turn into another Monsoon Gate. We are staying right here till we get our tickets.”

  “How about you stay in line, Lindsay, and we go and bring you back something?” Kett suggested.

  “No,” I said. “You promised you’d go with me.”

  “Yeah, and you promised you’d go with me, Lindsay,” Jack said.

  “You stood me up.”

  “I did not,” he said. “I’m here, aren’t I? And anyway, Kevin Kline stood up Meg Ryan in French Kiss. Michael Douglas stood up Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone. Indiana Jones left Marion tied up in the bad guys’ tent. Admit it, that’s what scoundrels do.”

  “Yes, well, but they don’t throw their entire future away on some stupid prank.”

  “You mean the geese? That wasn’t a prank.”

  “Oh, really? Then what was it?”

  “I can see you two have a lot of stuff to discuss,” Zara said. “We don’t want to get in the way. We’ll catch up with you later. Text me,” and before I could protest, she and Kett had vanished into the crowd.

  I turned to Jack. “I’m still not going with you to see it.”

  “True,” he said, looking over at the ticket counter. “You’re not going to get in to the 2:20 either.”

  “I suppose now you’re going to tell me it’ll be sold-out, too?”

  “No, they usually don’t use that one twice,” he said. “This time it’ll be something more subtle. Free tickets to a Special Christmas Showing of The Shop Around the Corner or a personal appearance by the new Hulk. Or, since you like scoundrels, of the new Han Solo.” He grinned. “Or me.”

  “I do not like scoundrels,” I said. “Not anymore. And what do you mean, ‘they don’t use that one twice’?”

  He shook his head disapprovingly. “That’s not your line. You’re supposed to say, ‘I happen to like nice men,’ and then I say, ‘I’m a nice man.’ ” He leaned toward me. “And then you say—”

  “This is not The Empire Strikes Back,” I snapped, backing away from him. “And you are not Han Solo.”

  “True,” he said. “I’m more like Peter O’Toole in How to Steal a Million. Or Douglas Fairbanks in The Mask of Zorro.”

  “Or Bradley Cooper in The World’s Biggest Liar,” I said. “Why did you say I’m not going to get in to the 2:20 either? Have you done something to the theater?”

  “Nope, not a thing. I swear.” He held up his right hand.

  “Yes, well, your word isn’t exactly trustworthy, is it?”

  “Actually, it is. It’s just that … Never mind. I promise you I didn’t have anything to do with the 12:10 being sold-out.”

  “Then why were you so sure it was going to be?’

  “Long story. Which I can’t tell you here,” he said, looking around. “What say we go somewhere quiet and I’ll explain everything?”

  “Including where you’ve been for the past eight months? And what possessed you to put those geese in the dean’s office?”

  “No,” he said. “Sorry, I can’t until—”

  “Until what? Until you’ve done the same thing here?” I lowered my voice. “Seriously, Jack, you could get in a lot of trouble. The Dromes have really heavy security—”

  “I knew it,” he said delightedly. “You’re still crazy about me. ‘So what say we go discuss this over a nice cozy lunch,’ as Peter said to Audrey in How to Steal a Million. There’s a little place over on Pixar Boulevard called Gusteau’s—”

  “I am not going anywhere with you,” I said. “I am going to the 2:20 showing of Christmas Caper. By myself.”

  “That’s what you think,” he said.

  “Watch the sparks fly between these two!”

  —The Web Critic

  Jack had sauntered off before I could demand to know what “That’s what you think” meant, and I couldn’t go after him to ask for fear of losing my place in line, so I spent the rest of the wait to get tickets worrying that the 2:20 would be sold-out, too, though there were only a couple of dozen people left ahead of me, they were all going to something else, and the schedule boards were still showing tickets were available.

  But there were three other lines, and the ticket seller on mine apparently had the brain of a character in Dumb and Really Really Dumb. It took him forever to make change and/or swipe people’s cards and then shove their ticket at them. It was a good thing I wasn’t trying to get a ticket for the 1:10. I’d never have made it.

  It was half past before I even got close to the ticket counter, and then the guy th
ree people ahead of me couldn’t make up his mind whether to see Zombie Prom or Avatar 4. He and his girlfriend spent a good ten minutes trying to decide, and then his card wouldn’t swipe and they had to use his girlfriend’s, and she had to search through her entire bag to find it, digging out handfuls of stuff for him to hold while she looked and standing there to put it all back after they’d finally gotten the tickets.

  This is exactly what Jack was talking about, I thought. What if they were doing it purposely to keep me from getting in?

  Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. You’re seeing conspiracies where they don’t exist. But I still looked anxiously up at the schedule board as I came up to the counter, afraid the NO TICKETS AVAILABLE would blink on at the last minute.

  It didn’t, and when I said, “One adult for the 2:20 showing of Christmas Caper,” the ticket seller nodded, swiped my card without incident, handed me my ticket, and told me to enjoy the show.

  “I will,” I said determinedly and started toward the entrance of the theater complex.

  Halfway there, Jack suddenly reappeared and fell in step with me. “Well?” he said.

  “They weren’t sold-out, and I didn’t have any trouble getting a ticket. See?” I said, showing it to him.

  He wasn’t impressed. “Yeah, and in Romancing the Stone, they found the diamond,” he said, “and Whoopi Goldberg got Jumpin’ Jack Flash an exit contact, and look what happened.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re not in the theater yet, and if you don’t make it by 2:20, they won’t let you in.”

  That was true—it was part of the Drome’s security precautions not to let anyone in to a movie after it had started—but it was only 1:30. I told Jack that.

  “Yeah, but the line to get in could be really long, or the line to buy popcorn.”

  “I’m not buying popcorn. And there isn’t any line to get in,” I said, pointing over at the usher standing all alone in the entrance to the theaters.

  “At the moment,” he said. “You’re not there yet. A horde of middle-aged women could show up for the new Fifty Shades of Gray before you get over to the usher. And even if you do make it into the theater, the film could break—”

  “The Drome doesn’t use film. It’s all digital.”