Lights, Camera, DISASTER! Read online

  “Look!” cheered Jordie. “They have heads, too! It’s that guy!”

  “This is ridiculous!” moaned Dinkman. “These private schools are supposed to have so much discipline! Why can’t they keep one lousy kid out of my movie?”

  * * *

  Cathy jumped down from the top of the wrought-iron fence, then reached up and helped Diane.

  Diane looked nervous. “What if Jordie Jones doesn’t want to meet us at two o’clock in the morning?”

  “Well, that’s just tough, because the feeling isn’t mutual,” Cathy replied. “I want to meet him.” She grabbed Diane by the arm and dragged her across the highway. Once on Macdonald Hall property, they made straight for the east lawn.

  “What do you say to a big star like Jordie Jones?” whined Diane.

  “Just because he’s famous and adorable and perfect doesn’t mean he’s any different from the rest of us,” Cathy explained. “We introduce ourselves, apologize for the late hour, and he invites us in for a Coke or something. Simple.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  Cathy was growing impatient. “A perfect gentleman like Jordie Jones would always ask us in. But on the off chance that he forgets, because maybe he was sleeping, we’ll drop a subtle hint. You know, like, ‘Oh, boy, I’m thirsty.’ Look — there’s his trailer. Let me do all the talking.”

  But as they made for the door with the big star on it, there was the sound of running feet, and a ghostly figure interposed itself between the girls and the trailer.

  “Sto-o-o-o-op!” bellowed Goose Golden. He was dressed in white pyjamas and a white bathrobe, and brandished a tennis racket like an offensive weapon. His toupee had been slapped on in a hurry and leaned perilously to the left, and he was without his glasses, which gave him a bewildered, squinty look.

  “Security!” he howled.

  “Shhh!” admonished Cathy. “Do you want to wake everybody up?”

  “Yes! Security! Someone’s trying to kidnap J.J.!”

  “We’re not kidnappers!” blurted out Diane. “We’re fans!”

  “We just want to meet him,” added Cathy.

  “At two o’clock in the morning?” challenged the agent, swinging the racket blindly as though trying to disperse a swarm of bees.

  “We’re students,” Cathy explained reasonably. “When else can we get away?”

  The wild motion of the tennis racket stopped, but Goose remained suspicious. “That’s exactly what real kidnappers would say! Still, you sound like students.” His eyes were tiny slits as he tried to make them out in the moonlight.

  But Cathy’s attention was focused on the trailer’s forward window. A light was on inside, and through the curtains poked the groggy, tousled, famous head of Jordie Jones, investigating the ruckus. She was about to make straight for the window when there were running footsteps, and a gruff voice called, “Hey! What’s going on there?”

  “Run!” screamed Diane, grabbing her roommate by the arm and attempting to sprint away.

  But Cathy stood rooted to the spot, until two burly security men appeared around the back of the trailer and pointed at the girls.

  “Hey, you!”

  The girls darted for open campus, the guards in hot pursuit. Even in this moment of danger and excitement, Cathy couldn’t resist turning around to face the actor in the window. Breathless and running backward at top speed, she screeched, “Nice to meet you, Jordie!” heedless of the men bearing down on her.

  Confused, Jordie waved. Then, and only then, did Cathy turn her back on the trailer and make her escape.

  “They’re gaining on us!” quavered Diane between gasps.

  “We’ll never make it home!” Cathy panted. “Double back and head for Dormitory 3!”

  “Dormitory 3?!” repeated Diane. “Bruno and Boots hate us! We’ll get fed to Wilbur Hackenschleimer!”

  “Well, they’ll just have to help anyway! This is an emergency!”

  * * *

  “There’s something going on out there!” exclaimed Boots, peering out the window of room 306.

  Bruno rolled over in bed and groaned. “The way I feel right now, I couldn’t get up if they were firebombing the dorms. You should try being a bush for a few hours. All that crouching is murder on your back.”

  Boots hung his head outside. “It’s coming from Jordie Jones’s trailer!”

  “Maybe it’s an assassination attempt,” muttered Bruno. “Let’s just hope the hit men know what they’re doing. The nerve of that guy, dumping his stupid orange juice all over me! Like I’m not a person because I’m not the great Rear Admiral Cutesy Newbar!”

  “Bruno, most people don’t go around checking bushes to make sure there aren’t any guys hiding in them. It was probably just an accident.”

  “He’s the big movie star.” Bruno snorted. “Everybody hides in bushes in the movies.”

  Boots stuck his entire body out the window, balancing his torso on the sill. “Sure is a big commotion. Mr. Golden’s out there, and Mr. Dinkman, Jordie Jones, a bunch of big guys. And yeah, here comes The Fish. Wonder what it’s all about?”

  Suddenly, from out of the shadows, a head popped up right in front of Boots. “Boo!”

  Shocked, Boots lost his balance on the sill and tumbled forward into the bushes.

  A laughing Cathy Burton pulled him up by the shoulders. “You should have seen the look on your face. It was classic!”

  Boots was white as a sheet. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

  A nervous Diane appeared beside them. “Let’s get inside!” she whispered urgently.

  They clambered in the window to find Bruno sitting up in bed, a disgusted expression on his face. “What an honour!” he cried sarcastically. “Visiting us with His Royal Cutesiness right here on this very campus! The prestige! Gosh, Boots, do we really deserve it?”

  “Oh, we just came from Jordie’s place,” said Cathy airily. “But the security guards chased us away.”

  Boots snapped to attention. “You mean, all this” — he motioned out the window to indicate the chaos on the east lawn — “is — is you?”

  “This isn’t a social call,” said Cathy. “We just need someplace to hide out until the heat’s off and we can go back home.”

  Diane sat down heavily on the floor. “I can’t believe that you just turned around and introduced yourself to Jordie Jones through two charging gorillas!”

  “He waved at me,” sighed Cathy. To Bruno and Boots, she added, “While we’re here, we may as well pick up those fireworks you’ve been holding for us.”

  “But I thought Miss Scrimmage’s anniversary wasn’t until May,” Boots protested.

  “Yeah, but Jordie Jones’s birthday is this week,” said Diane. “We want to throw him a big bash!”

  Boots was horrified. “You’re giving Jordie Jones Miss Scrimmage’s tribute?”

  “It’s no tribute,” countered Cathy. “Miss Scrimmage is afraid of fireworks. We wanted to see if she could climb up the flagpole.”

  “Still,” said Bruno reproachfully, “how would The Fish feel if he hit fifty years teaching without so much as a practical joke from us?”

  “Relieved, probably,” supplied Boots. “And we’d wash a lot fewer dishes.”

  “He’d be devastated,” Bruno amended. “And even though Miss Scrimmage is kind of wacko, she deserves the same thing.”

  “Come on, Bruno,” said Cathy, pulling a box of Roman candles from under Boots’s bed. “You guys can help us get this stuff across the highway.”

  Just then there was a sharp rapping at the door. “Walton, O’Neal —” came the voice of Mr. Fudge, the Housemaster.

  Boots’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes, sir?”

  Bruno threw a shoe at him. “We’re supposed to be asleep!” he hissed. Aloud, he said in the groggiest voice he could muster, “Who is it?”

  “Pardon me for rousing you from such a deep sleep, Walton,” came the voice of Mr. Sturgeon. “Did your dreams perchance include two of
Miss Scrimmage’s students hiding out in our dormitory?”

  The four exchanged agonized glances. How did Mr. Sturgeon always know exactly what they were doing?

  “Uh, why do you ask, sir?” stalled Bruno. Madly, he motioned Cathy and Diane to the open window. They dove for it at exactly the same instant, wedging themselves in the opening. A whispered shouting match ensued, with Boots pushing from behind.

  The Headmaster’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “Oh, eyewitness accounts of security guards — that sort of thing. Do ask Miss Burton and Miss Grant to be careful. Climbing in and out of buildings can be treacherous.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Boots hurled himself bodily against Cathy and Diane. With twin cries of dismay, they were jarred loose, diving over the sill and into the bushes. Wasting no time, they sprinted back to their own campus.

  “Oh, yes. One last thing. Both of you are confined to your room after classes for one week’s time. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” agreed Bruno, too quickly.

  Mr. Sturgeon sensed Bruno’s smile. “In your case, Walton, we shall make an exception of the time you are on dishwashing duty. And Walton, since you will be in your room, it follows that you will not be on the movie set, either in human form, or as any species of plant life. Goodnight.”

  Chapter 3

  Booby-Trapping the Star

  At a secluded table in the dining hall, Bruno Walton was holding court.

  “All right, guys, what are we going to do about Cutesy Newbar?”

  Larry Wilson looked at him. “Do? The guy’s here making a movie. When he’s done, he’ll leave. What’s there to do?”

  “We’ve got to put him in his place. Get him off his high horse. He thinks he can run around like the king of the world, throwing orange juice on everybody —”

  “Not everybody,” interrupted Boots. “Just you.”

  “I mean symbolically,” amended Bruno. “Besides, he’s poisoning their minds at Scrimmage’s. We’ve got the spring dance coming up. How’d you like to spend the evening with a bunch of love-struck Cutesy Newbar zombies? We’ve got to show this guy who’s boss!”

  “We already know who’s boss,” put in Boots. “The Fish is. And we’re not allowed out after classes, remember?”

  “I’ve already thought of that. If we go out tonight, that’s not after classes. That’s before tomorrow’s classes.”

  Pete Anderson looked shocked. “You’re right! And to think of all the times I sat in my room, doing confinement on the wrong day!”

  Boots ignored him. “Bruno, The Fish is going to kill us if we feed him a line like that.”

  “The Fish appreciates good logic,” said Bruno smugly. “If he’s going to punish us, he’s going to have to be more specific.”

  “‘You’re expelled’ is pretty specific.”

  “If it’ll make you feel better,” said Bruno kindly, “we can do it after lights-out. That way we won’t be violating our confinement, since we aren’t allowed out that late, punishment or not.”

  Wilbur Hackenschleimer peered out from behind an enormous stack of chicken cutlets. “Now that we know when we’re going to do it, why don’t you tell us what it is we’re going to do?”

  Bruno grinned diabolically. “We’re going to rig up his trailer with fireworks and scare him the rest of the way out of his saggy diapers!”

  A babble of protest rose up.

  “It’s perfect,” insisted Bruno. “Everyone at Scrimmage’s gets to see what a little baby their hero really is, Golden and Dinkman freak out, which takes the heat off me sneaking into the movie, and we knock the Rear Admiral down a couple of notches.”

  “Those fireworks aren’t ours,” Boots pointed out. “They belong to the girls.”

  “Cathy and Diane want them to be used on Cutesy Newbar. We’re going to use them on Cutesy Newbar.”

  Larry shook his head. “It’s a great idea, Bruno, but we just can’t. Rockets and Roman candles and stuff — that’s dangerous. We could really hurt the guy, or even ourselves. Fireworks are tricky.”

  “I know,” agreed Sidney. “My dad gave me a sparkler once, and I wound up in the hospital.”

  “What happened?” asked Mark.

  “I swallowed it.”

  The chorus of laughter that followed was interrupted by Bruno’s serious voice. “Come on, guys. I know fireworks can be dangerous. That’s why we’re going to have an actual scientific genius on the scene telling us exactly what to do.”

  All eyes turned to a lone figure eating quietly at the end of the table. Studious Elmer Drimsdale continued to take slow bites of his salad, oblivious to the fact that he was the centre of attention.

  At last, he looked up and regarded his tablemates through thick glasses that gave him an owl-like appearance. “Yes?”

  Bruno slapped himself in the forehead. “Sheesh! How can such a smart guy be so out of it? Pay attention, Elm. Now, could you hook up a bunch of fireworks to scare someone without hurting him?”

  “I suppose I could if I wanted to.” He regarded Bruno intently. “Do I want to?”

  Bruno laughed. “You can hardly wait!”

  * * *

  Boxes of fireworks were handed out the window of room 306 and passed along a human chain out onto the deserted campus. Finally, each hefting a carton, Bruno and Boots climbed out and joined Pete, Wilbur, Larry, Sidney and Elmer.

  Mark was on the scene, too, not helping, but recording the event on videotape.

  “Get that camera out of my face,” threatened Wilbur darkly, “or be prepared to eat it.”

  Undaunted, Mark focused in on Bruno and Boots and continued to shoot.

  “Come on, Mark,” said Bruno. “You’re doing a documentary on the movie. What’s this got to do with Academy Blues?”

  “This shows our reaction to the film company,” Mark insisted. “It’ll give my project a new dimension.”

  “Get real,” protested Boots. “You’re going to hand this in! It’s not about the movie; it’s about who blew up Jordie Jones’s trailer! Mr. Foley shows it to The Fish, and we all get expelled!”

  Mark shook his head. “It’s too dark. They’ll just see your silhouettes.”

  “And hear our voices,” added Larry.

  Mark shook his head. “No sound. I’ll use music. Something eerie. Maybe a synthesizer —”

  “Or a funeral march if The Fish finds out,” added Boots uneasily.

  Elmer was wide-eyed, his expression balancing terror and outrage. “We’re violating the curfew!” he hissed at Bruno. “You never said we were going to be breaking the rules!”

  Bruno stopped. “I didn’t? Oh, by the way, Elm, we’ll be doing this after lights-out, okay?”

  “Well, this is unacceptable!” Elmer stormed, his crew cut standing up even more than usual. “I can’t break the rules! If we’re caught, we’ll be punished!”

  “Hey, that’s no problem,” said Bruno airily. “I never get caught.”

  This statement was greeted by a chorus of sarcastic laughter from the other boys.

  “Dishes get washed around here,” grumbled Wilbur, “garbage gets picked up, leaves get raked, snow gets shovelled — all because you ‘never’ get caught.”

  “So why are you all here?” Bruno challenged.

  “Haven’t you figured it out yet?” asked Boots, half in exasperation and half in amusement. “We’re here because talking you out of something is ten times more work than actually doing it!”

  Elmer folded his arms in front of him. “Well, I’m going home. Remember, Bruno, you signed a contract promising not to do this to me anymore.”

  “Sure, Elm,” said Bruno pleasantly. “Of course, you realize that without your help we’re going to kill that poor kid and probably burn down the school. But hey — a contract is a contract.”

  Elmer looked beseechingly around the group for help, and then finally up to the sky, but nothing was forthcoming. Bruno had gotten him again. With a heavy sigh, he followe
d along with the rest toward the east lawn. They made a wide circle around the encampment of trailers to avoid the movie security people. Then, well past the small caravan, they doubled back to the furthest camper, the one with the star on the door.

  “This is beautiful!” breathed Mark, crouching on his knees and shooting upward. “I’ve got your heads marching past the full moon!”

  “How’d you like to go there?” growled Wilbur. “One way!”

  Elmer took a small plunger and a coil of wire out of a shopping bag. From his pocket he produced a freehand map scribbled on the back cover of the Science Gazette. It showed the trailer and where each rocket, Roman candle, pinwheel, burning schoolhouse and screamer should go. The boys studied the diagram and split up to deploy their weapons.

  “Make sure the stuff is hidden,” whispered Bruno. “We’ll set it off when Cutesy goes to bed tomorrow night, so it’ll be sitting around all day.”

  “What if it rains?” asked Larry. “Fireworks are useless if they get wet.”

  Elmer scanned the sky, holding up a finger to judge the wind. “Impossible,” he decided. “Our weather will be dominated by a high pressure system for at least another thirty-six hours.”

  No one questioned this. All the boys knew that it had come from an expert.

  Bruno grabbed one of the boxes, and he and Boots scurried to the front of the camper. There they set to work, booby-trapping and camouflaging as per Elmer’s instructions.

  Bruno was smiling and humming as he hid a tall Roman candle in some high grass.

  “Shhh!” Boots hissed nervously. “Someone’ll hear us! They’ve got security people, remember?”

  But nothing could spoil Bruno’s mood. “I know it’s going to be harmless, but just the thought of blowing up Cutesy Newbar — I love it!”

  Elmer appeared and surveyed their work critically. “Very good,” he approved. “Move that pinwheel a little further from the window. Excellent.” He began tying the wick of each piece of fireworks to a long cable that snaked in a large circle around the trailer.

  Boots was curious in spite of himself. “How will that work?”

  “When someone pushes the plunger,” explained Elmer, “a sharp electric pulse will shoot through this low-impedance detonator cable, creating a spark that will ignite each of the wicks. That way, everything can be set off at the same time from the same location.”