Lights, Camera, DISASTER! by Gordon Korman
“Marvin Trimble went in the fall,” said Wilbur pessimistically, “and he told me the food was terrible!”
Mark stood up and grabbed the camera from Elmer’s hands. “Give me that! You’re taking clouds again!”
Bruno finished his letter, but his mind was decidedly elsewhere. “I guess I’ll just have to get into the movie before the trip.”
* * *
The dining room table in the Headmaster’s cottage gleamed with the very best linen, silver and china. Mrs. Sturgeon passed the salad dressing to Seth Dinkman, who was on her right. “And how is the movie coming along, Mr. Dinkman?”
“Pretty good,” replied the director. “We’re a couple of days behind schedule, but the cast and crew are just starting to get into a rhythm.”
“Oh, it’s a musical,” said Miss Scrimmage. “How lovely.”
Goose Golden brayed a laugh right into her face. “Hey, that’s a good one. A musical. Yeah, that’s funny.”
The Headmaster glared at his wife across the table. This dinner party had not been his idea, and he was especially irritated by the presence of Miss Scrimmage. Mrs. Sturgeon smiled back warningly.
“My girls love music,” Miss Scrimmage rattled on. “It is one of their accomplishments.”
“Yeah?” said Goose unkindly. “What are the others — demolition? Guerilla warfare? Ninjitsu?”
“Hey, Goose,” said Dinkman quietly. “Cool it.”
“But they almost killed J.J.!”
Miss Scrimmage bristled at Golden. “How dare you, sir? I’ll have you know ours is a finishing school!”
The manager snorted into his plate. “Well, if that’s a finishing school, I’d hate to see what they’ve got down at the women’s prison!”
Mrs. Sturgeon stood up. “Why don’t we all have dessert?” She disappeared into the kitchen.
“I’ll help,” said Mr. Sturgeon and swept out in her wake. He faced his wife over the kitchen counter. “Congratulations, Mildred. Bringing those two together at one table was a social masterstroke.”
“Oh, William, stop your complaining and hand me those plates.”
He took the dishes from the cupboard and placed them on her tray. “What’s for dessert — nails?”
“I wish you would take these gatherings a little more seriously,” she scolded. “Tonight is a wonderful opportunity for you and Miss Scrimmage to sort out your differences.”
“She is far too busy creating new ones with Mr. Golden. I wonder how much she’ll sue him for. He must be wealthier than I. That toupee alone is worth, at minimum, ninety-nine cents.”
“Shhh! Be nice. Everyone will be much more cheery when they’ve had some coffee and kiwi flan. You’ll see.”
At that moment, Miss Scrimmage’s shrill voice reached them.
“You, sir, are a cad!”
And by the time the Sturgeons returned to the dining room with dessert, Seth Dinkman was sitting alone at the table, looking embarrassed.
“Oh, dear!” said the hostess. “Where is everybody?”
“Perhaps Miss Scrimmage invited Mr. Golden to step outside,” suggested the Headmaster dryly.
Dinkman laughed. “The lady took off in a snit. And Goose — well, he can get kind of crazy where Jordie’s concerned. He went to his trailer to cool off. Sorry.” He craned his neck at the tray. “Hey, is that kiwi flan? My favourite!”
Dessert was served, and Mrs. Sturgeon watched happily as Dinkman downed his portion, then Miss Scrimmage’s and Golden’s as well.
Mr. Sturgeon cleared his throat carefully. “Perhaps it’s just as well the others have gone. It gives me an opportunity to discuss young Jones.”
“Jordie? Sure. What do you want to know?”
“No doubt you are aware of his complicity in that unsavoury incident at Miss Scrimmage’s last night.”
Dinkman shrugged. “These things happen around a star. People go nuts. And I’ve got to say Jordie handles it a lot better than some actors I could name who are twenty years older than him.”
“No doubt,” said the Headmaster. “In fact, if he could disguise his sneeze as well as he disguises himself and his voice, last night might never have happened. The point is, Dinkman, Jones is not just an actor; he is a young boy, and I know the species well. Remember, you’re not on location in the Sahara Desert. There are seven hundred other boys here, showing Jones exactly what he’s given up for the sake of success.”
“Maybe,” Dinkman conceded. “But Jordie makes pictures at ten million bucks a pop. That ought to be enough to keep him in line.”
“To an adult mind, yes; on a headmaster’s salary, definitely. But to Jones, I doubt it. He’s merely human. He wants what he doesn’t have.”
Dinkman frowned. “Are you saying I should keep him away from your kids?”
“Just the opposite,” Mr. Sturgeon replied. “He should be given the freedom to socialize fully whenever he’s not working or taking lessons with his tutor. If he can enjoy these normal friendships whenever he chooses, it won’t be necessary for him to pursue them at four o’clock in the morning, or dressed as the Maharajah of Rajputan.”
Dinkman thought it over. “Maybe you’re right — of course you’re right. But it has nothing to do with me. I don’t care what Jordie does when he’s on his own time. But Jordie’s parents hired Goose and put him completely in charge. And let’s face it, Goose is an idiot.”
Mr. Sturgeon smiled sardonically. “I wasn’t going to mention it if you didn’t.”
Dinkman polished off his coffee. “Are you kidding? You think I’d let Goose on my set if I didn’t have to? Every time I ask the kid to do something, he butts in and we have a contract negotiation. It’s murder!”
Mr. Sturgeon looked skeptical. “But surely, as director, your authority is considerable.”
“So is Goose’s mouth.” He pounded the table with determination. “I know what I’ll tell him. I’ll say the kid isn’t performing well on the set because he’s unhappy. Then I’ll drop a few hints about cutting the star’s salary. Poor old Goose won’t know if he’s coming or going.” He grinned. “It might even be fun.”
* * *
The Macdonald Hall Macs were running breakaway drill on Pete Anderson, the goalie, when a second netminder in full equipment took the ice. He skated to the opposite goal, assumed his stance and began to bang his stick on the crossbar. The challenge.
Boots nudged Bruno. “Who’s that guy?”
Bruno squinted at the unfamiliar mask and shrugged. The team had no backup goalie, and the custom was to dress one of the defencemen in the event that Pete couldn’t play. “Who’s missing?” he asked, surveying the line of shooters. “Maybe Larry?”
“No,” said the office messenger from behind him. “I’m over here.”
“Who cares? Let’s smoke this guy!” Sidney Rampulsky snared a puck and streaked down the ice towards the mystery goalie. About three metres in front of the net, the blades of his skates lost the ice. He fell heavily, spinning on the seat of his hockey pants into the boards. The puck slid slowly into the goalie’s stick. The mystery man celebrated his save wildly.
Laughing, Boots grabbed another puck, roared in and picked the top corner of the net with a lightning wrist shot.
Jordie Jones ripped off his mask. “Showboat!”
Bruno skated over. “Get that mask back on, Cutesy! You want Coach Flynn to see you?”
Jordie covered his face. “So how do I look?”
“Like a dead man if your manager catches you.”
“That’s the weird part,” said the star. “When I was through for the day, Goose told me to take off and have a good time. Just like that.”
Boots looked surprised. “He probably didn’t mean hockey.”
“For sure,” Jordie agreed. “Actually, he looked like he didn’t mean any of it. He was sweating, and his voice sounded higher than normal, and he kept looking over his shoulder at Seth. And then, as I was walking away, I heard him say his mantra. He only meditates when
“Good thing you’re a goalie,” said Bruno. “The coach won’t be able to tell it’s you.”
“Okay,” called Jordie, backing into the net, “do your worst!”
A second line of shooters formed, but the identity of the new goalie was soon passed from helmet to helmet, and the skaters each lobbed slow, gentle shots at the net.
Jordie easily turned aside the first few, then called time and glided over to the line of attackers. He flipped his mask up and faced them, eyes blazing. “The next guy who gives me a weak little baby shot gets his head separated from the rest of his body!” He waved his stick like a battle-ax, and returned to the net.
Shrugging, Wilbur Hackenschleimer fired a hard slapshot past Jordie. Larry scored. So did Sidney, although the force of his shot put him out of control. The puck beat Jordie to the left side and, a split second later, Sidney himself got past the goalie on the right, sliding headfirst into the net.
Then Jordie stopped one, pulling a high wrist shot out of the air with a lightning glove. Calvin Fihzgart scored, but the actor foiled Rob Adams and Mortimer Day. He even outsmarted Boots, who made a quick fake, pulled the puck to his backhand and flipped it toward the net. Jordie followed the move perfectly, making a blocker save. Next was Bruno. He made a charge directly at the goalie. There was a head-on collision then, as the two lay in a heap, Bruno reached out with his stick and pulled the puck into the net.
“What was that for?” Jordie demanded.
“Second effort,” explained Bruno.
A whistle blew. “Walton, what are you doing?” Coach Flynn stood at centre ice, glaring in their direction. Bruno and Jordie scrambled to their feet. The coach stared at the newcomer. “And you are …?”
Before Jordie could reply, Bruno announced loudly, “Who, him? Uh — well, Coach, it’s so obvious. This is — Fred.”
Flynn’s brow furrowed. “Fred?”
“Yes, sir,” continued Bruno, leaping in with both skates. “We told him how tough it’s going to be against York on Saturday, and how we only have one goalie to drill with, and because he’s got school spirit and homework’s light, what with the big trip coming up, he volunteered to stand in goal during practice. What a guy.” He put an arm around Jordie and looked at centre ice hopefully.
Coach Flynn thought it over. Finally, he said, “Good idea. Thanks, Fred.”
“Glad to help out,” came a gruff voice from behind the mask. It was Jordie’s best guess as to what Fred the goalie would sound like.
The practice continued, with Pete and “Fred” in goal. After half an hour, the coach called all the skaters together for some drills, and Pete worked with Jordie on basic goaltending moves.
“What are we going to do if Flynn ever gets around to asking himself Fred Who?” Boots whispered to Bruno during the passing exercise.
“You think too much, Melvin,” was Bruno’s response. “The coach is tearing his hair out worrying about the game. He wouldn’t care if Cutesy was from Neptune, so long as he helped to prepare for York Academy.”
* * *
By a coincidence, every time Jordie Jones was finished early on the set that week, “Fred” happened to have light homework and would come to play goal at hockey practice.
Coach Flynn was pathetically grateful. After a terrible season, the team was finally coming together, and an extra goalie at practice helped immeasurably. Two netminders instead of one meant that twice as many players could be actively involved in the drills, instead of standing around waiting.
As a goalie, the actor was only so-so. He was very quick with his glove, a holdover from Little League baseball (before Goose had put a stop to his participation, he added). He was also keenly observant, something learned in his experience as an actor, and therefore very difficult to fake. Even Boots, the captain and best player, couldn’t fool him. Jordie’s problem was the easy shots. Anything that came along the ice, no matter how soft, managed to elude him. Still, he manfully faced every puck, giving his all — even after the embarrassment of letting in a clearing pass from centre ice.
“He’s a hard worker,” Coach Flynn told Boots. “And he never gives up. Do you think we could convince him to go out for track?”
“Probably not,” Boots managed. “Fred’s got a lot of — uh — extracurricular things going on.”
On Friday, the players remained in the locker room long after their coach’s pep talk.
“Coach Flynn’s right,” said Larry. “We’ve come a long way this week. I think we’ve got a good chance.”
“York Academy’s going to slaughter us,” predicted Wilbur mournfully.
“I don’t know,” said Boots. “It feels like we’re starting to click.”
“The last game of the season is a dumb time to start to click,” commented Pete. “But it sure would be nice to give those turkeys a run for their money tomorrow.”
A masked head poked into the locker room, and Bruno waved Jordie inside. “Come on in, Cutesy. The coast is clear. How does it feel now that your hockey career is over?”
Jordie smiled. “I’ll miss it. But I would’ve had to stop anyway. Goose noticed this tiny bruise on my arm this morning. It was nothing! The makeup people couldn’t even find it to cover it up. So now he’s gearing up for one of his marathon talks where he just blabs until I can’t stand it anymore, and I tell him what he wants to hear.”
“Why are you so scared of him?” asked Sidney. “Doesn’t he work for you?”
The actor smiled. “I love Goose. I know I complain about him being a pain and all, but I’ve worked with the guy since the old Cutesy Newbar days. He’s like a second father to me.” He thought it over. “More like an estranged uncle — or how about an older brother who’s kind of weird?”
“Are you coming to see the game tomorrow?” asked Boots.
“For sure!” Jordie nodded enthusiastically. “Seth’s agreed to shoot around me for a couple of hours. I’ll be in the front row.”
“We’ll need all the cheering we can get,” said Larry. “The girls aren’t coming. Miss Scrimmage is still steaming over the dance. She’s threatened to bring her lawsuit up to a quarter million.”
“Bummer,” agreed Bruno. “The girls were always a great boost, especially when they used to throw stuff at the other team. And you’ve got to figure there won’t be a lot of parent and alumni turnout after our 2 and 7 season. Still, we’ve got a movie star on our side. I’ll bet those York turkeys haven’t got one of those!”
Chapter 8
Bench Strength
The turnout for the annual hockey game was better than expected. This had little to do with hockey. Parents and alumni were anxious to get a look at the movie crew and the famous Jordie Jones in action. They came from all over Toronto and southern Ontario, and they came early. Although the game was not set to begin until 2, there was a large crowd of spectators on the east lawn by 9 AM.
It brought out the showman in Seth Dinkman. He was engaging in friendly banter with the visitors and plugging Academy Blues. Goose Golden circulated, too, handing out Jordie Jones Fan Club applications to everyone under the age of seventy.
Dinkman also made sure to use as many student extras as possible and, after much nagging from Jordie, the name of Bruno Walton was called. There was an enormous cheer from the Macdonald Hall students.
The director was smiling as he put an arm around Bruno’s shoulders and led him away from the crowd of parents and boys. “All right, Walton,” he said, the friendly grin never wavering. “You’re getting one last chance, so don’t blow it. There’s a line in this scene, and Jordie wants you to have it.”
Bruno was ecstatic. “A speaking part! Wow! You won’t be sorry you picked me!”
“I didn’t pick you,” growled the director, still s
A camera focused on Jordie, dressed in a school jacket, carrying an armload of books.
“Even you can do this,” Dinkman instructed. “Jordie’s walking along the path. You jog up behind him, tap him on the shoulder and you say, ‘Hey, Steve, there’s a package for you at the office.’”
“I’m Steve, remember?” Jordie supplied. “It’s the character I’m playing.”
“Right,” said Bruno, a look of intense concentration on his face.
Scene 26, take 1: As Jordie walked, Bruno approached from the rear, slapped him heartily on the shoulder, opened his mouth and said — nothing.
“Cut! Cut!” Dinkman rushed over. “Well?”
“I forgot my line,” Bruno admitted.
The spectators broke into appreciative applause.
“Listen carefully,” the director ordered. ‘“Hey, Steve, there’s a package for you at the office.’ Okay?”
Scene 26, take 2: “Hey, Steve,” called Bruno, “there’s a package for you at the — the —” His face twisted. “That place! With desks — papers —”
Scene 26, take 3: “Hey, there, Steve’s a package at the office —”
Scene 26, take 4: “Hey, Steve — uh — got any good packages lately?”
“Cut! Cut!” Dinkman bounded onto the scene, red-faced. “Stop laughing!” he barked at his cameraman, who was doubled over.
The crowd chanted, “Bru–no! … Bru–no!”
“Quiet, everybody! This is a sound take!” The director turned to Bruno, who was panting and sweating from all the jogging. “Makeup, powder this guy down! He looks like he’s just run the Boston Marathon!”
“You know, Seth,” said Jordie solicitously, “maybe it would go better if we had a trial run-through.”
“Yeah, sure,” said the director impatiently. “Go for it. Rehearse. Take your time. It’s the pivotal scene in the movie, after all!”
As the makeup technician coaxed the shine out of Bruno’s face with a large powder-puff, Bruno practised. “Hey, Steve, there’s a package for you at the office. Hey, Steve …”