BY THE TIME I'D GOTTEN BACK TO CLASS, I'd managed to adjust my underwear back into place, but for the rest of the day I could barely concentrate. I knew people were staring at me and whispering about me behind my back. At the end of the school day, Mrs. Samuelson reminded everyone to check the schedule to see when his or her parent was assigned to come to class. The parents were going to make presentations about what they did for a living, as part of the family heritage unit.
"I've squeezed you in on Friday, Mitch," she said, turning to me. "I hope that will give one of your parents enough time to prepare something."
I nodded, but as I scanned the schedule I noticed something disturbing. Everyone's parents seemed to be involved in some aspect of show business. The occupations listed on the first day alone read like movie credits: director, stunt woman, actors (Tangie's parents), writers (Dash's parents), executive producer, and costume designer. Up against this lineup, my dad couldn't compete.
As I mentioned before, my dad studies bugs. That doesn't seem so bad, right? It's not like he's, say, a bank robber. It doesn't seem like something I'd need to hide. But you have no idea. You see, my dad is a specialist, and what he specializes in is cockroaches. He doesn't just like them, he's obsessed with them. That's all he talks about. I've seen him take any topic of conversation—sports, yo-yos, Shakespeare plays, anything!—and turn it into a conversation about cockroaches. That's all I needed, to be known as the weirdo who doesn't watch TV and whose dad worships cockroaches. Sometimes I wish my dad was a bank robber. Now that would be awesome.
I decided right then not to tell him about the presentation.
It took about half an hour for me to walk home from school. My mom wasn't going to start her job as a lecturer in American history at UCLA (the University of California, Los Angeles) until the next semester, so she was home, unpacking boxes… and baking! She handed me a plate with a thick slice of macadamia nut cake. Did I mention how much I love her hobby? Then she opened the fridge to get some milk.
"There is something in this fridge that just does not smell right," she murmured, wrinkling her nose as she removed the carton to pour me a glass. "So, how was your first day at school?"
"Not good," I said, popping a big piece of cake in my mouth.
She dropped her smile. "What does that mean?"
"Oh nothing. Just that I don't fit in, I'm considered the class weirdo, I got wedgied by a caveman…."
"Oh." She sat next to me at the table. "That doesn't sound like a very good day. But, you know, I'm sure it will get better. Once the kids get to really know you…."
This is the same speech my mom has given me every single time I've started late at a new school. I know it by heart. The next thing she was going to say was "They'll find out what a truly great kid you are." She really needs to stop making this speech; it doesn't fool anybody anymore.
"Mom. Please stop," I interrupted. "I know what you're going to say. But I have to go through this every time we move! I'm sick of having to make new friends all the time! Why can't we just stay in one place?"
My mom sighed and rested her head in her hand. "I know, Mitch. I know. It really isn't fair the way your father and I have moved you around so much. But your dad has to go where the work is. That's what professors do. Unless he gets tenure at a university, his job is not secure."
"So are you saying the reason we keep moving is because Dad keeps getting fired?"
"Ah, well… it's complicated."
Which was her way of saying she didn't want to talk about it. So I thought of something else to complain about.
"And how come we don't have a TV, anyway?"
"TV? I don't know." She shrugged. "You were just never very interested in it when you were younger. You always liked being outside, running around, reading, exploring… and your dad and I tend to read books and magazines to relax. A TV just seemed like an unnecessary expense."
"Well, we need one now," I said.
"I'll think about it," she said, which we all know means no.
"Mom, by any chance, is the reason we keep moving really because Dad's a bank robber?"
My mom frowned, raising an eyebrow. Can't blame me for trying. I pushed myself away from the table and went to my room.
The next day didn't start off very well. There was a kid in the class who hadn't been there the day before sitting in my seat. He had light brown hair, big green eyes, and perfect teeth. He was talking with Brandon like they were good buddies, so I guess he was also a king of the classroom. He didn't seem to notice me standing right in front of him, so I tapped him on the shoulder.
"Sorry, but I think you're in my seat," I said.
"Sorry, but you thought wrong," he said. He turned back to Brandon.
"I was sitting here yesterday," I said, trying again. He turned around again.
"Well, now I'm sitting here." He turned back to Brandon.
"I'm just saying, the teacher assigned this seat to me…."
He turned to me with a look of amazement. "Are you still here? What's wrong with you?"
The rest of the class had gotten quiet. Mrs. Samuelson had not entered the room yet, and Dash and Skywalker weren't there either. I wasn't sure what to do. From the looks of him I was pretty sure this kid had never been in a fight in his entire life. And frankly, neither had I. But if I backed down now, my reputation would go right in the toilet. And anyway, where else was I supposed to sit, on the floor?
"Hey, Mitch, come over and sit by me." Suddenly Tangie appeared by my side, locking her arm in mine. She gently led me to the empty seat behind her. I was happy to follow. It was as if a fresh breeze had blown through the class. Everyone relaxed.
Dash and Skywalker finally arrived and stopped at the door, sensing that they had just missed something. Skywalker saw the kid sitting in my seat, and his mouth made an "O" shape as he slipped into the seat behind him. Dash slid into his chair just as Mrs. Samuelson walked in. Two seconds later the bell rang. Day number two had begun.
At lunch I found out more about the kid with the big green eyes.
"That's Axel Maxtone," Dash said as soon as we left the class. I didn't say anything. Dash grabbed my arm. "Mitch, you do know who Axel Maxtone is, don't you?"
"Should I?"
"Oh for Pete's sake, Mitch! Axel Maxtone. The star of My Mom's a Mutant. He played the little kid! You couldn't have missed that! It was on TV for four years!"
I thought for a second. "Oh, yeah," I said. "I think I saw part of it at a friend's house. It looked kind of dumb."
"It was dumb. Horrible! Worst sitcom ever."
"If it was so bad, why do people give a hoot about Axel Maxtone?"
"Because he was the star! He was the breakout character! He was on the cover of Entertainment Weekly four times!"
"But it was a bad show, right?"
"You really don't understand how things work around here, do you?" Dash said incredulously. "It doesn't matter how bad it was! It was a hit!"
"So you're telling me that because he was the star of a hit show, even though it was a horrible show, he's allowed to act like a jerk for the rest of his life?"
"Exactly. Don't try to make any sense of it, just accept it, stay out of his way, and move on."
I learned a lot more about Hollywood that afternoon during the parent presentations. I learned that Dash's dad won an Academy Award, an Oscar, for writing. I learned that Tangie's mom donates half of her salary from each of her movies to a nonprofit organization dedicated to stopping hunger worldwide. I learned that Brandon's dad flies his own plane, plays polo, and collects vintage motorcycles.
But that wasn't all. Each parent who spoke that afternoon had fascinating stories to tell: about famous people, about making dreams come to life, about being part of the most glamorous, exciting business on the planet—the entertainment industry. Even their worst problems sounded fun. Some people said they had to work through the night to meet deadlines, others had to deal with the hot tempers and unreasonable demands of movie stars, and others had to come up with creative solutions to make seemingly impossible situations work. One person worked in freezing weather in the arctic tundra for two weeks just to shoot one scene of a movie. It sounded awesome.
I was so glad my dad wasn't coming in to speak.
The day ended with Axel Maxtone's mother, who was a casting director. She explained that it was her job to know every actor who is out there so that whenever she casts a movie or a television show, she knows right away who would be perfect for each part and who to bring in for an audition.
"I'm on the phone with stars and their agents all the time," she said, "but the thing I like most about my job is discovering a fresh, new face. At least twice a year my colleagues and I hold talent searches. We invite people of all ages, with no prior experience in show business, to come out and audition. It's very exciting because we never know what we might find. Some people have natural talent, or an appealing look, and they don't even know it."
She handed out a flyer for the next talent search, which was going to take place at the Beachwood Park Recreation Center that Saturday.
After school I walked home with Skywalker, who, it turned out, lived only a couple of blocks away from me. His house was one of the oldest on the block; it looked like a small Mediterranean castle.
"This used to be Charlie Chaplin's house back in the day," he said as he unlocked the front door and waved me in.
As I walked through the door, I was met by a bloated head with one eyeball swinging from its socket. I yelled like crazy, trying to avoid the thick tongue, oozing with warts, flopping out at me. The next thing I knew I was on the floor. I'd tripped over a huge brain with crab legs poking out of it! Then something heavy fell on my shoulder and I yelled again, but it was just Skywalker's hand, and he was laughing his head off.
"Don't be mad," he said, helping me up. "That's our homemade burglar alarm."
I wasn't mad. I was just happy I hadn't wet myself. "What is all this stuff?!" I gasped, my heart pumping like crazy.
"Didn't I tell you?" Skywalker chuckled. "My dad's a makeup artist. He creates monsters."
"You actually live in the middle of all this stuff?" I scanned the room. Aliens, vampires, werewolves, and all kinds of gruesome creatures lurked in the shadows, peered out of doorways, and crouched on shelves.
"In October we do. We're setting up for Halloween," Skywalker explained with a wicked grin. "This is nothing. Wait till it's finished!"
He led me into the kitchen, which thankfully was not decorated for Halloween, and pulled a couple of popsicles out of the freezer. As he handed me one he was still grinning from ear to ear, like he had some kind of big secret.
"Got a couple of hours to kill?" he asked.
I checked my watch. "Sure, but I should call my mom."
"Do it," he said, handing me his cell phone. "Tell her you're doing some homework."
"I don't remember getting any homework," I said, dialing my number. When my mom answered I told her I was at a friend's house and that we were doing homework and I would be home around six.
Skywalker had finished his popsicle and was pacing around the room, running his fingers through his hair. After I hung up he clapped his hands together. "You ready?"
"Yeah… ready for what?"
"Follow me!"
Skywalker led me into a dark room and flicked on the lights. On one wall was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with DVDs and stacks of electronic equipment. Against the second wall were three rows of comfy, theater-style seats. A white screen took up most of the third wall. It was a little movie theater, right in his house! Skywalker pulled a DVD box set from the case and held it up as though it were the crown jewels of England.
"Your homework," he said. "I have here in my hands the complete Star Wars deluxe box set, director's cut, in widescreen. Today we will watch the first one ever made. Episode four, A New Hope."
"It starts with episode four?"
"Yes. There are two trilogies. The first trilogy had episodes four, five, and six. Then George Lucas—he's the director—went back and made a prequel trilogy of episodes one, two, and three. There are different opinions as to which movie is the best, but I like the first one. So does my dad. He was a teenager when it came out, and it was like nothing he'd ever seen before. He said it changed his life. And now you will see why. Sit."
I sat in one of the theater chairs. Skywalker slid the DVD into the player. The lights dimmed. After a moment, white words came up on the black screen: "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…" And then, with a sudden burst of music, the words "Star Wars" appeared over a field of stars.
Two hours later, as the credits started to roll, I blinked and realized that I was still in Skywalker's house, still sitting in his mini-theater. I felt like I'd gone away on a long trip. I couldn't move. I didn't want to leave. I wanted to go back into Star Wars. I wanted to hang out with Luke Skywalker and Han Solo. I was aching to take one more jump into hyperspace, desperate to fight one last battle against the evil empire.
"So? What do you think?" Skywalker asked.
"May the Force be with you," I said solemnly. I was hooked.
We were so psyched about the movie that we decided to make a couple of light sabers. We went on a hunt for broomsticks and ended up finding them in Skywalker's bedroom, which, I have to say, was like walking into crazy town.
The whole room was an art project. There were strange mobiles hanging from his ceiling—one made out of an old radio that had been taken apart, one made out of plastic puppet heads, and one made out of candy wrappers that had been wrapped around blocks of wood. He had a lamp made out of an umbrella. He'd strung little white Christmas lights along walls. And there was a mural on one of his walls that was like nothing I'd ever seen before. He noticed me looking at it.
"I painted that," he said proudly. It was a picture of a long line of businessmen and-women with various animal heads, all heading into a flying saucer. Meanwhile, wedges of cheese with wings flew around the sky. I was impressed. All I can draw are stick figures, an apple, and a pretty lame-looking horse.
"What is it?" I asked.
He scrutinized it for a moment. "I don't know. It's not finished yet."
After we found the broomsticks and made our light sabers, we realized there wasn't enough space in his room to battle, so we headed out to his backyard. It occurred to me as I stood at one end of the grass that we probably looked like a couple of first-class dopes, but I forgot all about that when Skywalker charged me head-on. I fended off wave after wave of attacks. Skywalker was really good, twirling, jabbing, jumping, whacking; it was obvious that this was not the first time he'd done this.
Then his mom stuck her head out the window. "Hey, guys, you might want to wind things up. I'll have dinner ready in ten minutes."
I hadn't even known she was home. I dropped my light saber—or rather, my broomstick—totally embarrassed. That gave Skywalker an easy shot at my legs.
"Ouch!"
"Why didn't you jump?"
"I don't want to do this in front of your mom. She's going to think we're a couple of idiots."
Skywalker laughed. "First of all, my mom's known me all my life and has already decided whether or not I'm an idiot, and second, who cares what people think?"
Boy, he and I couldn't be more different. It's a miracle we were friends.
I got home twenty minutes late. My mom pretended to be upset, but she was thrilled I'd made a friend, and so was my dad, so they accepted my apology pretty quickly. Over dinner I told my parents all about my visit with Skywalker: about his fantastic house, the monsters all over the place, his crazy bedroom, and watching Star Wars in their private screening room. I left out the part about the broomstick battle.
"Ooh, Star Wars. That was such a fun movie! I was a teenager when that came out," my mom said with a laugh.
"I never got into that fantasy stuff," my dad said. "You can find just as much adventure in real life. Battling an evil empire is nothing compared with battling a colony of cockroaches. Now that's a fight! They are practically undefeatable!"
I started to clear my plate from the dinner table, but my dad stopped me. "Wait, Mitch, there was something I wanted to tell you. I received an e-mail from your teacher, Mrs. Samuelson."
I froze. "Really? What did she want?"
"She asked if I could come in tomorrow and make a presentation to the class about my work."
Rats! Rats! Rats! I thought, but I said, "Oh, yeah. I guess I forgot to ask you about that. You know, you don't have to come. I figured you must be pretty busy…."
"Actually I'm free tomorrow afternoon. I told her I could be there at two."
Rats! "You know, you really don't have to. She'll understand…."
"Nonsense! I'm actually looking forward to it. I've never spoken to a grade-school class before!" He seemed way too excited about this.
"Dad, just make sure you keep it short. The short presentations are always better than the long ones."
"Oh, I've got some ideas," my dad said, rubbing his hands together like some kind of mad scientist. Rats!
The next day I left for school with a sinking feeling in my stomach. All day I prayed for a meteor to fall from the sky and land in front of the school so that class would be canceled.
When I checked out the list of parents coming in to speak that day, my hopes were lifted. The list included a real estate agent, a prison guard, and my father. No cool show-business jobs, just regular people. Or so I thought. It turned out the real estate agent specialized in multimillion-dollar homes, and she had clients who were some of the biggest celebrities in the entertainment industry. She'd bought and sold homes for sports stars, rock stars, movie stars, and television stars.
"In fact, I was just on my way to show a client a listing," she said, her eyes sparkling. "He agreed to let me drop by here first. He was supposed to stay in the car, but I can see he's itching to come in…."
She opened the classroom door and in walked Monty Montgomery. I didn't recognize him, of course. He just looked like a weird guy with bushy eyebrows and nostrils big enough to hold a couple of eggs, but everyone else in the class knew who he was. They all jumped up and crowded around him. It took ten minutes for Mrs. Samuelson to restore order to the classroom, but everyone got an autograph.
After the real estate agent left, the prison guard came in. He looked pretty rough. He had a broken nose and a scar that stretched from his eye to the back of his neck. He was really giving me the creeps, but I could hear kids around me snickering.
"You think this is funny?" the prison guard shouted, slamming his hand on Brandon's desk. Then he leaned toward Brandon, only inches away from his face.
"Don't cross me, blondie," he growled. "I've eaten bigger things than you for breakfast."
By then everyone was outright laughing. I looked at the sheet and noticed that the prison guard's name was Mr. Bernard Ortega. Skywalker's dad. Now I got it—he was in makeup.
Sure enough, after a few more threats the prison guard finally pointed at his face and said, "You think this mug is ugly? I'm going to show you something really grotesque."
He started to peel off his face. It was the strangest thing I'd ever seen—his face came right off like a rubber mask, and underneath was a middle-aged man who looked like an older version of Skywalker, but with short, gray hair and a mustache.
"I'm going to be picking rubber out of my mustache for days." He laughed, rubbing his face. "Good afternoon, everyone. I'm Bernie Ortega, Skywalker's pop. I'm going to talk to you a little bit about the magic of makeup."
Mr. Ortega had brought in a PowerPoint presentation of the mask-making process, as well as a plaster cast of his own face. He explained that he'd sculpted the guard face right onto the plaster cast. From that he'd made a mold, and from that he'd made a latex appliance, which he then painted. He told us that sometimes he'd make separate latex pieces and glue them to an actor's face in sections, but that other times he'd make a full mask.
"Separate pieces look more realistic because they can move more naturally with the facial muscles," he explained. "But it takes a lot longer to put them on. Sometimes, if a character only has a bit part or is only going to be visible in the background, it's cheaper and faster to go with the mask."
By the time he left I had forgotten what was coming up, but then Mrs. Samuelson put on a big smile and said, "Our last presenter today is Mr. Mathis."
Then my dad came in. He was in costume too.
My father was dressed like a cockroach.