finishing touches on my da Vinci sketch, which is due tomorrow in art class, and practice my guitar piece. After dinner, I sit by the phone waiting for Angie to call. She never does. Finally, at ten-thirty, I give in and dial her number. Her mom answers. “Hello?”
“Um, hi, Mrs. McCarthy, this is Dylan. Sorry to call so late. Is Angie home?”
“Oh, hi, Dylan. Actually, no, she’s not here. Jonathan Reed stopped by earlier, and I believe they went to the movies. Can I take a message?” There’s a long pause. “Dylan? Are you still there?”
“Oh…yes. I’m here. No, no message, but thanks anyway.”
“Sure thing. I’ll tell her you called.”
I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering why I haven’t followed through with my original plan to rid the earth of Jonathan Reed. About twenty minutes later, as I’m plotting a new and even more sadistic murder, the phone rings. From the caller ID I see that it’s Angie, but I don’t pick up. When it rings again at eleven-fifteen, I put on one of my prized vintage LPs—the Beatles,
Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
—turn out the lights, and swear off girls forever.
Nine
A T SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY I make an effort to lie low, but as I’m heading to second-period class, I hear Angie’s voice behind me in the hallway. “Dylan, wait up!” I turn around and see Jonathan Reed walking beside her. He looks the same—handsome in that Orlando Bloom–ish pretty-boy sort of way—only now he’s making a fashion statement by wearing a pair of rectangular nerd-band glasses, popular with Weezer fans and guys on the debate team. Tucked under his arm is a copy of Hemingway’s
A Moveable Feast
. How literary.
“Oh, my God!” Angie says when she sees me, clapping one hand over her mouth. “Dylan, what happened to your face?” One thing about Angie, she’s never been subtle.
Since I’m not in the mood to explain, I say, “Um, nothing much.”
Jonathan nods hello while I give him the once-over.
“What do you mean
nothing
?” Angie demands. “You’re all beat up! You look terrible!”
“Thanks.”
I turn and continue to class. “Dylan, wait, I need to talk to you!” Angie follows me, and unfortunately Jonathan tags along. “I called you twice last night,” she says. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?”
I shrug and keep walking. “I don’t know. I was tired. I went to bed early.”
“But I wanted to talk to you about the movie!”
Angie, who I’ve decided is the biggest narcissist on the planet, is referring to her all-important short film, but just to be a wiseass I say, “Oh, you mean the movie you two saw last night? How was it?”
Angie looks at Jonathan and rolls her eyes. “No, Dylan. The movie I’m
making
. The one you’re starring in. Remember?”
“Ohhhhh, that one. Yeah, vaguely. What about it?” I slow down and come to a halt outside the fine arts room. I peer in and see my teacher, Mr. Wiseman, hunched over a drawing on his desk.
“Well,” Angie says, ignoring my sarcasm, “I’ve been going over the footage all week, and when Jonathan stopped by last night I showed it to him. We had this intense brainstorming session, and we’ve come up with the most amazing idea!” Angie’s eyes are wide with excitement. “Not only are you the star of my film, you’re also the subject. It’s kind of like
Being John Malkovich
with a slightly different twist. Anyway, I even have a title.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
“The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine.”
Jonathan is grinning from ear to ear, and now that I’ve got a taste for blood, I have a sudden urge to punch him in the mouth. “Dylan,” he says, “I’ve got to say, the scene in the park with that Australian juggling chain saws over you is, like, classic.”
Jonathan has many irritating habits, one of them being his overuse of the word
classic.
“Well, Jonathan,” I say, “I’m glad you found the whole thing entertaining,
“Um, hi, Mrs. McCarthy, this is Dylan. Sorry to call so late. Is Angie home?”
“Oh, hi, Dylan. Actually, no, she’s not here. Jonathan Reed stopped by earlier, and I believe they went to the movies. Can I take a message?” There’s a long pause. “Dylan? Are you still there?”
“Oh…yes. I’m here. No, no message, but thanks anyway.”
“Sure thing. I’ll tell her you called.”
I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering why I haven’t followed through with my original plan to rid the earth of Jonathan Reed. About twenty minutes later, as I’m plotting a new and even more sadistic murder, the phone rings. From the caller ID I see that it’s Angie, but I don’t pick up. When it rings again at eleven-fifteen, I put on one of my prized vintage LPs—the Beatles,
Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
—turn out the lights, and swear off girls forever.
Nine
A T SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY I make an effort to lie low, but as I’m heading to second-period class, I hear Angie’s voice behind me in the hallway. “Dylan, wait up!” I turn around and see Jonathan Reed walking beside her. He looks the same—handsome in that Orlando Bloom–ish pretty-boy sort of way—only now he’s making a fashion statement by wearing a pair of rectangular nerd-band glasses, popular with Weezer fans and guys on the debate team. Tucked under his arm is a copy of Hemingway’s
A Moveable Feast
. How literary.
“Oh, my God!” Angie says when she sees me, clapping one hand over her mouth. “Dylan, what happened to your face?” One thing about Angie, she’s never been subtle.
Since I’m not in the mood to explain, I say, “Um, nothing much.”
Jonathan nods hello while I give him the once-over.
“What do you mean
nothing
?” Angie demands. “You’re all beat up! You look terrible!”
“Thanks.”
I turn and continue to class. “Dylan, wait, I need to talk to you!” Angie follows me, and unfortunately Jonathan tags along. “I called you twice last night,” she says. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?”
I shrug and keep walking. “I don’t know. I was tired. I went to bed early.”
“But I wanted to talk to you about the movie!”
Angie, who I’ve decided is the biggest narcissist on the planet, is referring to her all-important short film, but just to be a wiseass I say, “Oh, you mean the movie you two saw last night? How was it?”
Angie looks at Jonathan and rolls her eyes. “No, Dylan. The movie I’m
making
. The one you’re starring in. Remember?”
“Ohhhhh, that one. Yeah, vaguely. What about it?” I slow down and come to a halt outside the fine arts room. I peer in and see my teacher, Mr. Wiseman, hunched over a drawing on his desk.
“Well,” Angie says, ignoring my sarcasm, “I’ve been going over the footage all week, and when Jonathan stopped by last night I showed it to him. We had this intense brainstorming session, and we’ve come up with the most amazing idea!” Angie’s eyes are wide with excitement. “Not only are you the star of my film, you’re also the subject. It’s kind of like
Being John Malkovich
with a slightly different twist. Anyway, I even have a title.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
“The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine.”
Jonathan is grinning from ear to ear, and now that I’ve got a taste for blood, I have a sudden urge to punch him in the mouth. “Dylan,” he says, “I’ve got to say, the scene in the park with that Australian juggling chain saws over you is, like, classic.”
Jonathan has many irritating habits, one of them being his overuse of the word
classic.
“Well, Jonathan,” I say, “I’m glad you found the whole thing entertaining,
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