The Hanging Hill

56

Derek Stone sat in the corridor outside his bedroom on the fifth floor, thumbing the remote for his radio-controlled monster truck, the only vehicle his mother had allowed him to bring on this stupid trip to Connecticut.

He zipped it up the carpeted hallway. Slammed it into a spinning U-turn. Sent it flying over a bump in the rug and watched it carom off the baseboards. It was totally awesome.

“Derek?”

His mother. Calling from her room. He sidewinded the monster truck—with anodized aluminum wheel hexes and slipper clutch—into a sliding skid near the elevator alcove. Parked it. Out of sight. Out of mind.

“Yes, Mommy?”

“Rehearsal starts at ten a.m.”

“So?”

“You’ve got an hour!”

“I know.”

She stuck her head out her door. Her hair was in all kinds of curlers. There was green goop on her face.

“Have you memorized your lines?”

Derek gestured toward the script sitting in his lap, where it did an excellent job of hiding the monster-truck remote. “I’m working on it.”

“Out here?”

“I concentrate better in the hallway.”

“Fine. I need to finish putting on my makeup.” She slammed the door.

Derek chucked the script aside. Clutched the handgrip controller. Sent the monster truck zipping into an amazing one-eighty backward tailspin.

The elevator bell pinged. The cage door slid open.

“Hello, Derek.”

It was the director. Reginald Grimes.

Derek popped up. Waved. He was still holding the pistol grip controller in his hand.

“Working on your script?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Excellent.” Grimes walked up the hall. He had a slippery, loping kind of gait. Looked like a camel with a mustache.

“First of all, Derek, let me say how thrilled I am to have you in my cast. You were always my first choice for the role of Charlie.”

“Really? What about Brad Doyle?”

“Bah!” Grimes waved one arm dismissively. His other arm remained locked and frozen at his side. “Brad Doyle! That boy couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag.”

Derek smiled. It felt like it was his birthday. Maybe Christmas. “So you wanted me? Really?”

“Really! In fact, I don’t want to overburden your artistic talents, but…”

Derek stiffened his spine. “What is it, Mr. Grimes?”

“Well, I am considering expanding your role.”

“Really? Wow!”

“Yes. I’d like to attempt an artistic experiment. Make the part of Charlie a bit more dynamic. A bit more interesting.”

“Awesome, sir!”

“Of course, no one must know about this. As I said, it’s all very experimental. Very avant-garde.”

Derek had no idea what “avant-garde” meant but it sounded better than his mother’s constant reminders that he was a lousy actor, that he only got by on his dimples.

“I’m all about avant-garde, sir.”

“Excellent. Wonderful.” Grimes reached into a pocket with his good hand and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “You’re not to show this to anyone. Not your mother. Not Miss McKenna. Not the Jennings boy.”

“Of course not.”

“It’s in Latin.”

“Okay.”

“I spelled it out phonetically for you.”

“Thank you, sir. That was very kind of you.”

“Commit these new lines to memory before sundown.”

“No problem, Mr. Grimes. I’m a very quick study.”

“Excellent. See you at rehearsal.”

“Ten o’clock, sir. I’ll be there! And I’ll memorize all these new lines, too!”

“Wonderful.”

Wow.

This was it! His big break!

He really was a brilliant actor.

Reginald Grimes had said so!