He smiles back, and inexplicable goose bumps begin to rise on the back of my neck. But the moment snaps when I hear the screen door to the Watson house creak open.
“One last thing.” I stare deeply into his eyes, words firm. “No. Autographs. Don’t ask for autographs from anyone. If somebodyoffers an autograph, it’s a trap. Don’t touch any memorabilia. Show zero interest in anything rare or expensive. If Grandma offers to let you touch her Golden Globe, it’s a trap. It’s become a game to spot a user. Everyone in there is going to be watching you like an eagle.”
Hall looks unnerved. “Erm. Okay.”
We reach the porch, where my parents are lingering in the doorway, watching us curiously. Mom’s looking prettier than ever, corn silk hair in a French braid, teardrop pearls in her ears, wide-set blue eyes giving her the appearance of one who’s viewing her surroundings for the very first time and is quite taken by it all. Dad’s hair has gone fully silver but is still impressively thick, hairline young, the color rather dashing against his tan and his arctic-blue eyes. He’s wearing something between a smirk and a smile, a pained expression he defaults to whenever he doesn’t like what’s happening. I didn’t tell them I’d be bringing a guest. I get so nervous that I forget to help Hall with the bags, and Hall’s so nervous that he forgets them, too, so they’re scattered all over the walkway now.
“Honey! I’m so glad you made it. How was your flight?” Mom peers over my shoulder, scanning the driveway. “Your rental car okay? No speeding tickets? Where’d you park?”
I look behind me, too, as though a car might appear that I could claim. A carhasin fact appeared: instead of the pickup, Hall’s conjured a bright red limousine, its front right wheel close to hitting a coffin (Grandma took it from the set of her campy ’70s movieTango with Nosferatu).
Dad stares. “Don’t tell me that’s yours.”
“Isthatyours?” Mom adds, smiling meaningfully at Hall.
“Um, yes. That’s... this guy’s with me!” I manage a high laugh.
“How exciting! How long have you two been together? Bettie, you never mentioned you had a boyfriend.” She tries to hide it, but I can tell she’s hurt by this.
“He’s... shy.”
Hall sweeps my mother off her feet in a strong bear hug, and she gasps. “I amsohappy to be meeting you.” Then he does the same to my dad, whose eyes bulge. “This is wonderful! You’re both so good-looking.” Dad isn’t the touchy-feely sort. A gentleman suppresses his emotions.
Shy?Dad mouths at me, one eyebrow raised as Hall pats his back.
“Bettie! Sweetheart!” Grandpa shoulders through and catches me in one of his famous hugs (Grandpa, like Hall, is of the belief that the harder you squeeze, the more love you convey), snapping several of my bones. “It’s been so long! You need to visit more often. Here, don’t spend this all in one place.” He presses twenty dollars into my left hand. “Got your favorite ice cream in the freezer.” He winks, then notices Hall. “Who’s this?”
“This is Hall, Grandpa. He’s my—”
An imperious figure presses a hand to Mom’s shoulder and Dad’s face, pushing each of them to the side. Grandpa backs away hastily. A gust of frigid air wafts, and if this were a cartoon, the woman who appears would have crows perched up and down her arms. She’s in a floor-length black velvet cloak with fuzzy cuffs, a multilayered necklace swinging, thirty-seven glass spheres containing the ashes of thirty-seven fans. I’m five seven, so I’m not exactly short, but with her heels and a jet-black, complicated high pony that used to be Barbara Eden’s signature style, the woman soars. (Grandma demanded the exclusive legal rights to that hairstyle in an MGM contract.) Her lipstick is steal-your-husband-red,eyebrows impeccably arched. She smacks her lips together, dividing a gleaming, catlike look between Hall and me. “Interesting. Ohh, that’sinteresting, isn’t it?” She crooks a finger at Hall. “You. Come here.”
Hall releases a thin cry, chokes out the words, “I’ve seen every movie you’ve ever been in, also your soap operas, will you please sign my everything,” and passes out at her feet.
*
Chapter Five
THERE’S SOMETHING STRANGEabout this one,” Grandma tells us all, watching shrewdly as Dad and I help Hall into the sitting room. Grandpa announces he’s going to go find a raw steak for Hall’s eye, because in Grandpa’s opinion there are no ills a good old raw steak to the face can’t cure. Poor Hall slumps onto a sofa between my parents, shoulders tucked inward, eyes cast down.
“No, there isn’t,” I reply quickly.
Grandma ignores me, crouching until he’s forced to meet her gaze. “You’re a pretty young man, aren’t you? What’s your name?”
He cuts me a furtive glance, eyes widening when she snaps her long-nailed fingers in front of his nose. “Ah-ah. Don’t look to her for an answer. Don’t you know your own name?”
He clears his throat. “Hall?”
“Hall? Is that a question? What, do you go by your last name?” She stands upright again, annoyed. “I hate it when people do that. It’s obnoxious.”
“My last name is... Day.” He slides me another anxious glance.
“Hall Day,” she repeats dully.
He brightens, having a lightbulb moment. “My middle initial is E.”
She stares at him so fiercely that it’s astonishing he doesn’t melt. “What’s your favorite film of mine, Mr. Day?”
“Grandma, don’t,” I interrupt, but she holds out a hand, not sparing me a look.
