17 EXT. THE CASTLE OF THE EVIL PRINCE - DAY  17

THE GIRL pulls out the sword she got from the dying soldier and fights THE EVIL PRINCE! She tries to stab him but he dodges it and almost stabs her! They fight for a little while longer.

All of a sudden they're on the roof! The fight continues with lots of close calls.

Ryan Brosh was a charming goof. He was already on the rooftop in a burlap vest, leather boots and feathered cap, practicing his swordplay against a wave of invisible bad guys. As I mounted the tripod, I watched him bite the pin from a pretend grenade and toss it at the brick rail. “Ka-Boouushhh!” he shouted, then threw up his sword in apparent victory.

Ryan was a goof, but he was magnetic; the kind of guy who could wear his pants backwards and spark a trend. His face was smoother than most boys his age; a trait I'd rather attribute to obsessive hygiene than natural good looks. As chubby as my arms were, his were bigger, but where I had fat, Ryan had biceps.

I left the thespian-jock to his swordplay and walked to the open window. I lowered my head, brought my knee to my chin, and squeezed through the only passage between the rooftop filmset and the library production office that--as Mom declared twice today--looked like a cyclone hit it.

In whirls of potential catastrophe, I always worked best if I focused on one objective at a time. Right now, I had to find a suitable stand for the broom-handle boom mic. The fight scene had the most important dialogue in the whole movie and my sound guy was away at summer camp for nerds.

It was Monday. The babysitters were distracting the kids in the basement and the Demi Moore Cigar Club was already gossiping in the kitchen. Open windows and a ceiling fan kept the cigar smell from settling in their temporary venue.

Livy and Mara sat Indian style on the library floor, face-to-face beside a tower of mahogany book shelves.

“She looks too pretty,” I told my sister. “Dirty her up a bit.”

Livy growled and flipped open the violet lid of her makeup tackle box. “I tried rubbing dirt on her cheeks. I tried matting her hair. I tried darkening the bags under her eyes, but Mara doesn't have bags under her eyes.”

“Keep trying,” I said. “She's gotta look a mess.”

Mara faked a scowl. “Make me ugly, Livy. Do your worst!”

My sister held up a bulging baggie of dirt. “I'm gonna add water and cover your face in mud. It’s the only way we'er gonna make this work.”

I turned around to continue my search and noticed Mom and Mrs. Greenfield watching me. They were holding matching glasses of lemonade with perfect cubes of ice (the staple of a good hostess) and observing the madness from the doorway. It would have been polite to say hi to the woman who supplied my hard-to-find props; instead, I ignored Mom's summoning glare and dove into the corner closet.

“Hey James...” Livy asked. “How's Ryan?”

I poked out my head, “He's fine,” I said, then continued my search.

“Didja offer him Kool-Aid?”

“Yes, Livy. He drank three glasses. Remember you pointed out his red mustache?”

She giggled. (Mara giggled too.) “Oh yeah,” she said. “Do you think he needs a little more makeup? Maybe some powder?”

“He's got plenty,” I said and rummaged through a bevy of blueprint tubes and coats that smelled like wet bark.

“Have you seen Dorothy?” Mara asked.

“She's in the playroom with the kids,” Livy replied.

“I hope they're being careful...”

“I can't believe you guys talked Mom into getting a cat for your stupid movie. I've been begging for a pet for years. And didn’t they have a cat without bite marks in the ears?”

“Dorothy’s unique,” Mara said.

There wasn’t a suitable mic stand in the closet, so I slammed the door and turned around... right into Mom's stern glance and beckoning finger. She reeled me in like the Death Star tractor beam. I smiled my most sarcastic smile and plodded across the library to the chatterbox duo.

“Did you say hi to Mrs. Greenfield?” Mom asked.

“Hi, Mrs. Greenfield,” I said.

“Good afternoon, Director Parker.” The lady's cheeks rose with an expansive grin, pressing her eyelids into a tight squint.

Mom asked, “Did you thank Mrs. Greenfield for letting you borrow props from her store?”

“Thanks for the swords,” I said, “and the hat and the funny-looking boots. We'll try not to break your mannequin.”

The woman batted her hand. “Dontcha worry about Freddy! He used to be the display for the vintage dresses in my store, but his poor leg broke and he doesn't stand very well.”

“They'll be careful anyway,” Mom added. “Won’t you James?”

I nodded, “Yes, Ma'am.”

“Your mom tells me you lost nine pounds in five weeks! What's your secret?”

I shrugged. “Diet and exercise. And it's ten pounds now.”

“Good for you. You're certainly turning into a handsome young man.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Mom recognized my anxiety and sighed. “Go on. Get back to work.”

“Okay...” I said. “But can I use one of the twins to hold the boom mic? It's just for a couple shots--”

Mom was already shaking her head. “I thought we talked about this? I let you use the library on the one day a week I'm allowed to relax, and we agreed that there would be absolutely no twins on the roof.”

“But Ma!” I whined. “It's totally flat and there's a brick wall and nobody's gonna fall!”

“The ‘brick wall’ is only a foot tall and a hundred years old. The answer is no.”

“Aw, Maaa...”

While Mom and I bickered, Mrs. Greenfield kept her attention split between our argument and the girls with the muddy makeup. “I've never heard of a boom mic in my life,” she said, rejoining the conversation. “But if you need a hand, I'd be happy to help!” Again, her cheeks flushed and pressed her eyes into little slits.

I accepted her offer with some reluctance, but she did manage to relieve some of my stress.

I climbed out the window, shuffled my feet across the rolled tar, and uncoiled the boom cable. Whips of warm air tugged my collar and wobbled the iron chicken on the steeple only ten feet above my head.

The legendary Ryan Brosh--blue eyes, blonde locks, and a slick veneer of crisp summer tan--jabbed the wind with his sword, twirled a deadly three-sixty, then ruffled my hair. “Hows it hangin', little man?”

I shrugged and wiggled the cord into the body of my camera. “Okay, I guess.”

“Your movie is gonna be killer! Don't let anybody say you're not talented as all hell. You hear me?”

I was skeptical of the sudden praise from a popular high-schooler, but thanked him anyway and checked the sound level of the wind.

Then it happened; the inevitable “It” that would provide the spark to every buddy-buddy friendship for the rest of my life: “Hey dude,” Ryan whispered, “what do you think of Mara?”

Maaaraaa. But of course!

“She's cool,” I muttered. “Why?” 

Ryan stretched his arms to both tips of the sword, held it high above his head, arched backwards, and cracked his sternum. “She's cute, right?”

“She's a little young,” I said.

“No way, bro! I started school early so I'm barely a freshmen. That's only two years different. Plus, she looks old enough to drive, am I right?” Ryan's crooked smile was winning.

I choked down the one-two punch of newfound jealousy and my sister's impending heartbreak. I barely knew Ryan Brosh, but facing those baby blues on the roof of my castle, I wanted to stab him myself.

“I'm not usually shy,” he said, “that's the actor side of me. But maybe you could talk to Mara and see where I stand? Ya feel me, bro?”

I looked to the tiny window in the massive brick wall. Two foreheads hovered at the bottom of the frame, then poked up like the Bop-a-Mole game at ShowBiz Pizza. It was Livy and Mara. Their beaming cheekbones indicated smiles were hidden beneath the sill. Their doe-eyes were trained, not on me, but on the evil prince as he practiced his moves.