Everybody started nervously running around, as if they’d heard there was a hurricane approaching.

  “Get Ricky!” everybody was muttering.

  “Where is he?” one of the grips asked.

  “He’ll be here any second!” the makeup girl said.

  “He’s coming!” Roland’s assistant said excitedly.

  “He’s here!” somebody else exclaimed.

  Finally, an enormous yacht pulled up to the edge of Liberty Island. On the back was one word, painted in two-foot-high letters: RICKY. The yacht was secured to a dock and the door opened. Two big, burly guys with walkie-talkies came out and looked around, like they were checking to see if it was safe. One of them nodded, and the great Ricky Corvette emerged from the yacht.

  Ricky Corvette is the fourteen-year-old star of movies like Skate Fever, Nightmare in Los Angeles, and The Kid Who Ran for President. His most recent film—Virtually Perfect—grossed over $200 million. Last year, Entertainment Weekly listed him as one of the ten most powerful people in Hollywood.

  He lives in a Malibu mansion with his mother and all kinds of bodyguards and gardeners and other hangers-on. He hardly ever goes out in public, and when he goes anywhere, the paparazzi trail him like bloodhounds.

  The public thinks Ricky Corvette is the All-American boy. All-American jerk is more like it. Ricky Corvette! He’s so cute he makes me want to throw up.

  Oh, I’m sure that’s not his real name. That’s his movie-star name. His real name is probably Ricky Dufus or Ricky Dorkus or something. I’m sure he changed his name to Corvette because he thought it would sound cool. Nobody will ever know, because Ricky’s personal life is top secret.

  Ricky stepped off the yacht and looked up at the Statue of Liberty.

  “Nice lookin’ babe,” he said in that sickeningly adorable voice of his. Everybody laughed. If you’re famous enough, I guess, people will laugh at even the dumbest lines.

  He was dressed just like me, in blue jeans and a leather jacket. His jet black hair had been perfectly arranged. I think he had enough grease in there to lube a Greyhound bus. He was wearing sunglasses, so nobody could see his famous blue eyes—the eyes that every teenage girl in America dreams about when they go to sleep at night. He looked like a young Elvis Presley.

  Everybody stopped what they were doing and watched him. I overheard one of the female members of the crew comment on how gorgeous Ricky was. He was followed off the yacht by the two most important people in his life—his mother and his agent. Not necessarily in that order.

  Ricky sauntered over to the set like he was expecting everybody to break into applause at his mere presence. He probably expects a standing ovation when he goes to the bathroom.

  “Ricky,” Roland said, “do you know your lines? Do you need a glass of water or anything?” Roland hadn’t offered me a glass of water, I noticed, and I fell off the Statue of Liberty.

  “He doesn’t need water,” Ricky’s agent said gruffly. “He needs another million bucks or he’s off this picture.”

  “What’s the matter, Ricky?” Roland asked.

  “Hey, man,” Ricky grumbled. “My contract calls for a gallon of M&Ms in my yacht.”

  “They weren’t there?”

  “No,” the agent interrupted. “A gallon of Reese’s Pieces were there. When Ricky Corvette says he wants M&Ms, he doesn’t want Reese’s Pieces. He doesn’t want Skittles. He wants M&Ms!”

  Roland rolled his eyes. “Reese’s Pieces were good enough for E.T.,” he said.

  “Well they’re not good enough for R.C.,” the agent barked.

  Ricky is either an egomaniac or a chocoholic. Maybe both. His mother jumped in between Roland and the agent. “It’s not that Ricky is being difficult,” she explained. “But he’s under strict orders from his nutritionist—”

  “We’ll get Ricky some M&Ms as soon as this scene is done,” Roland snapped, obviously irritated. “Now let’s set up the shot, everybody!”

  Reluctantly, Ricky knelt on the grass next to the air bag. It was important that he copy the exact position in which I was lying, so it would look like Ricky had taken the fall off the Statue of Liberty.

  “Oh man, this grass is wet!” Ricky complained, getting back on his feet.

  “Ricky says the grass is wet!” screamed Roland’s assistant into a walkie-talkie.

  “The grass is wet!” somebody at the other side of the set responded.

  “Dry the grass!” everybody started yelling.

  Somebody rushed over with a hair dryer and pointed it at the grass for a few minutes. While he was waiting for the grass to dry, Ricky pulled out a pocket mirror and looked at himself. When he was convinced that he wouldn’t get his pants wet, he lay down in the grass. A makeup girl dashed over and put some powder on his forehead.

  “Hey!” Ricky warned her. “Sweetheart, you mess up my hair and you’ll be waiting tables at McDonald’s tomorrow!”

  Man, I thought. Ricky’s so out of touch, he thinks they have waitresses at McDonald’s! He probably has a private chef cook all his meals for him, a food taster to make sure the food isn’t poisoned, and a second food taster to make sure the first food taster doesn’t poison the food.

  Finally, when Ricky was in the right position, Roland gave me the okay to get up. Mom dashed over and hugged me.

  “Okay, quiet everybody!” boomed Roland. “Roll camera!”

  “Ohhhhhhhhhh!” moaned Ricky. “My leg!”

  “Cut!” Roland said. “That was great, Ricky!”

  Great? I had jumped off the Empire State Building and fallen off the Statue of Liberty. All Ricky Corvette did was say, “Oh, my leg.” Still, everybody erupted into a standing ovation, as if the president had just finished delivering his State of the Union address. Sometimes life isn’t fair.

  I hated Ricky Corvette the minute I met him three years ago. I remember we were introduced when I was his stunt double on Skate Fever. It was my first job. I stuck out my hand to shake, and he looked at it like I was going to give him cooties. “You do look a little like me,” he said, “but not as good-looking.”

  Ricky won’t even call me by my name. He always refers to me as “the stunt kid.” “Let the stuntkid do it,” he always says whenever there’s a scene that doesn’t show his face. “Hey, stuntkid! Get me a Coke.” What a dirtbag.

  My work was finished for the day, but I asked Mom if we could hang around. Roland was going to shoot the last scene of New York Nightmare, and I really wanted to see it.

  6

  AUGUSTA

  Ayacht almost as big as Ricky Corvette’s yacht pulled up to the Liberty Island dock. On the back was the word AUGUSTA. We had been waiting for it, and Roland was getting more and more angry that it was late. After a few anxious minutes, out stepped Augusta Wind.

  That’s not her real name, of course. It couldn’t be. Could it? Augusta Wind? Come on! Who would name their daughter Augusta, especially when their last name is Wind? Augusta Wind had to be her stage name, her modeling name.

  When she stepped off the yacht, there was an audible, involuntary gasp from all the guys on the crew. Augusta Wind was, without a doubt, the most beautiful teenage girl on the face of the earth. Check that. The galaxy. The universe. Not that I’ve seen them all, but I can’t imagine any girl who looked as gorgeous as Augusta Wind.

  She was wearing a flowing white dress that whipped around her in the breeze. Her long brown hair was flying all over, but not like it does with normal people. When Augusta gave her head a little shake, her hair flowed the way it does in those countless shampoo commercials I’ve seen her in. Like it’s in slow motion.

  Augusta has a multimillion-dollar contract with Cover Girl, and all she has to do for it is wash her hair, put on makeup, and smile for the camera. Nice life.

  She was so perfect in every way, it was hard to believe she was a person. She almost didn’t look real. Augusta just stood there on the dock, expressionless.

  A middle-aged woman wearing about a dozen bracelets, necklaces, and earrings hopped off the yacht. She pushed past Augusta and rushed over to Roland. I guessed she was Augusta’s mother.

  “Sorry we’re late!” she bubbled. “We thought we were supposed to go to the Liberty Bell.”

  “The Liberty Bell?” Roland said through clenched teeth. “Ma’am, the title of this film is New York Nightmare. I spent my whole life in England, but even I know the Liberty Bell is in Philadelphia. Did you think Ricky was going to fall off the Liberty Bell?”

  “It didn’t make sense to me either,” Augusta’s mother said. “That’s why we turned around.”

  Man, if my mom had confused the Statue of Liberty with the Liberty Bell, I think I would have died. But Augusta was still expressionless. She didn’t say a word. She must be one of those really dumb fashion models, I figured. She probably can’t say anything unless it’s written down for her.

  Augusta’s mom and Ricky’s mom embraced like old friends. Augusta and Ricky didn’t exactly leap into each other’s arms, but everybody knows they’re an “item.” You can’t pick up a newspaper or magazine without seeing a picture of them at some exclusive nightclub or private party. They’ll get married as soon as they legally can, I imagine.

  Augusta must be a real jerk. Who else but a real jerk would fall for a real jerk like Ricky Corvette?

  “Places, everybody!” Roland shouted. “We’re behind schedule.” Roland pronounces schedule like “shed-jull.” that always cracks me up.

  Augusta knelt down carefully in front of Ricky, who was still on the ground after his “fall” from the Statue of Liberty.

  “Okay, Ricky,” Roland instructed. “Let’s pick it up from the last line.”

  I pulled out my script and found the right page….

  The force of the explosion blows Ricky off Liberty’s

  crown and he plummets to the ground as the fireworks

  explode all around him.

  SLICK

  (moaning)

  Ohhhhhhhh, my leg!

  REBECCA

  (crouching over him)

  It’s just a flesh wound, my darling.

  You’ll be back in school on Monday.

  SLICK

  (grimacing)

  I hope so. This weekend has been

  almost as dangerous as riding

  the subway.

  REBECCA

  (laughs)

  You saved New York…again.

  SLICK

  (modestly)

  It was nothing, Becky.

  Anybody could have done it.

  REBECCA

  (taking his hand)

  But you did it, Slick.

  New York loves you.

  And I love you.

  SLICK

  I love New York.

  And I love you.

  They move their heads together slowly and kiss

  passionately. The kiss lasts five seconds, time enough

  for flag waving and the finale of the fireworks show to be

  superimposed over their faces.

  FADE OUT

  It was uncomfortable to watch Ricky and Augusta kissing, but irresistible at the same time. I’ve never kissed a girl. Not like that, anyway. I certainly wouldn’t want to do it with fifty people standing around watching. With a girl as beautiful as Augusta, though, I might make an exception.

  “Cut!” Roland shouted. “Lovely. Nice work, everyone. I will be in touch if we have to do any reshoots or dubbing.”

  The crew gave Ricky and Augusta a standing ovation. Augusta got up without a word and left with her mom.

  People who never say anything fascinate me. Are they so quiet because they’re snobby? Because they have nothing to say? Because they’re angry? Because they don’t have a thought in their head? You never know. I wondered about Augusta Wind.

  Ricky Corvette’s agent stayed to argue with Roland for a while, so Ricky couldn’t leave right away. A few of the guys on the crew asked him for autographs for their kids. He turned them down.

  It had been a long day and I was tired. Roland had rented a ferry to take everybody back to Manhattan. It was parked alongside Ricky Corvette’s yacht.

  On the way to the dock, Mom and I found ourselves walking alongside Ricky’s mom. We didn’t have anything to say to one another, and it quickly became awkward. Finally, Ricky’s mom felt she had to break the ice.

  “It must be difficult,” she said, “falling in the dirt all the time, getting your clothes soiled, and so forth.”

  “It’s not so bad,” I replied.

  “It’s difficult for me,” Mom said, mussing up my hair. “I have to watch. Johnny likes it.”

  “Well, I want you to know I think it’s just dear that your son does the stunts for my son’s films.”

  She said dear like I was her pet.

  “Well,” Mom replied, “It’s just dear of your son to do the dialogue for my son’s films.”

  Ricky’s mom looked at my mom as if she had been insulted. Then she walked away in a huff and climbed aboard her yacht.

  7

  BORIS BONNER

  We wrapped up New York Nightmare at the end of August. The studio was thrilled, because Roland finished the movie on time and under budget. Mom was thrilled because I came away with just a few bumps and bruises.

  Mom and I stayed in New York for a few days so I could see the sights of the city without having to jump off them. Also, Ricky Corvette’s lawyer asked me and Mom to stop by his office before we went back to California.

  The law offices of Pazan, Rothman, and Gavin were really fancy. I didn’t even want to sit on the chairs in the waiting room, because they looked like they belonged in a museum or something.

  After a few minutes, Mom and I were ushered into Barry Rothman’s office. There were pictures of Ricky Corvette all over the walls. Barry Rothman was a big man with silvery hair. While he shook my hand and asked me how the movie went, I wondered why he really wanted to see me.

  “Johnny, you’ve been doing Ricky Corvette’s stunts for three years now,” he finally said. “I’d like to go over a few things in your contract, if you’re agreeable.”

  “We’ll look it over,” Mom said. She had on her serious, don’t-mess-with-us face.

  My contract with Ricky Corvette specified certain “dangerous” activities I wasn’t allowed to do in my spare time. For instance, I couldn’t go bungee jumping or snowboarding. The reason was that if I were to get injured and put out of action, I wouldn’t be able to take Ricky’s place in a movie, and it would damage his career. So my contract had a long list of activities I wasn’t allowed to participate in….

  Parachuting. Firing a gun or shooting a bow and arrow. I wasn’t allowed to go to dances or rock concerts, because somebody might jump off the stage and land on me. I wasn’t allowed to be within ten yards of a trampoline for the same reason. I couldn’t take gym class at school. I couldn’t go mountain climbing.

  Most important, fighting was strictly prohibited. If I got into a fight with anybody, my contract with Ricky Corvette would be terminated immediately.

  “Just a few more things,” the lawyer said, handing me and Mom a sheet of paper.

  The paper said that from now on I was required to wear a seat belt any time I was in a moving vehicle. No problem, I do that anyway. It also said I would need to get written permission from Ricky’s lawyer before I traveled by helicopter or airplane. Fair enough. Finally, it said I was not allowed to go on escalators, motorcycles, minibikes, wooden bridges, rope bridges, seesaws, monkey bars, or swings.

  “I know it’s kind of silly,” the lawyer chuckled as he handed me a pen. “But it’s for your own protection, Johnny. You can never be too safe.”

  “Are you sure you want to sign that?” Mom asked. “I mean, you won’t even be able to go on an escalator anymore.”

  “I’ll take the stairs, Mom,” I said, as I signed the contract and handed it to her to co-sign.

  Then it was back to California and back to school. I was excited about starting eighth grade in September.

  I’m sure Ricky Corvette and Augusta Wind have private tutors, but I’ve always attended public school. We don’t have the money for private school or private tutors. I do my stunts on weekends, vacations, and sometimes after school. Every so often, I get to take a day off from school to do a stunt.

  On the first day of English class, as always, everybody had to write a composition about what they did over summer vacation.

  HOW I SPENT MY SUMMER VACATION

  by Johnny Thyme

  This summer I went to New York City, where I jumped off the Empire State Building, was blown off the Statue of Liberty by a bomb, was hit by a bus, fell off a subway train, was set on fire, and was chased through Times Square by terrorists armed with assault rifles. I killed ten of them in Central Park with a hand grenade, and saved the city from nuclear annihilation.

  That’s what I would have liked to write. But I couldn’t. Too bad too, because it would have really blown the rest of the class away.

  The problem is, my contract with Ricky Corvette also states very clearly that I’m not allowed to tell anybody I’m a stuntkid.

  Ricky, like a lot of movie stars, wants the public to believe he does all the dangerous stuff in his movies himself. He needs it to protect his image, I suppose.

  If the public ever found out that all Ricky Corvette did was lie on the ground and moan, “Oh, my leg!” people might stop going to see his movies. His career would be over. And if anybody found out that I was the one who spilled the beans, I’d never get to do another stunt for Ricky again.