The Projectionist: Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Porter opened his eyes—correction—he tried to open his eyes, but they were matted shut. He used a thumb and index finger to gently unstick them, then opened them. Then wished he hadn't. The light pouring through his bedroom window hit them like needles, hot needles that went straight through the eyeballs and pierced his brain. What the hell was wrong with him? He turned to look at the old Big Ben wind-up alarm clock on the nightstand. It said eleven-fifteen, which couldn't be right. Porter Hamlin woke up at 6 AM, day after day after day. The alarm was set for 6:05, but it was never needed, hadn't been for fifty years. Turning his head made the pain worse, if that was possible. (Yes, definitely possible.) He rolled over on his side, buried the left side of his face in the pillow, and looked at the sunlit window, gradually opening his eyes to admit more of the soft light that powered through the blue curtain.

After a couple minutes it started coming back, little flashes at first, then more and more. He had gotten drunk. Very, very drunk. He had started at Harold's bar and after that…what? He closed his eyes, tried to concentrate. He remembered Harold refusing to serve him another drink, remembered it pissing him off, but what—oh crap, now he remembered:  Debra. His sister-in-law who didn't exist. Debra, with the beautiful feminine hands. (The rest of her wasn't bad, either.) The stories she told. The book she showed him. A book that looked older than him, older than Alice, but had their picture in it. Cripes, if the book was really that old, it had a picture of a movie theater that was created before movies were even invented. How was any of that possible?

The phone rang in the kitchen. He had wanted to install more phones in other rooms of the house, but Alice refused because she hated phones, didn't even want to see them any more than necessary. Yes, she got her way on that, like she got her way on most things. Why was that? Why hadn't he been more assert—

Another ring yanked him from his mental meandering. He rolled out of the bed, stretched, then gave a start when he realized he was naked. Porter Hamlin was a pajamas man, thank you very much, content to see as little of his aging body as possible. The blasted ringing continued, each strike of the old clapper on the old bell in the old phone a direct strike on his brain. He turned to head toward the kitchen and nearly jumped out of his saggy old naked skin. Lying in the bed, his bed—his and Alice's bed—tucked into the covers with a sweet little sleep-smile on her face, was Debra. His mind ceased to work in any meaningful way. He covered his privates with his hands until he could tiptoe to the door and retrieve his bathrobe from its hook. (He had picked up the tiptoe thing when he was a kid; his bedroom had tile floors that were always ice cold on his bare feet. Talk about old habits dying hard.)

Safely wrapped in the robe, he stumbled his way to the kitchen, where the phone continued its assault on his senses. He yanked the receiver off the hook and stuck it to his ear. "Who is it and what the hell do you want?"

After a moment of silence, Larry Walker's slickish lawyer voice said, "Uh, Porter?"

"Yes, Larry. What is it?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm…fine. What is it?"

"Need you to drop by the office sometime this afternoon."

"Why?"

"I have a letter I'm required to read to you today."

"Wait, what day is this?"

"It's Sunday. And no, I normally don't work on Sunday, but I have to make an exception for this. What time can you come?"

"How about two?"

"Perfect. See you then."

Porter hung the receiver back on its hook, stood there a moment, then turned to go back to the bedroom and see if perhaps he was really still asleep and this was all a dream. There was no need.

Debra stood in the doorway to the bedroom. Naked as a jaybird. She smiled and said, "Hey, sweetie. Who was on the phone?"

Porter's senses swirled, then faded to gray on their way to black as he crumpled to the floor.

The Projectionist -- Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Porter was pretty sure she liked him. It had been a week since the thing on the school steps and even though he hadn’t gotten up the nerve yet to actually say anything to her, he had seen her a bunch of times and when she saw him smiling at her, she almost always smiled back. In fact, for the past few days, there were several times when he had seen her and she was already smiling at him. 

He liked the fluttery feeling in his stomach when he saw her, but now a new feeling was creeping in. It was the feeling that said he was a loser because he was too scared to say anything, much less ask her out on a date. So he started thinking about asking her out. He thought about it a lot. Okay, truth was, it was about the only thing he thought about from the time he woke up until the time he fell asleep and he dreamed about it, too. It’s time is the thought cycling through his mind at the moment he saw her coming toward him down the hall. It kept cycling as she approached. And as she passed. Smiling at him again, while he just grinned back like the world’s biggest goober.

And then, without even thinking, he turned around and said, “Alice?”

She stopped but she didn’t turn around or anything. She just stood there with her back to him. Until he said again, “Alice?”

Then she turned around. Looked at him with that glorious smile of hers, sort of cocked her head to the side in a way that just about made Porter die right there on the spot in the middle of the hall in the middle of Diebold High.

Somehow, he didn’t die. He said, “I was thinking, I mean, I was wondering, I wanted to—“

“I’d love to go out with you, Porter,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Yes.”

His heart pounding so hard he feared it would leave his chest, he said, “Really?”

“Really.”

#

Alice walked down the hall with so much running through her mind that it was hard to focus on any one thing. She’d thought he was cute forever. And it was obvious he was about the shyest thing she’d ever seen. (That part was cute, too.) She would’ve gone out with him months ago if he had asked. She had liked him even more after the thing on the steps. She didn’t know why that made her like him more, but it did. After that, she not only would have gone out with him; she wanted to go out with him. All that was enough, but now there was so much more.

She walked toward home. She had homework she needed to get done. Chores she had to do. She didn’t have time to go see the book today.

A block later, she turned and headed for the theater.  When she got there, Mister Dan wasn’t around, but that didn’t matter. She knew everybody else there, too, and because she jumped in and helped out whenever something needed doing, she pretty much went where she wanted when she wanted. Today that was a beeline for the booth and, once inside, straight for the book. She lugged it from the shelf to the workbench and carefully opened the cover. 

The pages were old, thin as the skin of an onion, but the text on the back of the page didn’t show through like it did with a lot of thin paper. It felt funny, very slick when she drug her fingertips across it. The text was beautiful. She thought it looked like it had all been printed by hand. But the really amazing part was the artwork. The colors were so rich they almost jumped off the page. 

She turned through the first five pages, the ones she’d already studied. (She would have studied the whole thing the first day but Mister Dan wouldn’t let her—he kept saying it was “forbidden” to read too much of it at once. While Alice didn’t necessarily buy into that idea, she figured she owed him, since she was the first person he’d ever shared the book with.) Then she turned back to the fifth page and looked at it again. The whole page was a picture of a scene that gave her goosebumps the first time she saw it, and those goosebumps were sure back now. It showed a small movie theater on what looked like a street in a typical little downtown. And it looked exactly like the Diebold Theater. The colors. The shape and features of the building. Everything. Except, instead of the sign saying DIEBOLD, it said MAGIC.

As strange as the picture was, the text beneath it was stranger:

HERE THE YOUNG GIRL FINDS TRUE LOVE FROM THE ONE WHO CARRIES HER FUTURE.

The sentence made no sense to her at first. Then she was reading a book about a girl who took a train trip across the country by herself. The girl got lost in a big train station and the man who helped her find her way was the man who carried people’s bags for them. He was called a porter.

The Projectionist: Chapter 14

Sorry for the long wait, folks. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 14

THEN

Alice embraced unconventionality. She was odd. Knew it. Didn't care. So when something weirded her out? It was really weird. She stared at Mister Dan.

"Don't look at me like that," he said.

"I...well, I...it's just that--"

"Do you trust me?" he said.

She nodded.

"You've been hanging out here since you were what, ten?"

"Sounds right."

"And have I ever lied to you?"

"I don't think so."

Mister Dan cocked his head, then said, "Good enough. Have I ever treated you like you were some dumb kid?"

That one was easy. "No, Mister Dan."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"So, six years. I haven't lied to you. I haven't treated you like a kid who don't know nothing. Right?"

"Right."

"Don't that get me a little trust?"

She nodded again.

"Then take the book." He held it out to her.

Alice reached out and took it. She had never seen a book like it. Was it even a book? It was shaped like one, but the cover was metal, with a lot of fancy engraving. And gosh, it was so heavy! She lugged it to the workbench and laid it down as gently as she could, but it still hit with a thud.

She lightly drew her fingers across the cover, feeling the intricate designs of swirls and flourishes. Although it looked very old, the metal was bright and untarnished. "Is this gold?" she said.

Dan shrugged. "Never gave it much mind and it sure ain't something I'd go carting around for opinions."

"If it's gold, it would be worth a fortune, wouldn't it?"

He leaned toward her and spoke softly. "Alice, no matter what kind of metal it is, this book is worth more than a trainload of gold."

"Where'd you get it?"

"Back in the day, this place showed silent pictures. Since the movies didn't have sound of their own, a piano player would play the music that came with the movie. And even after the shows got sound, that old piano sat in its spot on the left side of the auditorium for dang near thirty years. When they remodeled the place about ten years ago, they asked if I wanted the piano. I said sure and got a few buddies and a pickup truck and we hauled it to my house."

"Can you play piano?" Alice said.

Dan smiled and scratched at his chin. "Nope, thought I'd teach myself but that didn't work out so good. To begin with, the thing was so out of tune that it sounded like some kind of sick animal. I hired a fellow to come tune it up and when he opened it up, the book was inside."

"It's beautiful. But what makes you think it has some kind of magical powers?"

He shook his head. "I don't think, Alice." He tapped his head with a finger. "I know."

"How?"

"Open it."

She lifted the heavy cover and flipped it gently to the side. She looked at the first page. Looked at Mister Dan with her eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. Looked back to the book. On the page, beautifully printed in bright silver ink, was the following:

MAGIC ENDURES. LOVE TRIUMPHS. A CHRONICLE OF ADVENTURE.

Directly beneath the printed line was a handwritten name: Alice Renee Pendergast. Her name. Her handwriting.

Projectionist Part 1 Now on Kindle

Because some of you don't like to read books on the web, behold:  The Projectionist - Part 1 is now available in Kindle format. Part 1 includes the first 13 chapters and sells for .99, as will all the other parts as they're released. NOTE:  Chapters will continue to be posted here on my blog as they are written and they will of course remain free of charge here. The Kindle edition is for the convenience of readers who prefer e-readers.

Click here to purchase Part 1 in Kindle format.

Chapter 14 is coming soon! Very soon!

The Projectionist: Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Porter stopped mid-stride and turned to face the woman. "Say again?"

"My name is Debra Pendergast."

He walked back toward her, eyes locked onto her face now, looking for some resemblance that he'd missed. He saw none. "Am I to assume it's coincidence that you have the same last name as my wife?"

She laughed. "Of course not, silly."

"So?" Porter held his hands out, palms up, waiting.

"Well, it's complicated," she said. "It might be better to talk about it tonight over dinner." That big smile was back.

"Damn it, woman! Who? Are? You?"

Her smile switched off like a light and she blew a long sigh. "Porter," she said, "I'm sorry. I know I'm acting strange but the fact is, this situation is strange. Quite."

"That much I've gathered. Now spit it out."

She scrunched her face up, pointed her eyes left and right a few times, and finally said, "I'm Alice's sister."

"She didn't have a sister."

"Well, obviously she does."

Porter was ready to let loose on the woman and call pure B.S., but he stopped. Not that long ago, he would've sworn on a three-foot stack of Gideon Bibles that Alice didn't have a lawyer, didn'ty have her own will. "If that's so, why didn't I ever hear of you in forty years?"

"Like I said, it's complicated."

"Complicated?"

"Complicated. Very."

"Then simplify for this dim old man, how about it?"

"Are you sure we can't do this over dinner? It's a long story."

"Give me the short version now, and I'll meet you tonight for the full tale. Otherwise, I'm done with this game."

She sighed again. "You never heard of me because I didn't exist when you knew Alice."

He stared at her for a good fifteen seconds, trying to process that. Processing failed. "I knew her for forty years. You're what, fifty-five or so?"

"Fifty-nine, but thank you." The smile.

"That would mean you were nineteen when I met Alice. She was sixteen. That makes you her older sister, so how in Hades is it that you didn't exist?"

"I told you it was complicated. And I gave you what you asked for."

"Huh?"

"The short version, Porter. You now have the short version, and if you want the whole thing, meet me at the diner at seven." She gave a curt little nod that said the conversation was over whether he liked it or not, and crisply turned and walked away.

#

At seven that evening, Porter was nowhere near the Diebold Diner. He had meant to be. He wanted to hear the rest of the crazy woman's story for entertainment if nothing else. But, he thought, shit just happens, don't it? He motioned for Harold to pour him another.

"Geez, Porter. You sure?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, because I've known you for at least twenty years and ain't never seen you take a drink? And now you're wasted?"

"I didn't know you were my daddy," Porter said. Then he thought about Harold being his daddy and since Harold was younger than Porter, that would really take some doing, now wouldn't it? He burst out laughing, slapping the bar over and over. He saw the look on Harold's face. "Don't look at me like I'm crazy. I'm not. Believe me, you don't know crazy."

"You need me to give you a ride home, man? It won't hurt for me to lock up for five minutes."

"Home? Why hell no!"

"Sorry, Porter. I can't serve you any more drinks tonight."

Porter started to get angry, but he wasn't the angry-drunk type and started laughing again instead. After another round of yucking it up and slapping the bar, a brilliant idea occurred to him. "You know what, Harold?"

"What?"

"You can give me a ride."

"Good," Harold said. "Let's get you home."

"Not home. I have a dinner date, by God."

Harold looked dubious. "Uh, who with?"

"Alice's sister."

"Alice had a sister?"

"Nope. Let's go."

<<<<>>>> 

Projectionist: Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Porter would have been—should have been—shocked to hear Larry Walker standing there reading what sounded like another letter from the grave. But no. After weeks of grieving and wondering and crying and why-ing, his tank of high level emotional response was running on fumes. So he just stood and listened.

"From the moment the first reel of the movie runs out, wait exactly ten minutes before starting the second one."

Teddy will be having a conniption at five minutes, Porter thought.

"Don't worry about Teddy. Mr. Walker has a note for him too and he won't be bothering you this evening. Ten minutes. Trust me. All my love. Alice."

Walker refolded the letter and slipped it back into an inside pocket of his suit coat. Then he pulled out a little digital timer and handed it to Porter. "It's already set for ten minutes," Walker said. "Just push the button on the top to start the countdown." With a little shrug, Walker turned and headed down the narrow stairway.

Porter looked at the timer for a few seconds, briefly wondered if he had gone insane and was really locked up in some padded room dreaming, then said "Okay, Alice," and walked into his booth.

#

When the first reel expired, Porter immediately pushed the button. He went ahead and readied the next reel, then sat down on his stool with the timer. When the readout hit 7:00, he noticed that his heart was beating pretty fast. He shifted his gaze from the timer to the door, timer to door, back and forth, waiting to see what would happen. 5:00. Nothing. 2:00, the same nothing. The timer beeped as it hit all zeroes. Porter sat there a few seconds, shook his head, and started the projector rolling again.

As time went on and Peter O'Toole forged epic relationships on the screen, Porter felt more and more like a fool. What had he expected to happen? Alice was gone. Dead. And whatever goofy nonsense she had conjured up before she died wasn't going to change that. He couldn't imagine why she would plan this elaborate ruse, and his soul was too spent to care.

About an hour into the second reel, he walked downstairs, raised the walk-through on the countertop, and went behind the concession stand. Fixed himself a Coke while Jenny restocked the candy displays. He left the concession area with his drink and headed back toward the stairs. That's when he met Teddy coming out of the office. His hair—what he had left, anyway—was frazzled, his eyes wide. Porter headed that way; he wanted to ask what Teddy's message from Larry Walker had been. But when Teddy saw Porter? His eyes got wider. He spun around, walked back into the office, glanced back for the briefest moment at Porter, then closed the door. Porter could've sworn he heard him lock it. Could the night get any stranger?

#

When the movie was finished and Porter had shut down the projector and rewound and stowed the reels, he made his final trip down the stairs for the evening. Most of the moviegoers were gone, but a few still trickled out of the auditorium. These would be the real film lovers, the ones who sat through all the end credits and then dissected what they had just seen. Porter knew pretty much all of them and fielded a couple hey-we're-still-so-sorry-for-your-loss sad smiles when they saw him.

He entered the auditorium and went to the electrical box on the rear wall to kill the lights. The box had a little lock on it to keep out pranky teenagers. Porter reached into his pocket for his key ring but came up empty. Crap. He had probably left them in the booth. Which was itself locked. On his way to the office to grab the spare set of keys, someone behind him said, "Mr. Hamlin?"

He turned and saw a man of about fifty coming out of the auditorium. Hadn't the room been empty when he was in there? Oh well, he hadn't exactly scoured the room, had he? "Yes?" he said.

The man approached with his hand out to shake. "I'm Bill Griffin."

Porter shook his hand. "Porter Hamlin."

Griffin reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. A ReelMark business card. "This is a pretty special old theater you guys have here."

"We think so. What can I do for you, Mr. Griffin?"

"Oh, nothing really. I just wanted to say hello. Loved the showing tonight. Looks like a lot of other people did, as well."

"Not meaning to be rude, but how is it you know my name?"

"Teddy told me about you and your wife—sorry for your loss, by the way—how long you've all been here running the Magic. Almost forty years, right?"

Porter nodded. He was tired and wanted to go home, not chat it up with this vulture. "Been a long day," he said. "I better be getting home."

"Oh sure, sure, don't want to hold you up," Griffin said. He stuck his hand out again. "Glad I got to meet you, and great job with the showing tonight. I have to tell you I'm very encouraged to see this kind of turnout on a weeknight for a classic. Maybe we can talk again soon?"

Porter shook his hand, gave him a tight little smile, walked away. Griffin headed for the office.

#

In bed, Porter stared at the ceiling. He had followed Alice's instructions from the Twilight Zone, and nothing had happened. Actually worse than nothing; by doing as she asked, he had made Griffin even more interested in the Magic. Great job, Alice.

The Projectionist: Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The pole was the bane of Porter's existence. Stick the letter to the suction cup. Raise the pole to the marquee. Slip the top of the letter in the channel, then the bottom. Sounded simple but the suction cup dropped the letters as often as it held them, and the long reach up to the sign was tedious to maneuver. And of course Alice couldn't have picked something with a short title. It took him an hour to spell out the details of tomorrow's showing of Lawrence of Arabia. Finally, he collapsed the pole and walked across the street to check the sign, as he did each and every time he changed it. Looking good. Happy, Alice?

Naturally, here came Teddy. Out the front door, then craning his neck to look at the marquee, then crossing the street with a confused look on his face. "Porter? What on God's big green Earth are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"Lawrence of Arabia?"

"It's an epic," Porter said. "First rate film."

"I know the film! Why are you putting it on the sign? We don't even have it here!"

"It's in the booth."

"Why? When? Where'd it come from?"

Porter started to tell him the truth, that he didn't have the foggiest where it came from, changed his mind. "Looks like it's been there a while is all I can tell you."

"And you just had the urge to show it, without talking to me at all? The new film we're running is selling well. We need the business, in case you haven't noticed."

"Teddy, would you say I've been a good employee here?"

"You're more than an employee, Porter, but sure. The best. What's that got to do with Lawrence of dadgum Arabia?"

Porter drew three deep breaths and said, "I need to do this. I can't explain why, but I do. You say I'm more than an employee, then cut me a little slack here and let me do what I gotta do."

Teddy drew a breath to speak, then stopped. Drew another and said, "I don't know what's going on with you, but I don't like it."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

He didn't answer. Teddy just turned and walked back across the street, slowly shaking his head.

#

The next day at 6:00 P.M., Porter had the projector loaded and ready. No trailers tonight, just the feature at 6:10 on the button. He barely had any view of anything outside the booth, so he made his way down the stairs and into the auditorium. He really didn't know what to expect, but he surely did not expect what he found:  The room was almost full. For a fifty-year-old movie. Whose only advertising had been a day on the marquee on an uncrowded Diebold day.

He left the auditorium and headed back to the stairs. Teddy spotted him and hustled over, a big smile on his face. "Wow, Porter. Looking like a good call!" He looked over his shoulder at the concession stand, where Jenny Phillips was servicing a healthy flow of customers.

"It's nice to see the room that full," Porter said. A good weeknight at the Magic was twenty-five or thirty people. The current crowd of more than a hundred was unheard of. "Well, I better get back up there."

Teddy patted him on the back. "Good call, buddy. Good call."

Porter climbed the stairs and found Larry Walker waiting on the tiny landing outside the door to the projectionist booth. What the crap?

"Porter, good to see you, good to—uh, looks like a pretty busy night."

Porter nodded, checked his watch. "I have to start the film in five minutes. Can this wait?"

Larry shook his head and pulled an envelope from inside his coat. "Afraid not. You're not the only one who has to follow some strange instructions." He opened the envelope, extracted a piece of paper. An old looking piece of paper like Alice's strange letter Porter had read in Larry's office. Then he started reading:  "My Dearest Porter. This will be brief because if Mr. Walker has done as I asked, you need to start the film in just a few minutes. So please listen carefully and do exactly as he asks you. All my love. Alice."

The Projectionist: Chapter 9

Chapter 9

NOW – PRESENT DAY

Locked inside the projectionist room, Porter sat on his stool and stared at the two film cans as if he could burn holes in them. Where in cripes had they come from? From the exact spot Alice’s letter had said they’d be. But how did they get there? He only walked past that shelf many times a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, decade in and out. They had not been there that morning or that month or that year.

Yet there they were on the shelf, covered in a thick layer of dust, a lattice of spider webs knitted from the top can to the wall. Even the cobwebs looked old. Good hell, the spider in the middle was a dry husk, also coated in dust after no doubt having died of? ripe old age. How long did spiders live, anyway?

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK on the door. "What?" Porter said.

"Porter, you okay?"

"Fine. Go away, Teddy."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Leave. Me. Alone."

A beat, then Teddy said, "It is my theater, you know?"

"As if you'd ever let anybody forget that," Porter said.

"Come on, open up. I need to talk to you."

Porter said nothing.

"It's important."

"I'm sure."

"I'm selling it."

Porter scrunched up his face for a moment, then stepped to the door and unlocked it. Opened it and looked at Teddy. "Selling what?"

Teddy walked through the door, squeezed past Porter, and sat on the stool. "The Magic."

Porter stared at him a good thirty seconds, then said, "Have you completely lost your mind?"

"Maybe."

"The hell are you talking about?"

"That chain out of Knoxville wants it. ReelMark."

"Bull hockey. They're huge megaplexes. What would they do with this?" Porter spread his arms, palms up.

"They're buying several old singles in the region, say they're turning them into art cinemas."

"But you can't sell the Magic!"

"Sure I can. It's mine, the business, the building, everything in it. Been paid for a long time. I--"

Whatever Teddy said next, Porter didn't hear. Decades of memories were playing through his mind. Magical memories. Him. Alice. Teddy. The people. Everything. It was the social center of the town, had been as long as he could remember. Alice. It was the passion of her heart. This could not be happening. He interrupted Teddy and said, "No."

"Excuse me?"

"No!"

"Listen, Porter, old buddy, we—"

"Get out of my booth," Porter said.

Teddy looked dumbfounded. Didn't move. Said nothing. Just sat there with his mouth half open, staring at Porter through bug eyes as if Porter were the one going nuts. So Porter took Teddy by the arm, guided him off the stool and out the door. Then he shut the door and relocked it. Teddy started making racket outside the door again, but Porter didn't care. He had things to do.

He pulled his old ostrich feather duster from its hanger on the wall and started dusting off the film cans. A special showing of Lawrence of Arabia was indeed just what the doctor ordered. Yes sir, it sure was.

The Projectionist: Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Alice often didn’t know why she did the things she did. Or at least she didn’t know at the time she did them. She just acted. Or reacted, as the case might be. Later she would ponder the "why." This morning's activity didn't take much brain power to figure out. That Porter boy was cute and quiet and sweet and never bothered a soul. She hadn't met him before but she had seen him around a lot of times and she could just tell these things about people. So when she saw that skuzz Ledbetter trip him, well, she acted. Or reacted. Whatever. It felt good.

What was funny, though? When she met Ledbetter in the hallway between third and fourth period, she'd expected him to threaten her or shove her or pull some other caveman move; instead he turned his messed-up face away and moved to the other side of the hallway. That wasn't like the bully at all. Oh well.

She daydreamed her way through fourth period, then homeroom, thinking about the theater, so excited about Lawrence of Arabia that she could barely stand it. She also found herself thinking more than once about Porter, which was a little silly since she didn't really know him at all and he might not think much of her anyway. Pretty much nobody else at school did. And had she embarrassed him when she knocked the scuzz down the steps? That hadn't occurred to her, which was one little problem with acting in the moment. Then she remembered something even worse:  She had winked at him! Why did she do that? Now he might think she was cheap and easy, or maybe just plain crazy.

With these things on her mind, she had an even harder time tolerating Mr. Peterson and his geometry. (Gee-AHM-uh-tree is ver-ee im-por-tant!) As it turned out, she didn't have to endure him all that long. About fifteen minutes into the class, a messenger knocked on the door and told Mr. Peterson that the principal wanted to see Alice Pendergast. Mr. Peterson sighed as if the rest of his life had just been ruined and motioned for her to go.

#

Mr. Turner's office smelled like, well, like Mr. Turner. Which is to say it smelled like Brylcreem because Mr. Turner kept so much of it slathered into his hair. Hair he was always combing, which left the whitish Brylcreem gunked up in the teeth of the black comb. It was one of those things Alice couldn't help but stare at, no matter how hard she tried. It was just that gnarly.

"Alice," he said, "I thought we agreed last week that you were going to refrain from behavior that caused these little visits of ours?"

She didn't remember the conversation that way at all. In fact, it had been more of a speech by Mr. Turner than a conversation. Alice didn't say this out loud because she had found that correcting the faulty memory of these people wasn't necessarily appreciated.

"Well?" he said.

"What did I do?"

He looked at her, drew a breath like he was about to say something, then blew that breath out and ran his hand through his hair. This made his hand Brylcreem-shiny and of course launched another combing session. "Did you or did you not shove Hank Ledbetter down the front steps this morning?"

"Oh, that," she said.

"Yes, Alice. That."

She shrugged.

"That's not an answer," Mr. Turner said.

"I pushed him."

"Why?"

"He's a bully. He tripped a guy named Porter, on purpose. Made him fall down the steps. Then pointed and laughed at what he'd done."

"And what did that have to do with you?"

"It wasn't right."

"I ask again, Alice, what did that have to do with you?"

This was a dumb conversation and Alice was about done with it. She shrugged again. This prompted another deep breath and long exhale and hand in hair and combing session.

"Three days detention," he said.

"That's not fair!"

"You think not?"

"No!"

"Maybe you'd prefer four?"

Now it was her turn to draw a speaking breath and then change her mind and hold her tongue. She did not, however, run her hand through her hair. It would not have come back slick with hair grease, but still.

"You can't wander around executing what you consider justice, Alice. If you were concerned about what you saw, you should have told a teacher."

"What happens to Ledbetter for what he did?"

"That's not your concern."

"Who told on me?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"I have a right to face my accuser. It's the American way."

"This is not a court of law and you're not on trial, Alice. And for what it's worth, it's not a democracy, either. It's high school. More like a benign dictatorship," he said, then gave her a little smile.

"Dictators are never benign," she said.

His little smile disappeared. "Alice, you should go now."

So she did.

#

Her heart sank when she checked the bulletin board and saw that Mr. Peterson was the detention teacher that week. She slogged her way to the library to serve her time, settled into a chair at the detention table, and waited. (Maybe she was supposed to have gone back to the rest of geometry class, but she figured a detention hour with Mr. Peterson was punishment enough.) The bell sounded the end of school and a couple minutes later, she got a pleasant surprise when Porter walked into the library and made his way toward her.

7: A Magical Number

BlogFans, prepare yourself for a Post O'Sevens. Yes, there's a Chapter 7 to The Projectionist waiting down below for you, but don't dare skip ahead or you'll miss some Good Stuff!

In exactly 7 days, my new thriller will be released. It's called SEVEN UNHOLY DAYS, or as readers have nicknamed it, "7UD." Here's what New York Times and international bestselling author James Rollins had to say about this one:

"A simple glitch in a power grid heralds the beginning of a madman's scheme to bring about a biblical apocalypse. Written in a staccato style that will leave readers breathless and flipping pages long into the night, Hatchett's novel, SEVEN UNHOLY DAYS, is a thriller not to be missed!"  - James Rollins

7UD is near and dear to my heart. I imagined the type of story I'd most like to read, then decided to write it. It's been circulated among alpha and beta readers far and wide, and the feedback has been encouraging in an overwhelming way. (Just think about what it must take to keep Jim Rollins up at night!) Whatever you can do to spread the word will be SO appreciated!

Now, skipping any more adieu at all, here is the cover for SEVEN UNHOLY DAYS.

Seven Unholy Days (an unputdownable thriller available on April 2!)

You guys will never know how much your feedback and encouragement means. I love you!

THE PROJECTIONIST

Chapter 7

Porter huffed the school steps two at a time, checking his watch on the way. Midstride to the top step, disaster struck in the form of Hank Ledbetter’s outstretched foot. Falling forward from the trip, Porter tried to right himself, overcompensated, and tumbled backward down the old concrete steps. His lanky frame had little padding and he felt every bump on the way down. At the bottom, lying on his back, he looked up to see Ledbetter at the top of the steps, laughing so hard he was bent over with his hands on his knees.

Then the greatest thing ever happened. A girl marched right up the steps, stepped behind Ledbetter, and shoved him down the steps. He landed beside Porter and didn’t fare as well, since he fell on his face instead of his backside. Now the girl was doing exactly as Ledbetter had, bent over, belly-laughing. Now a crowd was gathering, joining in, taunting Ledbetter, having a large time at his expense. But Porter didn’t care about Ledbetter or the crowd.

His eyes were on the girl, and what a girl she was. He had seen her around school a few times. Didn’t know her name, though. She was a year behind him. Her laughing face looked like sunshine, her eyes like blue stars. She had short brown hair and a dimple on each cheek. When she finally stopped laughing at Ledbetter, she looked straight at Porter. To be certain, his normal reaction would have been to look away at the speed of light when any girl looked his way. Especially when he was lying on his back on the sidewalk. Double especially when he got there by being bullied by a jerk like Hank Ledbetter. Triple especially when the girl showed up and paid back the bully for him. But he couldn’t look away. He was...he was...captivated.

She came back down the steps and reached down a hand to help him up. He took it, stood, still staring at her.

"You okay?" she said.

"Uh, sure, yeah. Thanks."

She stuck her hand out. "I'm Alice."

He took her hand in his and in that first split second of her skin touching his, he knew he never wanted to let go. "Hamlin," he said.

"That's a funny name."

"Huh?"

"I've never known a Hamlin."

"Oh, sorry. Porter. Porter Hamlin."

She tilted her head kind of sideways. "You sure you're okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, see you later." She smiled. Paused. "Can I have my hand back now?"

"Oh, sorry." Porter let go. Alice bounded up the steps, then looked back over her shoulder just before she went through the door. And she winked. At him.

At his feet, Ledbetter groaned and rolled over onto his back. "You'll pay for that," he said.

And for the second time in five minutes, Porter didn't react like Porter. Instead, he looked down at Hank Ledbetter, with his skinned nose and skinned forehead and skinned chin, and said, "I'll pay for you tripping me?"

"Damn better believe you'll pay for that bitch, then she will too."

Third time and the most radical departure imaginable:  Without thinking, Porter cocked his leg and kicked Ledbetter in the face. Not all that hard, mind you, and he was wearing sneakers, but still. Then he laughed and climbed the steps and went inside Diebold High.

#

Porter would later remember absolutely nothing about the rest of that day. This would prove more significant than anyone could have imagined. Ever.

The Projectionist - Chapter 6!

If you haven't read Pawnbroker, give it a look via the obvious link in the left sidebar. It's hanging in there on the bestselling technothriller list at Amazon. Every purchase helps keep it there, so if you need a read... :)


Now that I'm a few chapters into this work, I had to pause long enough to come up with at least a temporary cover idea, something to give it a bit of visual identity. I hope you like it.

Chapter 6

50 YEARS EARLIER

"Ah-LEE-see-ah." Each syllable hard and sharp. That's how Mr. Peterson prounounced Alicia. Some people acted weird and that was okay by her; except her name wasn't Alicia. It was Alice. So it got on her nerves sometimes. She wondered if it ever irritated anyone else. Maybe Jerry (Jer-uh-MY-ah)? Or Billy (WILL-ee-yum)? Or maybe it was only—

"Miss Pen-der-gast, are you too deep in meditation to answer when called on?"

"Hypotenuse," Alice said. Mr. Peterson looked like he wanted to fuss at her for not paying attention, but since she had answered his question with the right answer, what could he really say? So he didn't.

He moved on to someone else and Alice zoned back out for the last fourteen minutes of geometry class. When the bell rang, she gathered her books and left, steering through her chattering classmates without a word. At her locker, she spun the combination, opened the clangy door, and stowed her books before relocking it. She had no need to tote books home. She had already done all her homework except geometry, and she would come to school five minutes early tomorrow to do that.

Out the door and down the steps of Diebold High she went. Four blocks later, she was home and curled up on her bed with the new book she had checked out from the library two days earlier, To Kill A Mockingbird. Mama said she couldn't read it, that it was trash, but Daddy said she could, so that was the end of that talk. She didn't know if Daddy had read it and thought it was good, or if he knew she was going to read it anyway and just found this way easier.

The main thing was, it was a great book. And she read in a magazine that it would be a movie soon. She hadn't even finished the book and already she couldn't wait for the movie. She heard someone clomp up the first four steps of the stairs, then she silently mouthed the words in perfect time as Mama hollered, "Alice Ann, time for supper!"

#

She left home the next morning at seven o'clock. Nine minutes later, she arrived at The Tennesseean, which was probably her favorite place of anywhere. She leaned up to the door and put her hand on her forehead to block the reflection of the glass so she could see inside the dark theater, then rapped five times on the glass. She didn't have to wait long. Mr. Dan showed up in the lobby and opened the door for her.

"Good morning, Miss Alice!" he said with the same big smile he wore every morning. "How are you this beautiful day?"

"Pretty good."

"Why just pretty good?" he said, his smile fading a bit.

"Have to get to school early to finish some homework." She scrunched up her face and stuck her tongue out.

"Well, what a burden, my young one," he said, the smile blooming again. "Come on, I have something to show you."

Mr. Dan relocked the door and headed toward the stairway. Alice followed, taking in the smells she loved so much; popcorn, the carpet, all of it. At the top of the stairs they went right into the corridor, not straight ahead into the balcony. Then they turned right again and made their way up the cramped stairs to the room that said Projectionist on the door.

Inside the little room, Mr. Dan hooked a thumb and pointed to a countertop beside the big projector. On the countertop were two film containers, the kind that films got delivered in. Her face lit up. "What are they?"

"Don't know," he said. "Waited so you could open them."

Now her smile was as big as his. "Thanks, Mister Dan." Alice went to the counter, grabbed the wire cutters off the little tool shelf above it, and quickly snipped the twisted wire that sealed the top container. She pulled the wire seal out and tossed it in the trash can on the floor, then started opening the latches on the container. When they were all undone, she looked back over her shoulder and said, "Here we go!" She lifted the top off the container and her eyes went wide. Squealing like a little girl, she hopped up and down and clapped, then turned around and beamed at her friend. "Come see!" she said.