The Accidental Siren

4.3 Camera Tests

The tripod legs extended with a trio of swooshes and clicks. The canvas tote unfurled with the satisfying grind of a plastic zipper. The inside smelled like new car. A square mount screwed into the underbelly of my brand-new Canon A-1 camcorder with the twist of a spare penny, then easily snapped onto the head of the tripod.

I stepped back to admire the beautiful machine with Hi-Fi stereo sound, large LCD display, ten-X zoom, state-of-the-art autofocus, and endless promises of joy. I flipped the “on” switch, held my breath, and looked through the viewfinder at the black-and-white girl framed by the twenty-foot ballroom window, arms behind her back, nylon toes planted on cut-loop carpet roses, twirling her shoulders to and fro in a darling dance that showed her impatience. My heart skipped at the seamless union of girl and machine; two obsessions conjoined in a digital crucible of fantasy, creation, and love.

Peals of distant laughter broke the spell; Livy and her friends were still coloring shirts in buckets of dye in the driveway. They were having fun. I pulled my eye from the viewfinder and looked at Mara. “If you'd rather go back--”

“Nope,” she said. “And if you say you’re sorry one more time, I'm gonna make you play dress-up.”

That smile again. Teeth like polished pearls. Dimples! 

“Now...” she said, “whatcha want me to do?”

My lungs heaved as I scrambled to remember the plan. “Well, I stole some makeup and a mirror from Livy--”

“She’s gonna be ticked.”

“It's fine. She's the makeup artist anyway."

“Cool!”

“I brought the costume chest from the playroom to the tower so you have a place to change. It's mostly Livy's crap from dance competitions and old Halloweens, but we might find somethin' that works for the movie. Dad's gonna give me money for fabric after I propose the costume budget, then Mom's gonna help me sew your dress.”

Mara grabbed the rim of her blouse and wiggled it over her head, snapping her strawberry hair through the hole and reducing her ensemble to a pleated undershirt and a blue-jean skirt. “Your mom can do anything, huh?”

“Pretty much.”

“What a sweetheart. I like her a lot.”

I avoided the sentiment in a panel of camcorder buttons and knobs. Yesterday I feared Mara's resentment for what I did... but not today.

“So!” she said, twirling her blouse and shattering the moment's sobriety, “who do I play in this crazy fairytale?”

“You're the main character. The Girl.”

“Do I have a name?”

“No. Is that bad?”

“The Girl... kinda neat!”

The tiny affirmation lifted my spirits more than the culmination of praise from my family and friends.

“What does The Girl do?” she asked.

My brain flipped into pitch mode and I answered her question with elaborate hand gestures. “Right at the beginning, The Girl goes back to her home and discovers that her father is missing. He was killed by an evil prince, but she doesn't know that. She's just a kid and doesn't even know that people die. All she knows is that her father's gone, so she goes on a quest to find him. She has lots of adventures on the way. There's this war between humans and monsters and she gets caught in the middle, then there's this lair with a monster who captures little girls--that was Whit's idea--then she gets to the castle where the prince lives and learns that her father isn't being held captive, he's actually dead.”

Mara's eyes were wide with genuine excitement. “That. Is. Awesome. How are you gonna make a whole war?”

“Dunno yet. Guess we'll figure it out when we get there!”

She grinned. “This is gonna be a good summer.”

Any response would have fallen short, so I nodded then pointed to the tower. “Everything's ready. Just try not to touch my dad's bird stuff or he'll know.”

“Okay, okay!” Mara tossed her blouse over the wrought-iron railing and bounded up the spiral steps using her arms like an extra set of legs.

While The Girl prepared for test number one, I pulled the mesh curtains across the massive window to soften the sunlight. I double checked the tape deck for a fresh Hi-8 cassette; it was firmly in place. I smelled my armpits--a growing habit--then repositioned the camera to face a whitewashed brick wall lit by the diffused sunlight.

Ten minutes later, a sensual voice beckoned me to the steps. “I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. Parker.”

Mara emblazed the balcony like a cabaret Juliet; top hat, cane, and a sinister-red sequined leotard sculpting her petite waist and chest. Her makeup became apparent as she swaggered down the steps; lips that matched the sequins, crooked eyeliner, and long, fake eyelashes on her right eye.

When she reached the last step, Mara slipped her arm around mine, and I escorted her from the staircase to the illuminated wall.

“Face the camera,” I said and positioned her shoulders at the proper angle.

Without breaking her stoicism, she lifted her right hand--a slight gap between her forefinger and middle--and I knew what she needed. I removed a pretend zippo from my pocket, flicked the chrome lid, cupped my hand around hers, and lit her invisible cigarette. Raising it to her lips, she thanked me with a lofty smirk and a bout of make-believe smoke.

I hit record. “Look left,” I said. 

She did.

“Good. Look right?”

She did.

“Nice.”

All the famous directors tested their cameras, wardrobe and actors before filming; I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but if George Lucas did it, I had to do it too. I tested the zoom and autofocus (bitchin'!), then reeled back to view the whole costume. There weren't any Vegas chorus girls in my mediaeval fairytale, but it was important to test the camera's functions against a variety of colors and textures. Plus, I wanted to see Mara act.

“Smile for me, Ms. Mara?”

She swiped back her hair, widened her eyes, and bore into the lens with a carnal gaze. Her lips didn't move but I felt her smile.

She spoke with a dry purr. “My name? The Girl. My home? The woods of Fairytale Land. My mission? To find my father.”

I held the shot for an extra beat... then hit stop. “Annnd, cut!”

Like a popped water balloon, Mara shed her gravitas, grabbed her tummy, and keeled in a fit of giggles. “I could only find one set of eyelashes.” she said. “I must look like such a dork!”

I shook my head and smiled. “You were perfect.”

“For real?” she pulled herself together, spread her feet, and held her hips in a classic Peter Pan stance. “Ready for more?”