Fade Out Read Online Free Page B

shrug, trying to look all casual. But the truth is, I really want inside that projection booth. My mom would never thinkto look for me in there, never. And maybe Jackson would let me in if I just explained what’s going on, but I don’t know him that well, not like I know his girlfriend, Elissa.
    I can tell Elissa anything. She knows all about how my dad left, for example. She knows that my dad was cheating for months before we found out about it. She knows everything, really, and now that Maya’s gone I guess she’s the only one who does.
    I don’t know how much Elissa’s told Jackson. They haven’t been together long—like a month and a half, ever since he moved to town to stay the summer with his aunt. But still, six weeks is a long enough time to spill all my secrets. I’m almost afraid to ask.
    Maybe he sees this on my face, because he suddenly steps out of the projection booth, closes the door, and leads me down the aisle toward a seat up front. “Looks like you need to talk,” he’s saying. “We’ve got the whole place to ourselves between shows, so you go ahead and talk, I’ll listen.”
    But I don’t really want to talk—I want to hide. What, does he think I’ll knock over the projector and get shoeprints all up and down Casablanca or something?
    We sit in the second row, my and Maya’s row. Up close andpersonal to the screen but still with somewhere to prop our feet. The screen is blank, and the lights are up so we can see the grease stains on the seats. He’s right next to me. That’s his elbow touching my elbow.
    “So?” he says. “This isn’t about Rita Hayworth again, is it?”
    When I don’t answer—and you know you’re in a bad mood when you don’t want to talk about Rita Hayworth—he shrugs and shifts in his seat so his elbow isn’t anywhere near mine, and starts updating me on how much he’s saved for his car. He wants the kind of car you’d find in an old movie, the kind with fins and tails, what he calls a classic. If he works at the Little Art all summer, he might be able to save enough so he won’t have to keep riding his bike around like a kid. (“No offense,” he says, so of course I take offense now.) He’s staying at his aunt’s for free so he can work all the hours he can get, but the Little Art needs to show more movies. He’s got this idea, only Ms. Greenway hasn’t said yes yet. “The Midnight Movie,” he’s saying. “Half-price, Saturday nights. Everyone in town’ll be there. What do you think, should my car be blue, black, or, I dunno, red?”
    I can’t listen to this stuff about the car anymore. I don’t know how Elissa stands it. Without warning, I explode: “If you want to know what happened, I’ll tell you. I ran away!”
    He pauses, then says, “You ran away, huh?… That’s heavy. But you didn’t think to wait till after dinner?”
    I have to assume he’s teasing. Obviously I plan to be home in time for dinner.
    But, you know, now that I think about it, if this were a movie I would’ve run away. Like, with a hobo bag on a stick and everything. And if the cops picked me up—say while I was about to hop the freight train—I’d be in handcuffs on my way to juvie. But in real life I guess you could say I just took a walk.
    Jackson leans back in his seat. “You didn’t really run away, did you?” he says.
    “Not exactly.”
    “But your mom doesn’t know you’re here right now, does she?”
    “No. But if she asks, I’m like Orson Welles in The Third Man , okay?”
    “Got it. I didn’t see you. You’re not here.”
    I nod. Sometimes there are people who just get it. Sometimes these people are going out with your old babysitter because they think you’re a kid who rides around on a tricycle, but still.
    “So how long have you been missing?” he says with a straight face.
    I check the clock on my cell phone—paid for by my dad;I should pitch it in the garbage—but it’s searching for service again. When it gets no signal, it