“If it isn’t our friendly neighborhood hairstylist.”
“Shush!” I waved a hand at Freddie. “I can’t watch and listen to you at the same time.”
“Wow,” he muttered. “You really don’t know how to sell yourself to future employers, do you?”
We watched in silence as Marg Johnson steamrolled her way to Mr. Masterson. Even with the lousy film quality, her bouffant stood out just as much as Mr. Masterson’s pompadour. “Why is it all jerky like that?”
“What, the film? It’s the time lapse! I told you it records only every sixteen frames.”
The machine’s whirring sound grew in volume. “Is the tape okay?” I asked, biting my nail.
“It’s fine. Focus!”
We snapped back to silence as Marg Johnson approached Mr. Masterson.
“Do you think she looks mad?” I whispered. “I think she looks kind of mad.”
“Why are you whispering?” Freddie asked. “She can’t hear you.”
Neither one of us said anything as we watched the pair on the screen, the crowd milling around them. From the bird’s-eye angle, it was impossible to tell what they were saying, but Marg was waving her arms quite a bit. Then Mr. Masterson turned, as though he was about to leave, and Marg grabbed his arm.
Freddie gasped.
I saw from the corner of my eye that he had slapped his hand over his mouth.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “This is getting a little intense.”
“Hey! Look!” I said, pointing again. “Is that—is that Mrs. Masterson over there by the ring-toss game? I thought she wasn’t at the fair—that Grady had someone go get her.”
“Yeah, I don’t know,” Freddie said. “Oh my God, and there’s Tweety! Or Kit Kat! I can’t tell. It must be Tweety. She’s heading over to Mr. Masterson too!”
“You’re right—what the—what the heck just happened?”
Suddenly everything went blurry. Or not exactly blurry … more like something was blocking the shot.
“What the hell is going on?” I shouted. “Oh my G—Look! It’s a beak! A freaking seagull landed on the camera! He’s pecking the lens!”
“That son of a—where’s my gun?” Freddie yelled.
“It’s not live,” I said, swatting him. “Besides, you don’t own a gun.”
“This is making me think I totally should, though.”
Freddie and I watched the screen helplessly as the bobbing head of the gull moved in and out of the shot. We were taking turns pointing and shouting things like “There! Nope. Is that—I can’t tell—No! Move your stupid bird head!”
A minute later, I said, “Wait! I think it’s gone. Is that a man leaving? Was he talking to them?”
Freddie and I leaned in again.
“I don’t know,” Freddie muttered.
“Marg’s still there with Mr. Masterson, but I don’t see where Tweety got to … oh my God!” I shouted, pointing at the screen. Marg had whacked Mr. Masterson on the back, hard.
“Quiet voices, dears,” Ms. Robinson called from the top of the stairs.
“Erica’s sorry, Ms. Robinson!” Freddie called back without turning his face from the TV. He also yanked my arm down so he could watch Marg Johnson reaching into her purse with her free hand while still holding on to Mr. Masterson with the other.
“She’s going to give him something!”
Freddie and I both pushed toward the screen.
“What is it? What is it!” I shouted watching her pass something over.
“I don’t know!”
He reached a hand out to accept a—
The machine suddenly made a horrible flapping sound right before—
“What’s happening?”
—it clunked to stop.