the position he was in now.
“Sure does!” said Warren. “I can’t wait for it to premiere next week! Well, time for bed.” He clicked the TV off with the remote and literally passed out sitting up, his unconscious body slowly falling back against the pillows.
Fisher sighed and climbed into bed next to the already-sleeping FP, wishing sleep would come to him as quickly as it did for Warren. It was going to be a long night of staring at the clock.
On Saturday morning, during the tour of Hollywood Boulevard, Fisher’s heart jumped every time he spotted someone in a suit and sunglasses. Unfortunately, in downtown LA, that description covered a lot of people. The city was bathed in bright sunlight, keeping the air at an exact 73degrees, and the Hollywood sign loomed on a hill in the distance, gleaming in the sun, but Fisher couldn’t enjoy any of it.
Spies seemed to be lurking everywhere, as they had once again in his nightmares. The massive sandstoneblock courtyard of the Egyptian Theatre offered plenty of hiding places with its thick hieroglyph-painted columns and pharaoh-head statues. The El Capitan Theatre’s marquee, made of shimmering gold trim and flickering lightbulbs, made him think of a thousand watchful eyes. Happy tourists babbled in dozens of languages, and almost all of them had cameras. He felt like every lens was trained on him.
Fisher pulled a tiny spray can from his pocket that was marked with a generic antimosquito label. Its actual properties made light reflect off him in such a way that a camera trying to capture his image would record only a bright yellow blur. He had originally developed the technology—as he did most of his inventions—as a defense against the Vikings’ harassment. Every year on school picture day, the Vikings found some new way to humiliate Fisher. Once they’d stolen a vial of squid ink from the bio lab and flung it all over his shirt. Once they’d stolen the cafeteria’s vat of homemade hoisin sauce, which had been known to permanently stain bricks, and upended it over Fisher’s head. It hadn’t taken long for Fisher todecide that he’d rather have no picture at all than one the Vikings insisted on destroying.
He sprayed it all around himself until he nearly choked on it. One of his classmates gave him a strange look.
“Sunscreen,” Fisher said with a nervous laugh.
Fisher kept his arms locked tightly around FP. The unfamiliar sights, smells, and sounds gave FP the nervous, destructive instincts of a caffeinated hyena. He couldn’t afford to let FP get away when a single wrong turn could land him in the hands of the FBI or the CIA or someone with even scarier initials.
The Walk of Fame stretched before them, the highly polished black stone decorated with rows and rows of rose-colored marble stars, each bearing the name of a director, actor, or other famous film industry professional in polished brass. People began pointing out their favorite stars and posing for pictures, joining all of the other tourists from across the globe in the excited shuffle.
It was almost lunchtime. Fisher had only a few hours before his meeting with GG McGee, Agent of Stars—his best shot at finding Two. And he still had no idea how he would get away from Ms. Snapper.
The Chinese Theatre came into view. Warren started running in crazy loop de loops around the ornamental pillars that flanked the entrance to its main courtyard. As the class came to a stop, Fisher glanced at the streettraffic, and his shoulders seized up as an awfully familiar-looking black car came into view. He looked around for a spot to hide himself when he heard a collective gasp from nearby, and turned just in time to see a gang of seven girls who looked about fourteen descend upon him.
“Basley!” one of them said.
“Basley!” echoed her companions in eerily identical voices.
“Can we have your autograph?”
“Oh my God! You’re even cuter in real life!”
Fisher was suddenly lost in a whirlpool
“Sure does!” said Warren. “I can’t wait for it to premiere next week! Well, time for bed.” He clicked the TV off with the remote and literally passed out sitting up, his unconscious body slowly falling back against the pillows.
Fisher sighed and climbed into bed next to the already-sleeping FP, wishing sleep would come to him as quickly as it did for Warren. It was going to be a long night of staring at the clock.
On Saturday morning, during the tour of Hollywood Boulevard, Fisher’s heart jumped every time he spotted someone in a suit and sunglasses. Unfortunately, in downtown LA, that description covered a lot of people. The city was bathed in bright sunlight, keeping the air at an exact 73degrees, and the Hollywood sign loomed on a hill in the distance, gleaming in the sun, but Fisher couldn’t enjoy any of it.
Spies seemed to be lurking everywhere, as they had once again in his nightmares. The massive sandstoneblock courtyard of the Egyptian Theatre offered plenty of hiding places with its thick hieroglyph-painted columns and pharaoh-head statues. The El Capitan Theatre’s marquee, made of shimmering gold trim and flickering lightbulbs, made him think of a thousand watchful eyes. Happy tourists babbled in dozens of languages, and almost all of them had cameras. He felt like every lens was trained on him.
Fisher pulled a tiny spray can from his pocket that was marked with a generic antimosquito label. Its actual properties made light reflect off him in such a way that a camera trying to capture his image would record only a bright yellow blur. He had originally developed the technology—as he did most of his inventions—as a defense against the Vikings’ harassment. Every year on school picture day, the Vikings found some new way to humiliate Fisher. Once they’d stolen a vial of squid ink from the bio lab and flung it all over his shirt. Once they’d stolen the cafeteria’s vat of homemade hoisin sauce, which had been known to permanently stain bricks, and upended it over Fisher’s head. It hadn’t taken long for Fisher todecide that he’d rather have no picture at all than one the Vikings insisted on destroying.
He sprayed it all around himself until he nearly choked on it. One of his classmates gave him a strange look.
“Sunscreen,” Fisher said with a nervous laugh.
Fisher kept his arms locked tightly around FP. The unfamiliar sights, smells, and sounds gave FP the nervous, destructive instincts of a caffeinated hyena. He couldn’t afford to let FP get away when a single wrong turn could land him in the hands of the FBI or the CIA or someone with even scarier initials.
The Walk of Fame stretched before them, the highly polished black stone decorated with rows and rows of rose-colored marble stars, each bearing the name of a director, actor, or other famous film industry professional in polished brass. People began pointing out their favorite stars and posing for pictures, joining all of the other tourists from across the globe in the excited shuffle.
It was almost lunchtime. Fisher had only a few hours before his meeting with GG McGee, Agent of Stars—his best shot at finding Two. And he still had no idea how he would get away from Ms. Snapper.
The Chinese Theatre came into view. Warren started running in crazy loop de loops around the ornamental pillars that flanked the entrance to its main courtyard. As the class came to a stop, Fisher glanced at the streettraffic, and his shoulders seized up as an awfully familiar-looking black car came into view. He looked around for a spot to hide himself when he heard a collective gasp from nearby, and turned just in time to see a gang of seven girls who looked about fourteen descend upon him.
“Basley!” one of them said.
“Basley!” echoed her companions in eerily identical voices.
“Can we have your autograph?”
“Oh my God! You’re even cuter in real life!”
Fisher was suddenly lost in a whirlpool
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