Free Jump Cut by Ted Staunton Page A

Then I almost blow it. We’re been talking about Arrested Development, and without thinking I blurt out, “Hey, are you really under house arrest?”
    AmberLea instantly turns as pink as Al’s sunburned head and her chin vanishes again. She gives this teeny nod. “It was stupid,” she says, her chin still gone. “A bunch of us were partying and we called a cab to take us home and we gave this address near all our places, and when we got there we all jumped out and ran instead of paying. It was a plan, like, but we’d been, um…you know, so we weren’t thinking too straight and the cab driver just called the cops and followed us. We didn’t even think to split up. We had to go to court and everything. We all got fines and house arrest for a month, except for writing our finals. For a while the judge wasn’t even going to let us do that; I would’ve lost my whole senior year. Anyway, the judge, she said if we liked getting around so much, we could try staying put for a while. So now I’m not even supposed to be outside, let alone here, and I have to wear—Oh, never mind. It was my own fault. I was really dumb. Anyway, ’scuse me.” She puts the dishtowel down and brushes past me into the front room.
    I follow her, praying I haven’t completely blown it. I want to make her feel better, but I don’t have a clue what to say. Maybe I could tell her something dorky I’ve done. On the other hand, the stuff I’ve done is so completely dorky it would probably make me seem stupid instead of sympathetic.
    When I get to the front room, Al is plunked down in a chair, texting and muttering to himself about no signal. He’s trying to message his agent, a flour company, or the Godfather, I guess, depending on what’s real. It is hard to tell. I mean, how many gangsters have I met? I don’t have a lot to go on here. For that matter, how many bakers have I met, apart from Jer and his Boys Bake club? I’m guessing there aren’t any Goodfellas hiding in there, or the philosophy department at York U either, but I could be wrong.
    I look past Al. GL is still on the porch, in the last of the evening sun. AmberLea has picked up the remote for a TV in the corner. “They probably only get one channel,” I say. I figure it’s better than saying nothing.
    â€œNo,” she says. “Didn’t you see the satellite dish on the roof?”
    The screen blips on. She surfs maybe ten or fifteen channels before she stops and clicks back to one. There, in glorious black and white, a blond is pointing a pistol at a man behind a desk. A familiar voice purrs, “You know, shooting a man is like straightening your stockings. A lady’s not supposed to do it, but sometimes you have to.”
    â€œAw, c’mon baby,” the man says, and then I don’t hear the rest because I’m thinking what Al says out loud. “ It’s her .” Al has put down his cell. AmberLea and I are both leaning forward. And it is her; it’s the Gloria Lorraine I saw on the Wikipedia site. And she’s a very sexy babe in an old-fashioned kind of way, walking around the desk with a gun in her hand.
    â€œI seen this,” Al breathes.
    â€œ Shadow Street ,” says AmberLea.
    â€œThat’s Fred MacMurdo,” says Al as the man stands, pushes the gun away and locks Gloria Lorraine in a hot kiss.
    â€œHe had awful breath,” says a voice beside us. We look up to see the real thing. “He’d have bourbon for breakfast and liver and onions for lunch,” GL goes on, leaning on her cane, “and he just reeked. We must have shot that scene ten times too, because he kept blowing his tag line. I was like to throw up at the end. Probably did it out of spite because they gave the good angle to me.”
    Onscreen, Fred MacMurdo in a hat looks out a windshield as he drives through the rain. “God, what a weasel he