Molly Moon Stops the World (11 page)

“I’m tired but I don’t feel sleepy,” he said, sitting on the end of her bed.

“Same here,” said Molly.

“I checked the TV to see whether the time is right everywhere in America and in the rest of the world. It is. You’ve bitten off a lot to chew with this stoppingtime stuff,” he went on worriedly. “I’m glad it’s you who can do it and not anyone else. I mean, imagine what you could do. You could get away with murder.”

“Oh, don’t,” said Molly, shivering and pulling Petula up onto the bed.

“I don’t mean real murder, I just mean you could play all sorts of tricks on people. If you were a criminal, you could easily do burglaries or kidnap someone. Stop the world. Do the kidnap. As far as everyone was concerned, the person would just suddenly disappear. Or if you wanted your football team to win, you could freeze the world during a penalty and you could reposition the ball so that it went into the goal.”

Molly buried her nose in Petula’s fur. The idea that she, one small person on the planet, had made the whole world stop made her feel dizzy and terrified. She felt it was a power too big for her.

“I’m going to call Lucy in the morning and ask her if she knows about this,” she said. “I’ll try not to think
any more about it now. We must get some sleep, Rocky. We’re going to need loads of energy tomorrow.”

Rocky nodded and switched off the light.

“Sweet dreams, Marshmallow,” he said as he shut the door.

“You mean, ‘Good luck with your nightmares,’” said Molly, and she pulled her blanket up over her head.

T
he day of the Academy Awards rose sunny with cloudless skies. Petula woke before everyone else. She checked the small stash of stones that she’d hidden behind the TV set, chose an egg-shaped one to suck, and slipped out of the bungalow grounds via a hedge tunnel. From the steps above the swimming pool, she could see the giant painted poodle jumping over the sign for Bella’s Poodle Salon and Dog Hotel. She could smell some sort of tasty meat breakfast that the guests there were being fed. Petula looked down at her paws. Her claws most definitely needed a clip. And her skin had felt itchy ever since the plane journey. The doggy-shampoo-smelling place reminded Petula of a comfortable washing house she’d visited in another big city. Knowing that a good
grooming would really revive her, she turned toward the hotel’s driveway.

Crossing the four lanes of road to Bella’s was quite difficult, and Petula found herself standing on the central partition for five minutes as she waited for a lull in the traffic. But soon she was walking up to the blue metal gate of the dog salon, which she pushed open with her paw. Down some steps was a door. This swung open as an athletic man came out of the shop with a Pekingese under his arm. The Pekingese smelled of lilies and had four pink ribbons in his hair. Petula trotted smartly past them. She was looking forward to this.

Inside the shop, everything was for dogs. There were racks of collars and leashes, hanging like tempting jewelery. There were beautiful fur cushions for dogs to relax on, fine feeding bowls, displays of specialty dog foods, snacks, chew bones, and edible dog cigars. There were piles of luxury dog toys and bottles of dog fragrances, dog coats in every size, and even dog shoes for those days when dirty paws weren’t wanted. A woman with frizzy blond hair and huge hooped earrings was sitting behind a counter, adding up a bill. Behind her was the salon, where a big furry chow chow was standing in a special glass box that was blow-drying his coat. As Petula crossed the shop floor, her long
nails made a distinct clicking sound.

Bella, the salon owner, looked up, expecting to see that one of her dog clients had escaped from the spa room next door. Instead, she saw Petula approaching her, wagging her tail. Petula put her front paws on the woman’s lap.

“Why, aren’t you the most adorable li’l thingummybobbit! Where’s your owner, cutie pie? Oh, my, aren’t your claws long!”

Of course, Petula said nothing. She gave Bella one of her most winning looks, her head tilted charmingly to one side. Bella looked at the door and then down at the velvety black pug.

“Why aren’t you wearing a collar, honey?” Bella got up and peered outside. The pug dog seemed to be ownerless. Petula barked. Bella smiled and patted her. She could always tell when dogs wanted a grooming. She looked at the chow chow enjoying his blow-dry and consulted her watch.

“Okay, my darlin’. You’re a precious li’l thing, you are! Come with me. Let’s give you the treatment!”

This was how Petula found herself getting the full pampering that she felt she deserved. First Bella took her to the wet room and washed her in rosemary shampoo. Then Petula was massaged, rinsed, dried, clipped, polished, and groomed until she felt like a
dog from the Land of Perfection. Lastly she was taken to the salon’s spa room to relax.

Here she socialized with the dogs who had been booked into the dog hotel. There was a giant, silky Afghan hound who was very interested in what Petula had had for yesterday’s supper, a French bulldog with bat ears and no manners, who sniffed at her bottom with no invitation at all, a silvery-coated Samoyed, the chow chow, a sausage dachshund, and a Chinese crested dog.

The small, hairless, gray-and-pink Chinese crested dog interested Petula the most. She’d never met one before. He really had no hair, except for a tufty bit on the top of his head, and his ears were enormous and pointed. Petula liked his looks, and he certainly smelled nice—of parsley and clever thoughts. Petula lay down on a pink divan with him and made friends. For an hour, the two dogs communicated as dogs do, sending thoughts and memories to each other telepathically. The Chinese crested dog was staying at the dog hotel, as his owners were having an Oscars party with fireworks and lots of people in the house.

Bella returned and took Petula back to the shop, where she picked out a collar encrusted with fake diamonds, which she fastened around her neck.

The bell above the door rang, announcing another
customer, and sensing that Molly needed her, Petula took this opportunity to slip out of the salon.

Back at the Château Marmont, Petula found Molly still asleep. She was tangled tightly in the sheets, whimpering unhappily. Petula jumped onto the bed and snuggled close to comfort her.

Molly was having a horrible nightmare in which she was at the Academy Awards in a cage on the stage. Primo Cell stood beside it, laughing as the audience threw dead magpies at her. Then the scene froze and she was the only being alive in a still world where nothing would ever move again.

Molly awoke to find she’d drooled all over the pillow. Her forehead was hot and clammy. Petula licked her face as Molly struggled to sit up. Then Molly grabbed the phone from the bedside table and dialed Lucy Logan’s number.

She could hear the phone ringing thousands of miles away in Lucy’s little cottage. It rang on and on. She thought of Lucy’s clocks ticking in accompaniment. The clocks. For the first time Molly wondered about them. Surely Lucy knew something about time stopping. Why else would she collect clocks? Molly needed desperately to speak to her, but no one answered. She finally put the receiver down. Where
was Lucy? Had something happened to her? Molly chewed her hand. Petula barked.

“Petula ….” She hugged her. “You smell fantastic … and who gave you this lovely collar? Where
have
you been?”

Petula wagged her tail, but Molly still felt as if she was in a nightmare. She didn’t want to think of the terrifying prospect of the Academy Awards. But she knew that as surely as land approaches a falling parachutist, the afternoon would come. And so it did.

By two o’clock, Molly and Rocky were dressed. Rocky wore his smart black tuxedo and new black sneakers. Molly put on the outfit that she’d bought. It was an emerald-green dress with green shoes that matched.

“Molly, you ought to do something about your hair. It looks like your hairdresser was a tornado,” said Rocky.

Molly wrestled her hair down.

“It’s gone loony-bin curly. You should look a bit more, well, Oscar-y,” said Rocky. “Do you think we’ll get in? I mean, do we look like stars’ kids?” He tugged at his bow tie. “I’m taking this off. It looks stupid, and anyhow I don’t know how to tie it.”

“We have to get in—otherwise dehypnotizing all these
stars is going to take years.” Molly picked up a piece of white card that she had been writing on and reread the instructions on it.

“I won’t be much help getting in,” said Rocky. “Your eyes will have to get us past the door people.”

“This card will get us in, or at least I hope it will. You can help dehypnotize stars inside, Rocky. We’ll find a quiet place where you can work on them with your voice.”

Molly pulled out a list of Hollywood names from her dress pocket.

“How long do the Oscars last?”

“Six hours, Mrs. Trinklebury said,” replied Rocky. “That’s plenty of time to get lots of hits.”

“We might be the ones that get hit.”

Petula trotted in. She was ready for an evening out and barked at Molly to show her that she was coming. Molly picked her up.

“You look much more starry than we do,” she told Petula. “Your coat is as shiny as your diamonds!”

The phone rang and Rocky answered it.

“Ready or not,” he said, “the car’s here. Oscars, here we come.”

I
n front of the hotel steps, a black limousine waited like a shiny wheeled beast. A smart, gray-suited driver with dark glasses opened the car door, and Molly, Petula, and Rocky climbed in.

No one noticed them going. Mrs. Trinklebury was glued to her TV set, watching a pre-Academy Awards commentary program, Nockman was practicing opening his room’s safe without knowing its combination, and Gemma and Gerry were training Gerry’s mice to race along a cardboard track they’d made. Roger was busy up his tree, getting ready to spend the night there.

The limousine coasted away from the hotel and drove toward Hollywood Boulevard. This had once been the most important movie and theater street in
the world. Now it was more a souvenir of the past, but it was still exciting, with the famous Grauman’s Chinese Theatre with its copper-green, pagoda-style roof. Here the biggest stars in movie history had their footprints and handprints set forever in concrete.

As they continued toward the Kodak Theatre, venue of the Oscars, the traffic thickened.

“Whoa, look at the people,” their driver said as they slowed to a crawling pace. Molly could see, through the darkened windows, policemen waving flags, urging on cars with gawping passengers and telling other cars to drop their loads quickly. Halfway up the street there was a stationary glut of vehicles, and the sidewalks thronged with crowds who had come to catch a glimpse of their favorite celebrities. The limousine crept closer.

“I bet you guys are excited about walking up that red carpet.”

Molly nodded vaguely. She was hoping that her legs would remember how to walk without tripping over each other. She felt sick. She thought of all the TV cameras and newspaper photographers waiting alongside the famous red carpet.

“You don’t think anyone will recognize me from
Stars on Mars,
do you?” she whispered to Rocky nervously. “It could really mess things up. I don’t want anyone taking
a picture of me while I’m hypnotizing the guards on the gates.”

“New York’s the other side of America—and you weren’t on Broadway for that long,” said Rocky uncertainly, picking nervously at his trousers. “If people recognize you from the TV, they’ll just think you’re the nice girl from the charity commercial. That’s all.”

Molly fell silent as they pulled up behind a shiny Lincoln. Their driver got out, eager to see for himself what was going on, and opened Molly’s door.

The challenge ahead made her stomach churn and her head dizzy. As she swallowed the lump of nerves that had lodged in her throat, she managed a “Thank you” and stepped out of the car. Petula bounced after her. The noise of cheering and whistling filled the air. Molly was so shaky that the ground felt as if it was moving.

Under her green shoes, bronze stars embedded in the sidewalk showed the names of bygone movie icons. After fifteen paces, and after pushing through a throng of people, Molly, Petula, and Rocky stepped into the cordoned-off area and onto the shore of a bloodred carpet that rolled like a river through the security gates. This carpet would take them through the fenced-off part of Hollywood Boulevard and into the Kodak Theatre itself. There was no turning back now.

Only people who had Oscars invitations stepped onto the red carpet. Immediately people were interested in who she and Rocky were. A thousand cameras seemed to flash. The carpet turned into a blur as Molly walked along it.

“Are they actors?” she heard someone ask.

Ahead were the gates—low arches covered with flowers. As Molly saw guests pass through them, giving their bags to be put through the X-ray machines, she realized that the arches were camouflaged metal detectors, to check for hidden weapons or explosives.

“High security,” said Rocky.

“Hope it’s not so high that I can’t hypnotize them,” muttered Molly, clutching her white card. For luck, she touched her diamond, hidden under the top of her dress.

Behind them, someone extremely famous arrived. The crowds began yelling and screaming. This was good. It gave Molly a chance to work without people watching her.

Molly gritted her teeth, turned her eyes up to full glare, and prepared to floor one of the gatekeepers. Her hypnotism would have to work swiftly, without anyone else being aware of it.

The man on this particular gate was tough and professional. Molly didn’t look him in the eye until she
was right in front of him. When she did, her hypnotism was like a wallop in the face.

“Look at my invitation,” Molly said quietly, and of course the man did.

It read:

The man nodded, and he saw exactly what he expected to see—a fancy invitation with curly, goldembossed letters on it, and with the picture of the gold Oscar statuette at the top.