Tucker laughs, but it’s sweet. I can tell he loves her. I bet she leaves the light on in the hallway for him at night and packs a note in his backpack every day. I bet she asked him where he was going tonight and when he would be home. Because those are the kinds of things mothers do. Or should do. When they’re around. And acting like mothers instead of stage managers. I squeeze my armrest. Suddenly I’m ready to stop talking and start the movie.

“Are we good to go?” Jacob yells from the little closet-size room behind us where the projector is queued up and ready to play. He’s also not in a costume, I notice. Unless one of the characters in the film wears jeans and a SpongeBob T-shirt.

Well hands us big bowls of candy and shouts, “Lights, camera, action!” and the screen flickers to life. I tense up and wave off the candy when Geneva passes it to me. If there are any startling noises in this movie, I will have to run out. I know this. Mom took me to a free movie in the park once. It was Frozen. When Elsa started turning everything to ice and the ice craaaaaacked over the dance floor and up the walls, I cried so loud the families around us started whispering, and Mom had to carry me to the truck. Please don’t let this be like that. I don’t have a mother to carry me out of here.

But it turns out I have nothing to worry about. Whatever the opposite of sensory stimulus is, that’s what this is. Sensory paralysis. Twenty minutes in, Geneva is the first one to say it.

“Guys. This movie sucks.”

“What!” Well says, like she insulted his sweet old grandma.

“Come on, Maxwell. It’s not even scary.” She points to the screen as Billy the Zombie crawls out of a grave and roars like an angry toddler.

“And the special effects,” Tucker adds. “Dude. They’re terrible. The talking cat looks like a bad robot.”

“I didn’t want to mention this, but,” Jacob says, not even pausing the game of Minecraft on his phone, “the copyright was 1993.”

Well sinks down in his seat and throws a fistful of candy at Jacob. The lights from the screen draw prisms on his face. I bite into my fifth marshmallow ghost so I don’t have to give an opinion. After two more minutes where we watch the robot cat get run over by a car and then reinflate like a balloon, he throws up his hands.

“Fine,” Well says. “Jacob, kill the reel.”

“Do you think Mrs. Nicky might actually kill Mary Katherine before opening night?” Well asks through a mouthful of pizza.