She wiggles her eyebrows. “I know.”
Drying my eyes, I gather my costume into my duffel bag, leaving the broken crown abandoned in the middle of my room, and hurry down the stairs. Sage throws open the back hatch of the truck and there, hanging from the roof, is Mom’s dress. I stare with unabashed awe.
“Okay,” she says. “If you want me to fix this up for you to wear it, you’re gonna have to drive.” She tosses me the keys and digs out a small sewing set from her satchel.
“Wait—what?” I catch the keys.
“You,” she replies, closing the truck doors, and rounds to the passenger side. “Driving. You know how to get to Atlanta, right?”
“Me?” I sprint around to the other side and take a running leap into the truck, half-expecting Catherine’s Miata to come rolling down the street. I buckle up, inserting the key into the ignition. The speedometer and all the little buttons and dials loom in front of me like a complicated control panel. “I barely know how to drive!”
“You said you had a license.”
“That doesn’t mean I practice!”
“Then you can learn,” she replies, taking my bag. “We got four hours, half a tank of gas, and a contest to slay. So tell me: are you ready to hijack the Pumpkin, Princess?”
Sage grins her wild grin and there’s no way I can say no. I just can’t. “Aye, copilot.”
She grins bigger and flips down her Ray-Bans. I follow suit, positioning my cheap aviator knock-offs to hide my red-rimmed eyes. I give the key a turn in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life like a beast waking from hibernation and the Pumpkin coasts out of the driveway and down the road, black smoke belching from the tailpipe.
“IT’LL NEVER BE THE RIGHT BLUE,” I mutter to myself, straightening the collar. The uniform is hanging on a peg in a closed-off room at the convention center. I thought that after twenty-three days of filming in it, I would be utterly sick of this costume, but it feels wrong not wearing it now. Like a second skin.
I run my fingers along the brass buttons and polished starwings. Gail had the tails starched this morning as I nursed a cup of coffee. I can’t remember how late I stayed up, but it was well after I dragged my costars’ drunk, happy asses back to the hotel.
“You’re such a good catch,” Jess had slurred in the back of Lonny’s black car. As it turns out, having a bodyguard does come with perks, and those perks involve having on-call limo service all the time. Lonny was not happy. “That girl’s crazy to not see it.”
“What girl?” Calvin asked, lying facedown across the other seat.
“The one Darien’s in love with.”
“I’m not—” I argued, but Jess pressed a drunk finger against my lips.
“Shhhhhh,” she commanded, and promptly puked on my shoes. I threw them away in the lobby, trying to avoid Lonny’s death stare for the rest of the evening as we corralled costars back to their rooms.
There’s a knock on the door a moment before Gail lets herself inside. “You ready, Dare?”
I run a hand nervously through my hair. “Sure thing. Any sign of my phone?”
She shakes her head. As soon as I got back to my room—well, as soon as I’d gotten back and wiped the remains of Jess’s barf off me—Gail had broken the bad news: my phone was missing.
“I have no idea where I could’ve put it,” she gushes for the millionth time. “I even tried calling the number, but it goes straight to voicemail. I’m sorry, I know you said—”
“We’ll find it,” I tell her with more certainty than I feel.
“Right, we will.”
She takes me by the elbow, knowing I won’t move until I’m prompted to, and leads me down the hallway and past the green room, the only place where the con’s guests can sit around without being constantly asked for autographs or selfies. Even veterans sit in there more often than not. No one goes out onto the con floor. It’s an aquarium full of piranhas. It’s the epicenter of this universe’s Black Nebula.
As the green room door disappears behind us, I give it one last forlorn glance when a guy with thick brown hair and an even browner coat catches my eye.
“Gail!” I skid to a stop. “I think I see Nathan F—”
Gail yanks me toward her like a yo-yo. “You can get him to sign your first-edition Firefly comic later. After your panel and your, ah, your signing.”
I dig my heels into the carpet. “Signing?”
Gail cringes and tugs at her ponytail. “It was, um, it was Mark’s orders.”
“Mark’s…,” I strangle his name out. “My dad said I had to?”
“He insists. He says it’ll be good publicity. He says you need it. I tried to argue with him but—”
“What if that blogger’s here? The one who left the messages?”
“We don’t know if it’s the same person,” she points out.
“Oh, so what if they’re both here? Either of them could have a ticket for my line!”
“I—I’m sorry,” Gail repeats, and instantly my fear turns to regret and my shoulders slump. The brown coat in the green room is gone. Another missed opportunity.
I shake my head. “No, no, it’s not your fault. You can’t go against Mark. Maybe the con office can do something. I’ll handle it.”
“But Dare—”
“I’ll handle it.”
At the end of the hallway, I throw open the doors and make my way through the crowded con, Gail clawing through the sea of people behind me. I refuse to pause for selfies or autographs or anything because I’m on a mission.
First Mark makes me do the con. Then he blames me for all the weird leaks that have been happening. And now he won’t let me cancel a signing? And no Orange Crush soda. I’ve had it up to my eyebrows with things out of my control.
Mark can kiss it.
I am not going to sign.
THE ATLANTA CONVENTION CENTER IS HUGE.
Sage lets me off at the front to go find us badges while she finds out where to park the Pumpkin. It sputters away as I gape at all the people. There are so many people. Not just people but Vulcans and Nox and Turians and Sith Lords. Groots, X-Men, Jon Snows, Marty McFlys, Disney princesses. Nathaniel Drakes and Indiana Joneses, DOTA 2 avatars beside League of Legends characters, Browncoats and hero capes and Hogwarts cloaks. Sailor Moons and sailors of stars and Trekkies and swarming among them all, in coats the perfect navy blue, the sign of the esteemed Federation, are the Stargunners.
The impossible world. And—even better—no sign of the twins.
12:22 PM
—You would NOT guess where I am right now, ah’blen.
—[1 photo attachment]
I wait for him to respond because I think he’s here too—probably talking on one of the cosplay panels—but he doesn’t respond. At least not at first. He will when he sees it. But will he want to meet up? Do I want to?
I…I think I do.
Determined, I hike my duffel bag higher onto my shoulder and embark on my quest to commandeer a ticket. A bored-looking guy is the only one left at the ticket table, a fat red sign reading SATURDAY PASSES SOLD OUT hanging overhead. I take a deep breath and march right up.
“Look, I’m not trying to get a new pass, it’s just that my old ones were stolen,” I explain to the ticket guy. “All I want is to enter into the cosplay competition. I promise I won’t pass Go, collect two hundred, what-have-you—”
He points to the sign.
“No, I know what that says, I can read,” I say. “I’m just asking if I can—”
“Get special treatment?” he says, finally looking up at me. He blinks behind thick black glasses. “Maybe get tickets a little earlier next time, sweetie.”
“Don’t call me sweetie,” I snap.
“Who called you sweetie?”
Sage emerges through the crowd in the lobby, straightening her outfit, which, today, is a blue tutu dress. She looks like a deranged punkrock fairy—not that that makes her out of place at a con.
“Okay, so I couldn’t get a space in t
he garage because the Pumpkin wouldn’t fit under the clearance, but I found this place with a meter around the corner and raided the register for quarters. Operation Avoid a Parking Ticket is under way.”
“I think that’s illegal,” says the guy at the booth.
“So’s sexual harassment.” I try to give him a mind-melting glare, but nothing fazes this guy. Hell could be rising up around him and he’d probably just think it was so last-year’s Syfy.
He sighs. “Look, if you want to see what you can do about your ‘stolen’ passes, go talk to the organizers. They’re in the office over there.” He gestures toward the corner of the lobby. “Go bother them.”
With a scowl, I turn on my heels, making my way to the offices.
“I’ll wait out here, I guess?” Sage calls behind me. “Have fun storming the castle!”
I wave a hand over my head to signal that I heard her.
This is ridiculous. Of all the years that my dad organized ExcelsiCon, he never would’ve hired a brat like that guy. At least there are other ways of getting into a con, and I know they aren’t at capacity yet. They always leave a handful of badges unattended just in case someone important shows up. Like the president. Or Tom Hiddleston.
I reach the office door and peek inside the little window. A harried older woman is counting bills onto a desk. She looks familiar, but it takes a moment to remember.
“Miss May!” I knock and wave through the window. She jumps at hearing her own name, spinning around to me in her rolly chair. She’s in the regulation purple ExcelsiCon T-shirt and blue jeans, and I swear she hasn’t changed her Keds in the ten years I’ve been gone. Her gray eyebrows scrunch together as if trying to place where she’s seen my face before.
I flash her the promise-sworn salute, and her eyebrows shoot up into her graying-brown hairline.
“Oh my word—Danielle!” she cries, jumping up from her chair. She rushes around the desk and throws her arms around me. “Danielle, you’ve grown so much! You look just like Robin. Just like him,” she echoes, holding me at arm’s length. “Goodness, it’s been, what, six years?”
“A little over,” I reply. Seven years. How has it been that long? I wonder if she blames me too. I pull a smile over my face. “And it’s high time I came back, right?”
“Right as rain!” she replies. “Robin could never keep himself away. I knew you’d be around again.”
“Actually, Miss May, that’s what I need to talk to you about. I—we—”
Suddenly, the office door opens and slams against the knob with a bang. A tall, youngish guy—dark hair, swaggery walk—breezes past me.
“I need to speak with the manager,” he says, his voice icy. “Please.”
My mouth falls open. Because Holy Federation Prince, Batman. It’s Darien effing Freeman.
Miss May looks surprised. “Well now, hold on a moment there…”
A flustered-looking woman—his handler, I’m guessing—trips into the office after him and closes the door quietly. “Darien, it’s okay—”
“Gail, it’s not okay.” He turns back to Miss May. “I just need to talk to the director, please. That’s all. I’m sure it’s a big misunderstanding.”
“The director’s out on the floor,” Miss May says.
“Excuse me,” I interrupt him.
“One second, okay?” He barely glances over.
I feel like I’ve just gone invisible. It’s one thing to feel invisible at home, but this—this is my dad’s con. I shouldn’t feel invisible here. I won’t feel invisible here.
“Is there any way to get in touch with him?” he says. “Call him? Something?”
“Dare, you’re running late to your panel,” his handler pleads. “Maybe we can get this straightened out later…”
“But the signing’s right after the panel,” he says, trying to reason with her.
I set my jaw. First he gets cast to ruin Carmindor. Then he has the indecency to show his abs on national television to sell Carmindor. And now he’s barging into the office interrupting me and pretending I’m invisible? This is why I blog. There are things in this life that I can overlook. Catherine, the twins, the crap at the country club. But you don’t mess with my Starfield.
“Aren’t you a little ungrateful?” I say.
He finally glances over as if seeing me for the first time. Oh, hello there, I think. Nice of you to finally notice.
“I’m sorry?” he says.
“Aren’t you,” I enunciate, “a little ungrateful?”
“I’m sorry, uh, miss, I’m in a bit of a hurry—”
“And I’m not?” I fold my arms over my chest. “I was here first and there’s no reason for you to barge in here and throw a hissy fit because you can’t sit your pretty butt down and sign for thirty minutes. That’s disgraceful. In the grand scheme of life, what’s thirty minutes to you?” I put my hands on my hips. “What’s thirty minutes to make someone else’s day pretty stellar?”
His shoulders stiffen. “You don’t understand. You couldn’t—”
“Couldn’t I?” I laugh. “Give me your paycheck and I’ll sign for you.”
He opens his mouth to retort, but then closes it again and turns back to Miss May. “Please, is there any way you can talk to your manager? We can work out a deal. I just don’t want to sign—”
“Well maybe you should sign,” I reply for Miss May, who’s growing paler by the moment. “Maybe that’s exactly what you should do, Darien Freeman. Maybe you should’ve realized that being Carmindor is more than just putting on a pretty face.”
It’s a good line, because I happen to be quoting directly from my blog post. And when his gaze hardens into a glare, I realize he must recognize it. Well, good.
“You’re just a spoiled star like all the rest of them,” I add, waving my hand toward the door. “So why don’t you work for once and go sign some autographs! It’s the least you can do, if you call yourself Carmindor.”
His handler—bless her, she looks overworked and underpaid in those terribly old sneakers—puts a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
Darien Freeman faces me for the first time. I kind of see the allure—he’s beautiful in person, especially with the scar, and those eyes—but his personality is the biggest turn-off I’ve ever had. He’s definitely been working out for Starfield. I don’t remember him looking so, um, imposing in Seaside Cove. He folds his arms over his chest, shoulders straining his T-shirt. “You’re that blogger, aren’t you. The one who hates me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Then what’s your beef?”
I stand taller—which, next to Darien, is not very tall. “What I hate is that you’re being a bully!”
“I’m not being a bully.”
“Oh, so going up and demanding things from nice people is what you consider normal, polite behavior?”
“I said ‘please’! Didn’t I say ‘please’?” He asks in disbelief, looking back to his handler for confirmation. She purses her lips tightly, and something silent passes between them. When she doesn’t come to his rescue, he throws up his hands. “Fine! Okay! Look Miss, uh—”
“Miss May,” I interject. “Her name’s Miss May.”
“Miss May,” he repeats. A muscle twitches in his jaw. “I’m sorry for being forceful. It’s been a long day—”
“It’s barely one o’clock,” I mutter. Darien glares at me.
“—but I just want some free time at the con, you know? Just a few hours, and I won’t have that with the signing. Could you please get your director on the walkie-talkie and tell him to find me? I’ll be at the Starfield panel”—he looks back to me—“working.”
Then he turns on his heels and leaves. A flood of fans has amassed outside and tries to overtake him as he exits the office, but a beefy guy—probably his bodyguard—shields him from the fans and guides him and his handler through the lobby. The door closes behind them, successfully shutting out all the people crying his name.
I roll my
eyes and scowl. But Miss May is grinning at me.
“You really are your father’s daughter.”
“He acted like I was invisible,” I say. “I just did what anyone would do.”
“Nope, that was all Robin.” She shakes her head. “I worked with him for so many years I can see when he comes out in you. You barely gave that boy a snowball’s chance in hell.”
“He was being really rude to you,” I point out.
“Mm-hmm.” Miss May nods and swivels back and forth in her chair, picking up a walkie-talkie. She radios the new director—Herman Mitchs, one of Dad’s old buddies, balding, beer gut, loves to cosplay as Chewbacca—about Darien Freeman before turning her attention back to me. “So what can I do for you?”
“Well…” I wring my hands. “See, things happened and my passes were stolen—two of them, for me and a friend. I have the receipt here, but the guy at the ticket booth said—”
“Receipt?” Miss May laughs, leaning back in her chair. “Elle, the daughter of Robin Wittimer never needs to buy a pass! You’re part of this con, honey. You’re family.”
From her desk, she draws out a badge. The top is marked yellow, the highest type of badge you can wear—the all-access kind that tells everyone else you’re not just somebody but you’re somebody important. This is the Stan Lee of badges.
She extends it to me and I take it, my fingers gliding over the black name printed at the bottom. Robin Wittimer. Tears sting my eyes.
“We’ve printed one for him every year,” Miss May says. “Just in case you decided to come.”
“Every year?” I ask, my voice distant. “But—”
“Didn’t your stepmother tell you?” Miss May frowns. “For the first few years we sent them to your house, but when we kept getting them back we just decided to keep them here.”
So Catherine knew I was welcome at ExcelsiCon all this time? She knew I had a badge just for me—from my dad—every year and sent it back? I chew on my bottom lip, trying not to cry.
“I had no idea,” I whisper. “If I’d known…”
Miss May sees my face crumple and offers up a bowl full of butterscotch candies. “Well, you’re here now. And your friend can wear this one,” she adds, taking out one of those extra badges I knew they had lying around for special guests. “What’s the occasion, anyway? Here to see the Starfield panel? Because I’m afraid you’re missing it…”