“How do you not know? You are getting on that plane. You are coming home. Do you realize how much money those tickets are—”
“Did you leak those photos?” I blurt out. “The ones Brian took? From the yacht?” Gail looks up from her phone, her face pale with surprise. Mark stays quiet for a long moment.
“I realized that you needed to pick your friends carefully,” he replies slowly, choosing his words carefully, just like he wants to pick my friends. My career. My girlfriends. And everything else. My entire life. “When I saw he had those photos, I had to do something. So I did. That way we stayed ahead of the news.”
I sink onto the edge of the bed and stare at the beige carpet. “So you sacrificed my pride and privacy for a little fame.”
“Those headlines got you Carmindor, Darien.”
They got me Carmindor.
The words feel like a knife twisting in my gut; I remember the weeks after the headlines broke. Staying in my apartment, locking the doors, feeling the walls closing in around me. Then outside, wearing sunglasses and a hat everywhere, trying not to scroll through the headlines but reading them anyway. Feeling the shame solidify inside me, becoming hard, forming a wall.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Darien, it’s compli—”
“Were you?”
“Darien, I wanted what was in your best interest.”
“And the pictures from the shoot? Was that you too? Or did Brian leak those on his own?”
“Don’t be naive. All leaks are fake,” Mark scoffs. I can practically see him drawing the air quotes as he says the word leaks. “Brian was hard up for cash, so I found him a PA gig on set. Told him to keep his head down and maybe snap a few things. Spy on your phone, if he could get it.”
“You lied to me. You let me get slandered. Again. For what? A few minutes of fame?”
“To keep you relevant,” my father says.
“Congrats,” I reply bitterly, “it worked.”
There’s a long pause. “I know you probably hate me,” Mark says. “You have every right to. But I’m not the bad guy here, I swear. I never wanted to be. The leaks, the attention, you and Jess—we’re better because of it, yeah? It worked out perfectly. We survived.”
“I guess,” I say. He’s right: I did survive. The film’s in the can. I’m going to be a star. But Elle, losing Elle. That’s the aftermath.
“Now,” Mark continues, “I’m going to book you another flight. You’ve got a photo shoot in the morning, then a sit-down with a few press junkets and—”
“No.”
“No?”
I take a deep breath, screwing my courage to the sticking place. “Rebook the shoot. Tell them something came up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve got contracts to uphold for this movie. There’s money on the line—”
“Dad, I don’t want to be Carmindor for the money.”
“Darien, this is a job.”
I clench my jaw. “It’s not about the money. Or the contracts. Or the photo shoots. Or the headlines. Or the notoriety. Or my insured abs—why the hell insure my abs, anyway? It’s like Taylor Swift insuring her legs. It’s ridiculous.”
“Every precaution,” he says. “It’s just—”
But I cut him off. “Headlines or no headlines, I took the gig because of Carmindor. Because of Starfield. Because we used to sit down and watch the reruns together. Remember?”
“That was a long time ago, Darien.”
Maybe. But sometimes it still feels like yesterday, when he was still my dad. “To me it’s about the characters. It’s about the story. The fans. It’s about—” The words catch in my throat as I remember the conversations Elle and I had, about the Black Nebula, about the world, about the what-ifs.
“—it’s about the impossible universe,” I finish.
“What are you talking about?”
For once I manage to swallow my anger. “I want to be part of my own story again, and I—”
I realize that I can’t stay in this limbo anymore. Between not having a father and having one. Unlike Elle, who would do anything to get her father back, I still have one.
“I want a new manager,” I say at last. “I want my dad back.”
“Are you…firing me?”
“Yeah. I am. I love you, Dad, but I am.”
His voice turns hard. “Darien, listen to yourself. Your career. You can’t just—”
“I am,” I reply, and then I hang up.
Gail begins to collect her things from around the room. From the look on her face, she thinks she’s fired too. “I’ll be out of here soon. Mark said I’m supposed to—”
“Forget Mark,” I tell her. “You are officially promoted, effective immediately.” Her eyebrows shoot up. I toss her my phone, and she fumbles to catch it.
Gail’s jaw goes slack. “You mean…”
“I mean I’m probably going to need you to go to L.A. and make some apologies at that photo shoot tomorrow,” I say. “You can still catch a flight if you—”
“But I’m horrible at apologies!” She could not turn any paler. In fact, I think she’s actually turning green. “What happened to Mark? Why can’t—”
I grab her by the shoulders and turn her to face me. We lock eyes. “Gee, you’re my number one. Always have been. You’re the only person I trust. Now, if you don’t want to, I understand, but I want to ask you anyway. We’re a team, and always will be. Will you be my manager?”
“I…” Her mouth works silently, and then she closes her eyes and breathes deep. Some of the color returns to her cheeks. Finally, she opens her eyes and nods curtly. “You bet, Dare.”
I grin, squeezing her shoulders. “You’re the best.”
“Miss the Best to you,” she replies, returning my grin—but just as suddenly she drops it. “Oh, the flight—I have to catch that flight!” Spinning out of my grip, she grabs her purse from the floor and darts for the door. She pauses and turns back to me. “I promise I won’t let you down.”
And then she’s gone, the door slamming behind her.
Lonny finishes his drink and stands. “So what’s our plan?”
“You don’t have to go,” I tell him, shrugging out of Carmindor’s jacket. “I’m sort of going AWOL, so it’s not in your contract.”
“Then as far as I’m concerned, I’m off the clock,” he says, straightening his suit. “I can do whatever I want with my time, and I want to help you out. So what’s the plan?”
“First,” I say, “to the vending machines. With all this good luck, they gotta have an Orange Crush.”
And holy gods of soda, Batman, by the glowing light of the great vending machines on the third floor, I spot a beautiful Orange Crush button, and when I push it an orange bottle rolls out. I crack the seal and drink to the sweet, sweet taste of victory.
“That’s your plan?” Lonny says. “To drink a soda?”
I cap the bottle and shake my head, a half-crazy idea now fully formed in my head.
“I’m going to do what Carmindor should’ve done in the last episode of Starfield,” I tell him. “I’m going after the girl.”
THERE HAVE BEEN ONLY THREE INSTANCES in my life that I thought I’d never get through. The first was when Mom died. I was too young to remember much, except the memory of Dad hugging me on a cold September morning and the smell of sterilized hospital rooms.
The second was that moment before Catherine came outside, while I sat on the porch waiting for Dad to come home. The air was humid and sticky, and I couldn’t wait to show him the story I’d written about Carmindor and the Nox King. It was the best one yet. I was so happy.
And then my stepmother came outside, with the phone pressed to her shoulder, and said, “Come inside, Danielle. Robin isn’t coming home.”
I can’t remember where I put that story. I stopped writing after that. I guess the blog came out of that hole—a little good in the impossible. And those two moments, I made it past eventually. But the thir
d…
I’m not sure I’m going to make it through this one.
Because I lost my mother’s shoe, I’m late for curfew, and as Sage turns onto my street I see my house, my parents’ house, with the ugly FOR SALE BY OWNER sign that Catherine put up. All the lights are on and Catherine’s Miata is in the driveway. On the porch, my stepmother stands with her arms crossed, hands cupping elbows, her face a stony unreadable expression. And on the Pumpkin’s dashboard, the clock reads 2:05 a.m.
I am Princess Amara, and this is my Black Nebula.
Cal leans forward. She’s pale and clearly nervous, wringing her hands. I don’t want her to get in trouble at my expense—but I don’t know what else to do. She seems adamant about going in with me, even though I told her she can sneak in through my window. There’s no reason for both of us to get punished.
“You don’t have to go.” Sage slows down but doesn’t stop entirely. She’s being a good friend. She’s the best friend. I’m glad I got to know her. “Or I can go with you.”
But she can’t go with us. I thought I’d be panicking more; that it would be clawing up my throat, stinging my insides like jellyfish kisses. But I’m surprisingly…calm. A few moments stranded in the eye of the hurricane.
Cal squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll be right here too.”
“Cal, you don’t have to—”
“Stop trying to take all the blame,” she interrupts. “I’m not my sister, and I’m not my mom. I’m sick of being put in this box. I’m not a box person. It’s time Chloe and Mom learned that.”
The Pumpkin comes to a full stop.
“God, she looks like a wet cat,” Sage mutters.
“That’s her normal look,” I tell her.
Sage leans over and hugs me hard. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work?”
“Yeah,” I croak. “I mean, maybe.” I hug her back and open the truck door, but Cal lingers for a moment, unsure how to say goodbye to Sage. I quickly avert my eyes. It’s not my business, and it feels private.
As I step out onto the lawn, Catherine narrows her eyes at me. But then Cal follows me out of the truck, and Catherine’s face morphs into anger—like a firework exploding. Just me is one thing, but me and Cal? Dread curls in my stomach like snakes. She can’t do anything, I tell myself. Don’t be scared of her.
But I am. I’m scared of her like Carmindor is scared of the Nox King, like Amara is scared of the Black Nebula. Before I found my parents’ costumes and met Sage and found some kind of happiness, I didn’t think Catherine could possibly take anything away that hasn’t already been taken. But standing here, wearing my parents’ things, the taste of watermelon punch on my tongue and David Bowie crooning “Zig-gy Stardust” through the Pumpkin’s speakers…I realize she can take away a whole lot more than I realized. I have a life now. I have things that matter.
I pull my dad’s jacket over my shoulder. It smells more like Darien than me, like cinnamon and starch and sweat and a night I won’t ever forget. Behind us, Sage forces the Pumpkin’s into gear and, with a loud belch of black smoke, coasts down the road.
“Calliope…” Catherine looks down at her daughter from underneath her lashes. “I believe we need to talk. Chloe told me everything. I am very, very disappointed.”
“Mom, I can explain,” she says, but her mother cuts her off.
“Inside, please, before we make more of a scene.”
Cal ducks her head and hurries into the house. Catherine’s lips curl in disgust as I quietly follow. She slams the door shut, and Cal whirls around.
“Mom, I can explain. It’s not what it looks like—”
“Oh I know what it looks like. I just didn’t think you would lie to me so blatantly, darling,” Catherine replies, her voice eerily cool. “Sneaking out of your tennis tournament? To go hang around with some druggie and your stepsister? Don’t you want this varsity position? A future? Chloe seems to be the only one who does.”
It clicks then, in an instant. Chloe arrived home before us and told Catherine the exact lie that would throw Calliope under the bus with me. I can’t believe it for a second, because why would Chloe do that? They’ve been inseparable ever since I can remember.
Cal seems just as shocked. “But—that’s not—Chloe—”
“Told me everything,” Catherine finishes. “Upstairs. Now.”
“But Mom—”
“Now!” Catherine snaps.
For a moment, I don’t think Cal’s going to go, but then she disappears, hurrying up the stairs. When the door to the twins’ room slams, Catherine turns her gaze on me, sharp and hard.
“Where did you get those clothes?” Her voice is like knives. I stop in the foyer to wipe my bare feet, Mom’s shoe—the one shoe I have left—is in my hand, and Catherine looks at me with disgust. Glitter is falling off around me, stuck in the folds of my dress, pasted to my skin as though I am part stardust too.
“They’re mine,” I say. “My parents’.”
“And you had the audacity to drag Calliope into your nonsense?”
“It wasn’t nonsense, it was a convention. We entered a contest.”
“A contest?”
“A cosplay contest. Remember ExcelsiCon? Dad’s dream? I wanted to be a part of—”
“I don’t care what you want, you little brat!” Catherine exhales so hard it sounds like a hiss. “You knew Calliope was impressionable. You knew you could get her to go along with your schemes. This all started when you started working at that filthy food truck.”
“It’s not filthy!”
“The girls at the country club told me I had you on too loose a leash to let you work there, but I trusted you.” She draws herself up full height, her silk robe gleaming. “You will never see that girl again, Danielle.”
“Sage?” My heart plummets. “But it’s not Sage’s fault!”
“I will nip this in the bud before you disgrace all of us,” she continues, raising her voice to drown mine out. “You will never, ever see her again. Do you hear me?”
The word hits me like a punch to the stomach. Never see Sage again? Ever?
“And you will quit that job,” she adds, “effective immediately. You’ll work somewhere respectable, where I can keep an eye on you.”
“But—but it’s my job!” I try to argue, my voice cracking. Quit the Magic Pumpkin? It’s one of the only things I ever fought to have. One of the only things I got by myself—one of the only things I could get by myself. “I earned it! I like that job!”
“I can’t trust you, Danielle,” my stepmother says, “and if I can’t trust you, you don’t deserve what I give you.”
“All I did was go to the convention my dad built!” I blink back the tears burning at the edge of my eyes. “And it’s my con too! I went because he’s my father! He’s mine! I finally I felt like he’d be proud of me—why can’t you?”
Catherine crosses her arms. “I can’t be proud of a daughter who lies to me.”
“Daughter? You never let me do anything! You’ve punished me for—for I don’t know what! For years!” Tears burn my cheeks. “Why do you hate me?”
“Hate you?” She blinks slowly, as if it’s the most absurd thing she’s ever heard. “Danielle, I don’t hate you.”
I clench my jaw. “You sure haven’t acted like it. All I ever wanted from you was one thing—just one. I wanted you to be proud of me. Like you’re proud of Cal and Chloe. I just…” I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to stop the tears. I hate crying, but I can’t stop. “I just wanted—wanted you to love me, too.”
I put my face into the crook of my elbow, stifling my sobs. The mascara and glitter and all the good things from the con rub off onto my skin, leaving wet streaks.
When I finally manage to look up, Catherine’s blue eyes are glittering in the foyer light. She doesn’t respond for a long moment.
Finally, she tilts her head, smiling like she’s trying to be gentle. “I’ve tried to love you, sweetie, but you make it so hard.”
My sobs c
atch in my throat.
“Your obsession isn’t healthy,” she says briskly. “It wasn’t healthy for your father either, living in a world of make-believe. That’s all he ever did. That’s all he ever was. It was only ever you, and him, and Starfield. And I hate how much you are like him.”
My arm drops away and I stare at her, trying to see the lie behind the cream makeup and dark mascara, but her lips are set in a thin line and her eyes are dark, and I don’t think she’s lying.
“There were just so many things I wanted to change about him,” she says. “And you.”
“Change? To what?” I ask, my mouth running before I can stop it. “To the perfect daughter? To some cookie-cutter version of you? To someone you think is acceptable and worthy of your love? Why do I have to prove to you that I’m worthy?”
“Danielle, I only want what’s best for you—”
“No, you want what’s best for you!” I snap, my voice rising. “You never wanted me, admit it! I’m a burden. After Dad died, that’s all I was. And if you hate me for being like him, fine, but I’m the best parts of my father. He raised me to fight for what I believe in and to be a good person—and he raised me to see the best in other people!” My voice is so loud, it’s cracking. “But I let you trample over all the good things he gave me. But not today—today at the con, for the first time I felt like I belonged somewhere. And that’s more than I’ve ever felt here! In my own parents’ house! The one you’re selling!”
Her eyes narrow. “Starfield isn’t real, Danielle. The sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”
Of course it’s not real. I know it’s not real. It’s just as fake as the Styrofoam props they use and the cardboard sets and the tinny laser sounds and the ice cream machines they try to disguise as “data cores”—I know it’s all fake. But those characters—Carmindor, Princess Amara, Euci, and even the Nox King—they were my friends when everyone in the real world passed around rumors behind my back, called me weird, shoved me into lockers, and baited me into thinking I was beautiful only to push me away just before we kissed. They never abandoned me. They were loyal, honorable, caring, and smart.
But I realize that trying to explain Starfield to Catherine is like trying to explain the sky to an anglerfish. Because she’s none of those things, and never will be.