I slam the door.
The hallway’s quiet, white and immaculate like a lot of these new-age hotels. The hallway actually reminds me of the Seaside set, stark white walls with halogen lighting. Empty. Except the set was fake and I could pull back the plywood that made up most of our “houses” and peek at the tech guys behind them. Here, I can’t get away from it.
There isn’t a vending machine on my floor, so I take the stairwell down to the tenth, and then the ninth. By the eighth floor, still no vending machine, but no people, either. At this point, the less people in my life, the better.
On the seventh-floor landing, though, I hear voices. I quickly press myself against the side of the wall as they get louder, drawing near the stairwell. I sink down on the bottom step of the landing, and there I sit, waiting for them to leave.
Maybe they’re just regular people. Maybe they won’t recognize me. Or maybe I’m crazily paranoid. Long story short, there are people like my dad who want to channel your fame and help you rise to the top. Then there are people like Brian, who take damning pictures of you when you invite them to visit the set and sell them to TMZ. That’s what hurt, more than the yacht fall. And no, despite what the “IS SEASIDE COVE’S DARIEN FREEMAN IN A FREEFALL?” article said, I wasn’t drunk, or high, or tripping on anything besides my own feet. It wasn’t some publicity stunt.
And yes, I have a scar to prove it.
I put my face in my hands, getting impatient. All I wanted was an Orange Crush. Just one. It’s been a day. I deserve one.
I do.
Getting to my feet, I pull my hoodie over my head and wrench open the stairwell door and—slam into one of the guys loitering in the hallway. There’s three of them, one girl. My age, maybe a year or two younger. Tourists, by their sandals and backpacks.
“Sorry,” I mutter, and duck my head as I pass.
Don’t recognize me, don’t recognize me, I pray. These days, when everyone’s got a jillion-megapixel camera in their pocket, you don’t even have to worry about official paparazzi. Why couldn’t I live during the days of flip phones?
Phones. My hand goes to my pocket—empty. I turn around. The tourists are still there.
“Hey, dude,” one of them calls.
I turn back around, go in the other direction, speed up.
“Wait a sec!” the girl adds, a slight tilt to her words. French, or Canadian. Of course the girl would be the one to recognize me. I hear her start running down the hallway toward me. “Hey—hey, dude, you dropped your phone.”
She holds it out and I take it, trying not to look her in the eye without seeming rude.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She frowns. “You look really familiar—”
“I get that a lot,” I reply, and quickly spin on my heels again, making my exit down the hallway.
“Weird guy,” one of her friends murmurs.
“Whatever, it’s New York. Everyone’s weird.”
Yeah, understatement. They keep talking and I force myself not to listen as I follow the signs toward the snack machines. I push open the door and the iridescent lights of the soda machine shine eerily in the dark room. Bingo. I don’t bother to turn on the lights as I dig into my pockets for spare change and pop the coins into the machine.
“Take that, luck,” I mutter, pressing the button for orange soda.
OUT reads the machine display.
I jab it again.
OUT.
OUT.
OUT.
“Nox’s crack, come on,” I plead, jabbing the button with the fervor of a man on death row.
Sighing, I opt for water instead, and the vending machine groans as it operates, rolling out a sparkling bottle of nothingness. Have you ever noticed how vending machines are never out of water?
I lean against the wall, taking a swig. I don’t want to go back to the room yet, but I also don’t want to pass that group of friends again, and they’re between me and both the stairwell and the elevator.
If I had friends, or a girlfriend—there’s a hilarious idea—now’s when I’d fire off a text message to catch up, say hey, complain about my day. I settle on the vending-machine-room floor and idly thumb through my messages from the bottom up, contact after contact after contact. A few odd texts with the Seaside cast from last March, but I was never close with them—they’re all, like, twenty-five and on the opposite coast. Then some with the Seaside publicist, my publicist Stacey, Gail, Mark…all people I work for, or people who work for me.
I’m not lonely. I’m not, I swear.
Then, at the top, there’s that wrong number. The chimichanga girl—or guy, I guess, but for some reason I assumed it was a girl.
I sip my soulless water. There’s no reason to text the number again. Absolutely none. But I’m bored, and I’m stuck, and my fingers type up a quick message and hit SEND before my head can catch up.
I ROLL OVER ON THE BED, taking my phone out of my back pocket, and slide my thumb across the cracked screen to the message.
It’s the stranger. Well, the cosplayer. Carmindor.
Unknown 9:42 PM
—How were those chimichangas?
I chew on my lip. This guy could be a stalker. Or some weird old geezer with a Carmindor fetish. Or just someone who wants to know about Mexican food on my spaceship el pumpkin.
9:47 PM
—Very vegan.
—Did you get in contact with who you were looking for?
Unknown 9:48 PM
—Sadly not.
—Haven’t had time to track them down.
I sit up. The convention was a part of me I walled off after Dad died. I didn’t want to be a part of it, didn’t want to walk in through those glass doors and almost see Dad standing in the lobby, Carmindor coat starched, starwings gleaming. Besides, the people at ExcelsiCon haven’t been much in contact with me either. Pretty much dropped me cold turkey after Dad died. Some community that was.
But Dad always believed in helping everyone no matter what. In being kind and going the distance. I wish I was half the person he was, but he always said he learned it from Mom. So if Mom was kindness and Dad was half of her, what did that leave me? A quarter?
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I reply, wondering why I’m making an exception.
9:48 PM
—Maybe I can help?
—Although the REAL Carmindor doesn’t give excuses, you know.
Unknown 9:48 PM
—What do you call episode 26?
9:48 PM
—Uh, he was mind-warped by a Nox?? Please.
—Unless I’m wrong and you’d like to set me straight, your Federation highness.
Unknown 9:48 PM
—Somehow correcting you about Starfield feels like a bad idea.
—As I tend to have.
9:50 PM
—You wouldn’t be Carmindor without your bad ideas.
—…No offense.
Unknown 9:51 PM
—None taken. I pity the poor galaxy that falls under my rule.
—Muha. Ha.
—So…you’re a Stargunner?
9:51 PM
—I bleed Federation blood.
—You?
Unknown 9:52 PM
—Born from the Brinx Devastation itself. I promise-swear.
—m/
Like I believe his promise-sworn…whoever he is. Lightning cracks across the sky again, closer this time. I wait to hear thunder. One-one thousand. Two-two thousand. Three-three thousand…Then it comes, slow and soft like a song.
Dad always liked thunderstorms. The way it rattled the house, like a heart rattling in a ribcage.
Unknown 9:59 PM
—Can I ask you a weird question?
10:00 PM
—Uh…I guess??
Unknown 10:00 PM
—What do you think of the new Carmindor?
Uh-oh. I think back to my blog post. My viral blog post. I’d lie to him if I said anything other than what was absolutely true
.
10:00 PM
—You mean Darien Freeman?
Unknown 10:00 PM
—Yeah.
I tilt my head back to watch the storm roll in out the window. I could link him to my blog post, but chances are if he’s a Stargunner he already knows my feelings. Or the author’s feelings. That no matter the universe, Darien Freeman will never be Carmindor. Instead, I decide to stall.
10:01 PM
—Why, are you a Seaside Cove fan?
Unknown 10:01 PM
—Please, give me Gilmore Girls. Coffee. Quick wit.
—So you don’t think he can pull it off?
—Darien, I mean.
I don’t know why I say what I do next. I guess because if he’s asking, he genuinely likes the casting.
10:01 PM
—I…think if he tries, maybe he could do it.
—I mean, that’s what Carmindor would do. Try. Even when the odds seem hopeless.
—But who knows if Darien Freeman cares enough to try.
Unknown 10:01 PM
—So you DO think he’ll be good? As a fan?
10:01 PM
—Can I take a rain check on that answer?
Unknown 10:01 PM
—Depends. How long’s the rainstorm?
I look out the window, at the water whipping through the night sky. Never ending, I want to say. But instead I reply:
10:02 PM
—Until he does something to change my mind, I guess.
—Show he’s going to try.
MARK’S STILL SITTING WHERE I LEFT HIM, sipping on his beer. He lifts an eyebrow as soon as I slip back through the door.
“So the prodigal son returns,” he says in greeting. “Cooled your jets?”
“Yeah, they’re cool.” I sit down opposite him in the room’s sitting area. His thumbs fly across his antique Blackberry, the clicks on the keyboard eating up the silence between us. I tap my half-empty water bottle against my thigh, thumping out the Starfield theme.
If Stargunners want me to prove that I’m their Carmindor, that I’m one of them—even after missing the ah’blena question on Hello, America, which I’m sure will come back to haunt me—then I have to be a fan. And there’s only one way I know how to be a fan.
There will be people like Fishmouth and that guy from the cafeteria and whoever blogs at Rebelgunner who scream so loud it’s hard to hear anything else. But then there’ll be people like the person on the other end of those texts, whispering in a steady cadence. Those are the people I signed the contract for. Because I know what that’s like. Starfield was there for me when my shitty parents and my shitty friends weren’t. That’s why I took this job. Because I’m a fan.
“I’ll do the con,” I say.
He glances up from his Blackberry. “You will?”
“I just said so.”
He begins to stand up. “Great! I’m glad to hear it—”
I put up a hand. “On one condition.”
He sits back. “Of course. Are you sure it’s not two? Three?” He flicks his eyes to the ceiling—almost rolling them, but not quite. “Well, what is it?”
Here goes. Aim. Ignite. “I want to help judge the cosplay contest. I don’t just want to be some aloof movie star posing for photos. I want to be part of this fandom.”
“Part of the…what? Fandom?” Dad’s too-smooth forehead gets the tiniest crease—his expression at its most emotional. “It’s not on brand, Darien.”
“Please, just this once. To show I’m one of them.”
“But you’re not.”
I purse my lips. “I’ll be there already. We could make it on brand.”
Mark shifts in his chair and I can tell he’s doing some mental calculus. Would Chris Pine condescend to judge a costume contest? Would Chris Evans? Chris Hemsworth?
“It would be hard,” he says at last.
“But if you’ll just let me—”
“But.” He holds up a finger to stop me. “I think we can make it work. And ExcelsiCon will be more than happy to agree to that.” He takes another sip of beer. “Yeah…yeah I think we can make it on brand. Keep you front and center. You’re a genius.”
I don’t like the look that slowly slides across his face, half smug, half scheming. What is he thinking up? I’m not sure I want to know. Still—he didn’t say no. For once I got through.
“Thanks,” I say.
And for a moment, I almost add Dad.
I dON’T KNOW WHEN I FINALLY FALL ASLEEP after the last text message, but I know exactly when I wake up.
“Danielle!” my stepmother snaps as she yanks the covers off me. “Danielle, get up!”
“Whaaa…,” I murmur, and wince when she shines a flashlight into my face.
Hard rain pounds against the window as zigzags of lightning flash across the sky. I squint at the clock, but it’s completely dark. The storm must’ve knocked out power. The howl of the wind almost drowns out her words—almost—but Catherine would never allow something to be louder than she is.
“Get up!” she roars, barely giving me a chance to take in her hair in fat foam rollers and her ridiculous silk bathrobe before she yanks me out of bed by the arm. I rub the sleep from my eyes and stumble after her, her nails digging into my forearm until she lets me go at the end of the hallway.
“What’s wrong?”
She jabs her pink-polished claw upward. I blink sleepily. A dark stain is spreading across the ceiling. My heart sinks. A leak. In the attic. “I thought I told you to fix it last time!”
Down the hall, the twins peek out of their bedroom. Great. Now we have an audience.
“Can’t you do anything right?” she fumes, folding her arms over her chest, where her bathrobe has a few wet splotches. It must be leaking into her room or else she wouldn’t have bothered waking me up.
“I did,” I mutter. It’s not like it matters. Isn’t she selling the house anyway? “The wind must’ve knocked the shingles loose again—”
“Apparently you didn’t.” She glares at me as I shift from one foot to the other. “Well?”
I glance over at her, confused.
She jabs her finger toward the ceiling again. “Get up there and fix it!”
I blanch. “Now?”
“Before it gets worse!” she cries, and hands me a flashlight. “First your attitude this evening and now this. Honestly, Danielle, you’re lucky I am being this forgiving.”
Half of me wants to tell her it’s absolutely bonkers for me to go searching for a leak in the middle of the night during a storm. And I have work early tomorrow morning—they don’t.
“Now, you are going to crawl up there and stop the leak. And I think you should pay for the damages, don’t you? I can’t very well sell a house like this.”
My mouth falls open. “That makes no sense! This could have happened to any house—it’s a freaking thunderstorm!”
“Oh? And did the thunderstorm forget to repair the leak the first time?”
I clamp my mouth shut. How the hell do you argue with crazy?
“That’s what I thought,” Catherine replies, and then turns on her heels swiftly and stalks back to her room. “Go back to bed, girls. Danielle is taking care of it.”
The twins look at each other and close the door. Sighing, I reach for the string and pull down the stairs until the dark mouth of the attic yawns open above me. I shine the flashlight into the darkness to banish the ghosts and climb up.
Even though I’ve lived in this house my whole life, the attic feels forbidden. My entire childhood home feels like a stranger now, just like the Federation Prince felt after being rescued from the Nox. Familiar, but foreign. No longer how I remembered. No more tabletop games in the living room. No more swords and shields above the mantel. When Dad married Catherine he boxed it all away, and when Dad died she donated everything. Erased the last bit of history that belonged to me. Or tried to. You can’t erase a house, or the stories in the walls.
But Catherine found a way a
round that, I guess. You can sell it instead.
The attic is hot, dark, and damp. There’s definitely a leak somewhere. But there’s also a surprising amount of clutter, which, on second thought, makes total sense. It’s just like Catherine to be a secret pack rat—“perfect” house below, all her broken-down junk stuffed up here out of sight.
I shine the light across the plastic bins that are stacked to the gabled ceiling as a clap of thunder rattles the house. I jump, my heart ballooning in my throat. The rain is pounding so hard, it sounds as if water is seeping in everywhere. How in the world am I supposed to find a leak in a downpour?
I crawl across the plywood floorboards, quietly scooting aside cardboard boxes labeled WINTER CLOTHES and BABY TOYS, searching for wet areas. The wood gets damper the farther I crawl.
This is ridiculous. Look at me—creeping through an attic in the middle of the night searching for a leak. I’m not sure how I’m going to stop it if I do find one. Maybe just shout at it until it does something. Works for Catherine.
A shadowy box pushed into the corner catches my eye. The glint of an iron hinge. I shine my flashlight on it. A trunk. No—no, not just any trunk. I remember this trunk. From a long time ago. A faded memory, old.
I crawl up and put the end of the flashlight in my mouth and dig my fingernails under the lock. My hands are shaking. The lock pops open, unnaturally loud against the rain pelting the roof. Another roll of thunder vibrates the rafters as I push up the lid, the flashlight illuminating a beautiful blue jacket.
I remember the fabric before I even touch it. I remember how it feels, and how it rustled when Dad walked, trailing like a cape. Dad’s Federation Prince cosplay. I pull on the jacket, unveiling it inch by inch as though I’m easing it back into existence.
Slowly, half afraid it’ll turn to dust, I slip it on.
The coat’s too big, of course. The buttons need to be resewn, the tassels rethreaded. I turn my nose into the collar, inhale. It still smells like him too, mixed with the starch he used on the coattails.