by Eric Smith
“It’s a public place, Beks.” The words feel just as hollow and fake as the ones I tried to say in her counseling session. That I’m fine. That it’ll be okay. Because I’m just as worried as she is. About the appearance. About our plan. “They aren’t actually going to do any of that. Besides, I jacked up my speaker fee, and for some crazy reason, the convention folks agreed. It’ll cover what we need for my mom’s last class. I’ll be able to register for a course or two at County. I’ll be free. From all of this.”
I force a smile and sweep my hands around and into the air. “It’ll be my grand public sign-off. The end of the great D1V!”
Rebekah starts crying.
“Aw, come on, everyone in here is going to think I’m breaking up with you,” I tease.
“Sh-shut up,” Rebekah sputters out, a laugh mixing with the tears. She wipes at her face. “Besides, you kinda are. I’ll miss our stream.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like that,” I remind her. “We’ll still stream together for fun and hang out and game all the time.”
“I know. But I’m allowed to be worried about you. I’m allowed to be scared.”
“You are. You absolutely are,” I say, recognizing the words I know she learned in therapy. “But I can’t let these people think they’re in control of me. I won’t let them have this hold over me. I just won’t.”
Rebekah nods.
“Any word from Aaron?” she asks, looking off to the side, like she’s trying not to have this conversation.
“No,” I tell her. “But that’s not entirely unexpected. He doesn’t really have a way to reach me. I kind of want to wait until all this is over to talk to him, anyway. You know?”
“He might be worried about you,” she points out, and I swear, it’s as though the words are physically hurting her to say out loud. She grits her teeth as I give her a look. “Stop it. I care about you, so... I guess...by some weird osmosis... I care about him, too.”
“So it’s just science?”
“Just science.”
I suddenly remember that I do have his email. At least, his game email from Reclaim the Sun. It would be easy, really. A quick, “Hello, I’m okay,” using someone else’s account while mine is down. Maybe make a new one, a guest account. But I want this finished first. I mean, I found his home address all too easily when I wanted to send him the VR headset. Surely the trolls could find him, too.
I want to keep him safe.
I change the subject. “By the way, I talked to Detective Watts, and you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” I say. Rebekah immediately looks up at me, aghast and glaring.
“Oh hell no,” she says emphatically. “You don’t get to go without me, do this without me, and leave me an anxiety-filled mess at home. I’m there. We are in this. What’s her plan, anyway?”
“Yeah, about that—”
A couple of college kids walk by, blatantly staring. They both have retro video game shirts on, Space Invaders and Centipede. They whisper to each other as they pass our table, glancing back at us over their shoulders.
I pull the sunglasses off.
“Damn it,” I mutter. “Maybe I should dye my hair. Or cut it. I should cut it.”
“Please, that would break your mom’s heart,” Rebekah protests, shaking her head.
“We’re a family used to such things,” I say, staring at Rebekah’s hair.
Blood orange.
That could work.
I pull out my phone and scroll to Detective Watts’s number. I stare at the screen for a beat, taking a deep breath.
“Div?” Rebekah ventures.
“It’s just...” I bite my lip. “Once we do this, there’s no going back, you know?”
“I don’t. You haven’t told me what’s going on.” Rebekah snorts. “You act like we’re going to war.”
I look up at her.
“We are.”
* * *
The bell on the door chimes, and I glance up, spotting Detective Watts looking around the café. I raise my hand and wave at her.
“Wow, you weren’t lying about the Misty Knight–esque detective,” Rebekah whispers. “She’s so cool.”
“You be cool,” I whisper back, grinning.
Detective Watts strolls over, a small scowl on her face as she weaves around chairs and tables, finding her way to ours. She grabs a chair and pulls it out, the metal making a sharp squeal against the hardwood floor, and takes a seat.
“Do you want anything?” I ask.
“Hi, I’m Rebekah!” my friend pipes up, looking a bit awed.
Oh my God, Beks.
“I’m good,” Detective Watts says, her eyes still scanning our surroundings. “The names for the places you and your friends hang out, I swear. Couldn’t we have just gone to Starbucks?”
“What’s wrong with Brew-ti-ful?” I ask with an innocent smile. We decided to relocate for our meeting with the detective, and the café, situated fairly close to Rebekah’s campus, also doubles as an art gallery. It’s a good place for an open mic, a cup of coffee, or to sit down and plot out the downfall of a cyber mob.
At least, in my opinion.
“I can think of several things.” She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. Her eyes flit over to Rebekah. “Are you okay?”
“Hmm? Yeah!” she exclaims, nodding vigorously.
“Okay, well...” Detective Watts pulls out her phone and a little notebook from inside her jacket. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” I exhale.
“Great.” She looks back and forth from me to Beks. “Here’s the plan.”
20
AARON
“Pass the red pepper?” my dad asks from across the kitchen table. I grab the little shaker and hand it over to him, watching as he douses his pizza slices with the stuff, to the point where I’m convinced his pizza is going to make a crunching sound when he bites into it. The layer of pepper flakes coating the cheese looks like chain mail armor.
I stare as he takes a giant bite, closes his eyes in contentment. As if he can feel my stare, he waves a finger and says, “Don’t you judge.”
“I’m not, I’m not,” I say, even though I am. For the pizza. For the game and the digital archive of letters. His secrets.
I look over at Mom, who’s busy cutting up pieces of pizza into smaller triangles for Mira, who sits there and pouts over it. Her arms are crossed as my mom presents each tiny slice to her.
“Come on, Mira,” my mom nudges, pushing the little pieces closer to her.
“Why can’t I have big slices?” Mira whines. “I’m big enough.”
“She probably is,” Dad comments. There’s a little sweat on his forehead, and I can’t help but smirk. Despite the years of over-seasoning, he can’t fool me. The red pepper does have an effect on him. “Let her try a big slice.”
“Fine,” my mom says with a sniff. She takes a slice out of the box and places it in front of Mira, who gleefully picks it up and squeals as the cheese slides off the slice and onto her lap. Mom levels a glare at Dad, whose mouth is tightly shut, holding back a laugh.
“I’m...sor...ry...” he sputters out before laughing uproariously. Mira joins in, clapping, and a soft smile sneaks its way onto Mom’s face.
I roll my eyes and grab another slice of pizza while Mom fusses over Mira, picking cheese off her lap and taking the cheeseless slice for herself.
“Dad, I hate to ask this, but...” I glance over at my mom, who looks up at me, her eyes narrowed, and I know this is going to end up being a thing. “Look, there’s this event in the city tomorrow, and I really need to go. It’s for my writing. I know it’s last-minute.”
“Writing. I think you mean video games,” Mom says sternly.
“I’d argue it’s the same thing,” Dad says, shrugging.
“GamesCon
,” I continue, surprised by my dad’s defense. “There’s a video game showcase and all, yes. But I need to be there to ask questions of people who work in the industry, about writing for games.”
“Hmm, isn’t that something you can do through email?” he asks, taking another bite of his red pepper–crusted pizza.
Email. I try not to glare.
“Or at college?” he adds.
“There’s...” I exhale. “There’s a girl.”
My mom drops the fork and knife she’s been fussing with, the silverware clattering on the table.
“Oooooh,” Mira coos.
“Really now?” My dad grins, laying his slice of pizza down. His puts his elbows on the table, glancing over at my mom and back at me. “Alright, you can go. I’ll handle the office.”
“This is not the way to teach him responsibility!” my mom protests. “What are these games preparing him for?” She turns to me with a determined expression. “If you go, you’re fired.”
“Great!” I exclaim. “It’s not like I wanted the job, anyway!” Hurt flashes across her face, and I sigh. “I just don’t understand why you’re so against all this.”
“Because I don’t want them taking advantage of you!” my mom shouts, and then turns to Mira quickly, flashing her an apologetic look. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” She glances back at me. “Aaron, we’ve had this conversation before. That boy, that studio, still hasn’t paid you, right?”
“Well—” I start.
“When your father was working in his restaurants, you know what would happen sometimes?”
“Darling, you don’t have to—” my dad tries to chime in.
“No, we’re talking about this now,” my mom insists. “Sometimes he would be working well past his time, and they’d say he would get paid, but he wouldn’t. Or on holidays, when he was supposed to get overtime? He never did. Just empty promises again and again.”
I look at my dad, who shakes his head and looks down at his plate.
“Dad?” I venture.
“It’s true.” He clears his throat. “Your mom doesn’t want these people taking advantage of you the way they...took advantage of me.” His eyes meet mine. “Sometimes, when people know you really need something, they’ll hold it over you. To control you. It’s their way of pushing you around, without really doing what they promised.”
“The work for Jason is just... It was supposed to build my résumé. If I get a real job, in an office at a studio, that sort of thing won’t happen,” I say hopefully. “Right?”
My mom looks at my dad, her mouth a thin line.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
“Aaron, I’ve read enough about game studios and the career you’re pushing toward to know a bit better. That is what happens.” She stands up and walks over to me, placing her hands on my shoulders. “I just want what’s best for you. I don’t want...”
She looks at my dad and winces.
“She doesn’t want you turning out like me,” Dad says, shrugging. “What? That’s what you were going to say.”
My mom leans over and kisses him on the forehead.
“I was going to be a bit more delicate than that.” She returns to her seat. “We can circle back to this later. Why don’t you tell us about this girl?”
My mom smiles, and Mira gives me a mischievous look. My dad squeezes my arm and slaps me on the back, and I can’t help but let out a little laugh.
“The, um. The girl. She’s only there on Friday,” I say, not wanting to get into too many details. All I need is Mom putting two and two together and figuring out I’m off to see D1V, the girl she wants me to avoid because she’s afraid of what people will find when they google me.
“Okay,” my dad says, “well, I can take over for—”
Our front door swings open with a crash, and Ryan tumbles into our living room.
My entire family shifts in our seats to look at him, and he scans the living room quickly, eventually spotting us on the opposite side of the room, in the adjoining dining room.
“Ryan!” my mom exclaims. “Are... Are you okay?”
“Hey, Mrs. Jericho, yeah I’m fine, I—”
She turns, glaring at me. “Someone didn’t tell me we were having company.” She looks back up at him. “Come over here, we’ve got plenty of pizza left.”
“I didn’t—” I start, but Ryan hurries over, looking harried and panicked.
“You weren’t answering your phone,” he pants, taking deep breaths, his voice high-pitched. He glances at my parents. “Evening Mr. Jericho, Mrs. Jericho. Sorry, but... Aaron. You have to see this.”
He pulls out his monster of a smartphone, which is practically the size of a tablet, and taps something on the screen. He hands the phone to me.
I almost drop it on the table.
It’s a post on ManaPunk’s website—the one that I wrote all the copy for and penned all the blogs for, by the way. The news update is all about their upcoming appearance at GamesCon’s Indie Game Showcase, featuring the game Ryan and I had worked so hard on and promptly been fired from.
Stop by ManaPunk’s booth to try out the next indie RPG hit, THUNDERTAIL. With stunning artwork, beautiful music, gorgeous prose, and unique, innovative gameplay that blends a randomly generated dungeon crawler with a powerful narrative, it’s the next level in indie role-playing games! We’ll have plenty of swag to give away, so you can show off your excitement for the game at home!
All the artwork in the post was clearly from Ryan, the finished illustrations and the like. And that post, that copy—I’d written that. I mean, I couldn’t care less about the actual blog post; it was just a blog post, after all.
But that gorgeous prose bit? That was mine.
Fury fills me. “I can’t believe he used your art without permission,” I tell him.
“It’s the stuff I gave him that day in the café. And it gets worse,” Ryan says, scrolling down some more. After the line break on the blog, there’s a link to purchase posters of the finished illustrations, in full color.
“You have got to be kidding me!” I exclaim.
Ryan looks at my family nervously. “Mind if I steal him away for a second?”
“You already have,” my mom grumbles.
“Excuse me,” I say quickly. I dart off with Ryan into the living room and up the stairs to my room, where he scrolls all the way down past the event details and the poster links.
It’s a video.
A trailer for the video game.
He clicks it, and the voice-over starts. In addition to all the familiar graphics and artwork in the game, the voice that’s speaking...it’s reading my words. My introduction to the game, my prologue. The beginning that I wrote. The characters I spent so many hours trying to breathe life into appear on the screen, renders of Ryan’s artwork, speaking the words I’d written. A story Jason said he hated and tore apart time and time again.
Here it is.
It’s this weird mixture of pure excitement and joy blended with crushing disappointment and anger. Jason fired us. Both of us. He didn’t pay us anything for any of this, and yet here it is in the game, in this demo he’s going to use to try to sell his new title to a bigger publisher at the showcase.
“I’ve been emailing and calling him and Laura all day,” Ryan says, taking the phone back and sliding it into his pocket. “Nothing. And you know the two of them are glued to their phones at all times.”
“They’re not answering on purpose,” I say slowly.
“Yup.”
There’s a pause, a beat in our conversation.
“So...what do we do?” I ask.
He pulls out two tickets for GamesCon. For Friday.
Tomorrow.
“It was sold out,” Ryan says, waving the tickets, “but I found these for sale on Facebook this morning.
We got lucky—it’s not like we can rely on our former exhibitor badges. Something tells me they aren’t going to be waiting for us at registration.”
There’s a sense of elation in my chest, swirling about with a sinking feeling of...well, feeling foolish. What was I going to do tomorrow? Just show up, demand to be let in to an event that’s been sold out for months? Ask for my exhibitor badge, when chances are Jason got rid of it a long time ago or gave it to someone else? I didn’t even know if Jason was planning to give us badges in the first place, not that it mattered now.
“We’re going,” Ryan says, handing me a ticket. “You and me. Save our world, save your girl?”
“She’s not my—” He shoves me. “Hey!”
“For a writer, you really don’t have any kind of flair for the dramatic, you know.” He plucks the ticket out of my hand. “I’ll hold on to these—you pack. Résumés, business cards, all that fun stuff for when we’re done disrupting society. We’re heading there first thing in the morning. What time is her panel?”
“I’m not sure.” I shrug, trying to look casual.
“Are you really trying to convince me that you don’t have the time and panel location memorized or tattooed on your body somewhere?” Ryan asks, eyebrows raised.
“It’s at 11:00,” I say, somewhat sheepishly.
“Perfect. We get there, confront Jason, and then?” He gives me a pointed look. “What exactly do you have planned during D1V’s panel? I mean, if there are some trolls there to cause trouble and heckle, we can’t exactly beat them up or anything.”
“Uhhh...” I think for a moment, remembering that saying D1V seems so fond of.
Don’t read the comments.
“I’ve got a pretty dumb idea,” I say.
“Of course you do.” Ryan grins and pulls me in for a hug.
* * *
After I finish packing, I head downstairs to do the dinner dishes. I’m scraping pizza cheese off a plate when I feel someone’s eyes on me. I glance over my shoulder and see my dad hovering in the doorway, looking pensive and awkward.
“Hey,” I say, turning back to the sink, peeling a piece of mozzarella off in a long, terribly satisfying pull. I flick it at the garbage disposal, and toss the plate into a bin of soapy water. “Thanks for, um, helping back there. With Mom.”