Girls Save the World in This One

by Ash Parsons

  He’s so cool.

  Then it’s a scene where Clay’s running, sliding under a parked eighteen-wheeler, and moments later there’s shuffling zombie feet all around him and it’s intense. It’s so intense, but you can’t always fight.

  The lights come up, and Michaela Robinson walks out onstage. The bright blue of her dress pops under the stage lights and against the dark brown of her skin. Her signature long dreadlocks are pulled into a low ponytail.

  Michaela’s the host of the post-show that airs every week right after Human Wasteland. She’s perhaps the biggest fan out of all of us, completely freaking out over every surprise story development, and talking fan-theories at length with the cast or show writers she has on every week.

  We all scream in excitement and welcome.

  “Hello, Senoybia!” Michaela yells into the walk-around mic. “You lucky town! How many locals are here?”

  We scream, and it’s a vocal, super-excited minority. Most people are from neighboring towns, or even Atlanta.

  “Yeah! I see you! I think the whole town is here today!”

  We cheer again, and I spot Blair, sitting front and center in the third row, the VIP reserved section.

  Ugh.

  But once I see her it’s hard not to. So I reflexively look to see who’s sitting next to her. On one side it’s an older guy I don’t recognize, and on the other side it’s a lady.

  Huh.

  I wonder where Scott—

  Nope. Nope. No.

  I’m about to see Hunter Sterling. I am not thinking about Blair and Scott.

  “You’ve just seen the highlights of one of my favorite characters, and he must be yours, too, because here you are! And so without further ado—let’s just bring him out. Ladies and gentlemen, and others . . .” She winks out at us, and since we got such good seats we can see it, but even the people in the back can see it, too, because there’s a camera stand in the middle of the ballroom, broadcasting a simulcast close-up onto the huge screen hanging over the stage.

  “Please give a wake-the-dead welcome to HUNTER! STERLING!” Michaela yells.

  Rock music plays, heavy guitars and snapping percussion, and he walks out, and oh my lord, he’s so gorgeous. I mean it. How is it legal for anyone to be that good-looking? It shouldn’t be possible.

  Unconsciously, I sigh, an actual cooing, silly damn sigh, but I can’t help it and honestly? There’s kinda a quiet whooshing sound, and I don’t think I imagined it, so we’re all doing it. All sighing, or catching our breath, or just gasping maybe.

  We’re thirsty. For oxygen.

  Hunter is impossibly gorgeous. His skin is white and his hair and eyebrows are nearly jet black. His eyelashes are so thick it’s practically indecent. He’s got a lanky slouch, and he moves with this amazing, boyish looseness. The kind of movement that is spontaneous but looks like a pose for a magazine shoot.

  Hunter stops a few times as he crosses the stage, holding up a hand to acknowledge us as we scream our heads off, and I swear to God he looks right at me, and he’s smiling that gorgeous half smirk that always manages to look both a little shy and completely sexy, and would you look at his cheekbones? And his jaw? And his light-green-hazel eyes? And I grab Siggy’s and Imani’s hands and we scream our heads off some more.

  “He looked right at you!” Imani yells in my ear.

  “HOTNESS!” Siggy shrieks at the stage, but Hunter has moved over to the sofa, so he probably can’t hear her.

  He gives a couple more waves, then sits down. Michaela hands him a mic.

  “Thanks, thank you,” Hunter says to us. So, we scream some more.

  Michaela waits a moment, then she starts speaking over the screams, and everyone gets quiet quickly, so as not to miss a thing.

  “Here we are, and this is your first session, and this is your first fan con, too, is that right?”

  “Yeah.” Hunter smiles out at us and it’s like he’s apologizing, showing us his nervousness, and that’s the quality I love about him as an actor, and in his role as Clay, because he’s got this openness, this vulnerability.

  It comes through, even when he’s stabbing a zombie in the eye with a screwdriver.

  “I mean, aside from Comic-Con, which the show does a whole big thing for, but like this? No, I haven’t.”

  He waves a hand, and I know exactly what he means.

  I want to tell him this is my first fan convention, too. We have that in common.

  But of course, what Michaela means is that all the other actors on the show, and tons of actors on other shows or from movies with big fandoms, well, they do this actual circuit of fan conventions. They just rake in the money, from autographs and photo sessions, and selling headshots. It’s wild to think about all the people they meet.

  But it’s awesome to think about all those people, too, all over the country, who love the same things that you do. Or who love other things, their things, as much as you love your thing. God bless fandom, forever and ever. Amen.

  “This is your first time to do meet and greets? To do photo sessions?” Michaela asks.

  “Yeah, so go easy on me, okay?” Hunter says, with that little, shy half smile, to us, and I promise myself right then and there, I promise myself in my heart, that I will be cool when I have my photo op. I will.

  It’s got to be a Special Memory, after all.

  6

  Michaela and Hunter have a little back-and-forth onstage about the show, about the fandom, about the best-part-of-the-show-so-far, and then Michaela says, “Okay, does anyone have a question?”

  And like a jackrabbit, I’m up, along with people all over the ballroom, even while Michaela and Hunter continue talking onstage.

  “Attagirl, get in there!” Imani whispers as I climb over her lap.

  Siggy whisper-cheer-screams for me as I’m climbing over laps like a hurdler, then I’m in the aisle hustling to the line already forming.

  I actually do have a question—it’s about something it felt like Hunter was almost going to say in an interview, but the interviewer moved on before he said it. The interviewer had asked why Hunter identifies with his character so much. Hunter had started in, his usual boilerplate answer about Clay’s vulnerability and toughness, but then he started to look contemplative and he said, “Clay’s a searcher, you know? And I feel like I’m searching, too.”

  And then the interviewer did not ask what Hunter is searching for! So that’s my question. That’s what I want to know. And I feel . . . an affinity toward that unanswered question. To the idea of searching, and to Hunter as a searcher, because sometimes I just get this yearning inside. Like a longing. Like I’m missing a part of myself, almost. This big, nameless feeling like there’s something out there in the world waiting just for me, somehow. And if I could figure out what it is then I wouldn’t be scared that I won’t ever find it. And I won’t be as scared about graduation, or what’s next, or any of it. Or if I still get scared sometimes, it won’t be as big, the not knowing, because I’ll know about this other part. This part that’s mine.

  Also, and this might be corny, okay, I admit that, but I feel like by asking my question, maybe I’ll let Hunter know that I recognized him in that moment, you know? That he’s not just an actor, not just a show pony, but a person with something to say.

  I don’t know. It’s ridiculous.

  I still want to know the answer.

  I’m the sixth person in line, but that’s okay, I saw online they usually take at least ten questions. And I also know from watching the sessions with some of the other actors that most of the questions are either about their personal lives, their pets (Hunter has a dog, a super-cute mutt named Best Rex, so I bet someone asks about him), or it’s not a question at all and is instead a fan wanting to talk about a show theory or something.

  Okay, yes, I spent a lot of time researching for this. L
ike, a lot. Hours, even. My dad said I should use my powers for good but he was just kidding, really.

  Since I’m the sixth in line that means I’m almost guaranteed to get to ask my question!

  Then I see a second mic in the next aisle, and I realize if they alternate, and if they stop at ten, I won’t get to ask my question

  But maybe, just maybe . . .

  Michaela starts cuing the stagehands holding the mics, and I’m listening but it’s kind of hard to hear over the thuds of my galloping heart. I’m inching forward, and no one has asked my question, and then they get to the eighth person.

  And she ruins it for everyone.

  “Hi, I love you. My question is . . . can I get a hug?”

  The reaction of the audience is split, one part groan of annoyance, and one part get it, girl.

  Hunter laughs and his hand comes up and pushes the hair down over his eyes, a nervous gesture, but he says, “Sure.” He hands his mic to Michaela and hops off the stage and trots up the aisle. The girl steps out in front of the mic a few steps, and Hunter is there, just a few feet in front of me, and he gives her a hug, a little awkward, bending down, but he smiles and he doesn’t hold her like he really resents it, he just gives her a quick squeeze, and she asks to take a selfie, and he does and—

  Fortune favors the bold, I guess.

  I am so jealous of her. And so mad at her.

  Hunter trots back up to the stage and everyone is screaming, and I see Hunter say something to Michaela, and he’s smiling, but then Michaela says something about what a great crowd we’ve been, and thanks so much for opening the con, Hunter. Hunter says, my pleasure, thanks, guys! And he waves and scoots off that stage fast before anyone can ask for another hug.

  It’s over. I didn’t get to ask my question. That’s it, there won’t be another chance. Photo ops move so fast I won’t be able to ask then, and besides I don’t want to monopolize the time because Siggy and Imani and I pooled all our money together for it.

  I didn’t get to ask my question.

  I still feel a little shaky from the adrenaline dump, and a little empty like a balloon drifting down to the floor.

  Onstage Michaela is saying don’t go far, the next event is a panel featuring some writers of the show, and after that is the zombie makeup team, don’t miss it—

  But all around me people are grabbing their things and making their way out, brushing past those of us who rushed out to get in line and are still standing in the aisle.

  Imani and Siggy are making their way toward me. Imani has my mini backpack slung over one shoulder.

  I’m struggling to keep from feeling furious at that girl, wondering if the session would have gone on longer, if I would have been able to ask my question, and also wondering if he smelled good and if that girl can die happy now that she got a selfie and a hug.

  Ugh.

  “Ugh,” Siggy says as they reach me.

  “Ugh.” Imani hands over my backpack and starts to lead the way out. “That’s so unfair!”

  “Yep,” I say, but they know how I feel already; they heard me practice my question all week.

  We step out into the airy hallway, and file onto the down escalator.

  “Okay, we’re not going to let that ruin our day but can I just say, that was so much BS.” Imani runs a hand over her side-sweep of wavy hair.

  “It was,” I agree. “I’m just gonna be in my emotions about it for a little bit more.”

  “We still have the photo op,” Siggy says. “Maybe you can ask your question then.”

  “Yeah,” Imani says.

  “That’s for all of us, though,” I say. “It’s okay, I promise.”

  I say it because I can see that they want to push the issue. They want to swear that they don’t mind and I should ask my question at the photo op.

  But the photo op isn’t about me asking my question. It’s just a quick moment, to memorialize our day, and beyond that our friendship (and how much we love Hunter and Human Wasteland), and I’m not going to change that.

  “The photo op is going to be great!” I continue. “I can’t wait until we’re all there together.”

  We step off the escalator and walk forward, past the floor-to-ceiling exterior window wall and around the volcanic rock waterfalls to the bottleneck forming at the center set of exhibit hall doors.

  “I just hope I can act cool during it, and not become a complete dork,” I say.

  “You are cool,” Imani says.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I roll my eyes at her.

  She thwaps my shoulder, laughing. “Stop that, young lady.”

  “June, you really are, you know.” Siggy adjusts the side-tie of her jumpsuit while we wait in line. “You’re cool and awesome and hilarious, too.”

  “Aw, stop.” I feel my eyes start to well up. “You’re fun and beautiful and you have such a free spirit, Siggy.”

  Imani gives a polite little cough. Ahem.

  I turn to her, smiling.

  “And you’re absolutely brilliant and loyal and your convictions are such a force for good, Imani,” I tell her.

  Imani loops an arm around me.

  “June, you’ve got the best sense of humor, you’re so smart no matter what you say, and you have the biggest heart of anybody I ever met.”

  “Stop, I’m gonna cry,” I say.

  “Too late,” Siggy says.

  “What are we gonna do next fall?” I ask.

  “I don’t want to think about it,” Siggy says.

  “We’ll talk all the time,” Imani reassures us.

  Siggy swipes her fingers under her eyes. “Aw hell, why don’t I ever have any Kleenex?”

  Imani hands us tissues out of her purse and even has to dab at her own eyes.

  We all stand in line, in our little trio, dabbing at our eyes and honking our noses and saying I love you guys so much and Stop talking, okay? I’m still crying and Siggy starts humming the theme from The Golden Girls and that gets us over the emotional hump.

  We inch forward, waiting to show our badges to the door guards. Behind us, there’s a ruckus, a person shouting “Whoa!” and laughter.

  I turn and there are two people in head-to-toe hazmat suits pushing through the crowd, holding up some kind of scanner, sweeping it at people.

  Imani laughs, and she lifts her phone for some pictures.

  “Weirdos,” Siggy laughs.

  “No, it’s cool!” I half wish I was cosplaying, but then decide I want to experience my first con as me.

  In front of us, two zombies, a man and woman, sink a little when they see the hazmat guys.

  “Ruh-roh, they’re coming for us,” the man zombie says, smiling at me. I guess because he heard me say the cosplayers were cool.

  “Don’t let them get you, babe,” the woman zombie replies. Her makeup is so cool. There’s a gaping bite mark in her neck, her skin looks positively necrotic, and her eyes are clouded with milky cataracts.

  “Wow, you guys look amazing,” I say. “Can we take a picture with you?”

  “Absolutely!” she says, so we get in the exhibit hall and slide to the side. I ask a man to take our photo, and the three of us act scared while the man and woman strike hungry-zombie poses at us.

  “Thanks! Have a great day!” Imani says. The man groans and makes these wet choking noises, and the woman lets her head fall forward as she starts shuffling away.

  The man stumbles after her, takes her arm, and steers her down the first aisle on the right.

  They hold hands, and stumble-shuffle away. People all around are laughing good-naturedly, taking pictures of the zombie couple.

  “True love, you guys,” Siggy says. “Till death do they part. And then not even then.”

  “Those sweet kids. I hope everything works out for them,” I say.

  “T
hey’re already dead,” Imani says. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  7

  We start wandering into the center of the massive exhibit hall, just wandering at first, then I remember our schedule and turn at the middle aisle to cross to what will be the biggest celebrity autograph line.

  “Wow, I feel like a rat in a maze,” Imani says.

  “Sure, but an awesome rat in an amazing maze!” I say.

  “Just as long as we don’t get shocked or anything,” Imani says.

  “Bad things happen in mazes,” Siggy groans in a creaky voice.

  I’ve never seen so many T-shirts, fan art posters and paintings, jewelry, and 1940s-style pinup dresses and pleated skirts made of comic-book-printed fabrics. There are books and comics tables, and so much more, we’ve barely scratched the surface of everything there is for sale.

  The aisles are separated not just by the rows of tables and shelving and display racks in each booth, but also by tall black curtains that act like a wall between rows of merchandise.

  On the ZombieCon! map the layout of the exhibit hall was styled to look like the Red Cross symbol, but with one wide center aisle bisecting multiple rows.

  In the middle of the exhibit hall where the center rows meet the center aisle, there’s a hub of sorts. It’s a large, elevated square stage surrounded by folding-chair rows and food and beverage carts with tall round standing-tables. When I find the hub, I can turn left to cross to the left wall of the hall, where the biggest star of the show will be for most of the day. The other show actors take shifts at nearby signing tables only, and the less famous, B-movie actors are at a separate signing area called Autograph Alley, which is on the opposite side of the exhibit hall.

  But I know from my research that the line for the lead actor, James Cooper, will only get longer as the day goes on, and since we don’t want to spend all day waiting for one autograph, our second stop of the day, and our first stop in the exhibit hall, is to go see if the line for James is still doable or not.