by Ash Parsons
We reach the hub. On the elevated stage are a few armchairs and stools, as well as a black-tablecloth-covered table with a mixing board, mics, and headsets. Throughout the day, fandom podcasters are going to be recording new shows with the cast and crew of Human Wasteland as well as the other horror genre actors and authors at ZombieCon!
There’s a schedule posted on a stand beside the stairs up to the hub stage. I pause to look at it in spite of myself. The podcaster schedule didn’t get finalized until this morning.
“Keep moving, June,” Siggy says.
“I am, I just want to make sure when to avoid it here.”
Scott’s show is on the schedule, in under an hour, at 9:00 a.m.—Wasteland Stans. Good to know.
Yep.
Good to know.
Feels good to know.
Yeah, knowing is great.
It doesn’t at all feel like my heart is shriveling into a dusty, dry bag of sawdust. Sawdust and shame.
Nope. Not at all.
I force a smile at the others.
Scott’s podcast doesn’t have a big following, but he scraped together the money to be on the roster and talked his way onto the stage.
Bully for Scott. I never said he wasn’t charming.
“Screw him.” Imani takes my arm again and turns me toward the next stop.
Siggy takes six steps in the opposite direction before realizing she’s going the wrong way and rushing to catch up with us.
“His obnoxious show would totally suck if it hadn’t been for all your ideas,” Siggy pants as she draws even with us.
“I’m not even thinking about it,” I lie.
We hustle across the hall to James’s signing area.
When we arrive he’s already up there signing. His security stands nearby, along with his assistants, taking cash, it’s all cash only, for the autograph. And they’re selling headshots and production stills, for anyone who hasn’t brought a specific thing for him to sign.
James’s autograph tables are on a platform, so we can watch as each autograph seeker approaches him.
Even though I know I’m here? And I know he’s here? I know that they’re all here?
I still experience an adrenaline dump. My heart judders and I have to take a few deep breaths.
James Cooper is right there. Captain Cliff Stead is right there. He’s wearing sunglasses indoors, which looks more cool than odd, and expensive-looking jeans and a tight black T-shirt.
Siggy makes a little chirrup and I know she’s thinking the same thing.
He’s right there.
“What do we think of the line?” I ask.
“Totally doable, let’s get in there,” Imani says, her eyes bright with interest and excitement. James Cooper is the main actor Imani wanted to meet, because Captain Cliff Stead means so much to her. He’s African American and the star of the show, and Cliff Stead the character is not only the leader of the group of survivors, but he’s also a deeply human, principled person.
Imani leads the way into the line, which starts inching slowly forward.
We start checking our hair and adjusting our clothes like a trio of nervous birds preening. Imani pulls down the cuffs of her coral jacket and smooths her white tunic. Siggy fluffs the blonde sheet of her hair and checks the legs of her blue jumpsuit. I pull at the scoop neck of my olive shirt, billowing it out so it falls just right.
Onstage James laughs, and man, he’s got a great smile that just lights up his whole face. Dazzling.
“Okay, okay.” Siggy lifts her hands up and takes a deep breath. Then she exhales and pushes her hands down.
“Y’all are adorable,” Imani says, smiling at us. She cocks a leg, resting a sequin-sneakered foot, toe-down, like she’s not nervous at all.
“Don’t act too cool for school,” Siggy says. “You know you’re excited.”
Imani cocks an eyebrow.
“Give yourself over to the feeling,” I urge her. “Fandom freakout. One of us! One of us!”
Apart from hanging out with us, Imani’s very favorite things are: 1) listening to the first responder scanners on the Code Blue app and 2) watching C-SPAN political broadcasts and commentary shows. She’ll probably go on to become a DA or congresswoman or something, I am not kidding.
Which will be great for all of us! But sometimes I worry about her. I don’t want her to lose her sense of fun in Being Serious.
Imani’s straight face cracks as a huge smile spreads across her face.
“You guys,” she whisper-screams. “That’s James Cooper!”
We whisper-scream back.
As the line moves forward, my view of James gets better, and he’s actually so much better looking in person. How is that possible? Especially with this hideous fluorescent lighting?
Maybe it’s because he’s smiling at each autograph seeker, and doesn’t seem rushed at all, and he just seems so nice.
Also because he’s movie-star gorgeous, of course, with a lean, muscular build, and when he smiles, man, those dimples.
He’s actually hugging people across the table.
“Quick survey: Will you ask for a hug?” I ask.
“Yes!” Siggy yelps.
“Yes!” Imani says.
“I want to know what he smells like,” Siggy says.
“Ew,” Imani says.
“I’m conducting a study,” Siggy says.
“Double ew.”
“Smell is an underrated sense,” Siggy says.
“You smell like thirst and desperation,” I say.
“Whatever!” Siggy gives me a play-shove. “At least I didn’t go dry-mouthed when Hunter got onstage.”
“Quick survey: who wants to change the subject?” Imani says. But she’s just playing with us.
As we draw closer to the front of the line, a flock of butterflies flutters in my chest. A herd? A gaggle?
What’s the collective noun for a group of butterflies?
I think it should be an anticipation. An anticipation of butterflies nestles in my chest.
While we’ve been creeping forward in line, a few VIP pass holders have used their exclusive cattle chute to jump to the front. But so far it has only been a few of them, so it’s easy to ignore it.
Until Blair walks up.
We all see her at the same time, but no one says anything.
It’s petty, but I don’t want to watch her get her autograph or anything, so I put my back to the stage.
There’s an uncomfortable moment of silence, and I can’t help it, it hurts again. It shouldn’t. It’s been over a week already, basically, and it’s not like Scott and I were in love or anything. He was a guy I was dating, he was a boyfriend, not my boyfriend.
Still, I feel poisoned by the hurt, and by my anger at Blair.
“I should just forgive her already,” I murmur. “I feel guilty that I can’t.”
“You’re entitled to your feelings,” Imani says. “Even your pain.” Her voice is gentle, accepting.
“But I haven’t even let her explain.”
“What could she say?” Siggy’s voice is firm. “It wasn’t confusing. We all knew what he meant to you.”
“I know, but—”
“He lives thirty minutes away, for God’s sake.” Siggy shakes her head. “She had to work to go behind your back. It’s not like they were in the same class every day.”
It hurts so much. Even though Blair and I have always had a weird-intense friendship, the kind with sparks and sharp edges at times, we’ve always been close, too.
We’ve been friends forever.
And friends don’t just date the same guy their friend is dating, even if their friend and the guy aren’t exclusive. It’s an unwritten rule of friendship that everyone knows. You don’t just date the guy that your friend has told you ab
out, breathlessly, rhapsodizing, reading aloud her text conversations with him, so excited and so clueless.
I know I’ve played my part in our little friendship spats before now. My mom always says there are three sides to a story: mine, yours, and the truth.
But maybe that’s just a saying suckers tell themselves so they feel safer about all the other people in the world.
I keep trying to tell myself I’m over it. That I’m better off without both of them. But the hurt, ashamed feeling won’t go away.
It’s a total zombie. Because the feeling just keeps coming back alive and will not stay dead—as much as I want it to.
“She’s going now,” Imani says.
I don’t look. Next to me, Siggy holds up a hand, a reflexive wave back to Blair.
Habits die hard, I guess. Even though we’re all mad at her, we all miss her, too. I know. I live with myself, so I miss talking to Blair, too. I miss her like a limb.
I don’t like the way that feels, acknowledging that.
Surely I don’t miss her like a limb. More like an appendage. A toe. Or a finger.
I don’t miss her that much at all.
The line creeps forward and we finally do manage to forget about Blair and Scott again, and talk about the show. We rank our top five episodes across the three seasons that have aired so far. Siggy practically dances in place when she talks about the new characters, Hugh and Shella, played by Linus Sheppard and Annie Blaze and who Siggy ships like FedEx. They were added to the last three episodes of season three, and a huge fan campaign has sprung up during the hiatus to demand more storylines for them.
Before I know it, we’ve reached the front of the line.
I thought long and hard about what I wanted to get the actors to sign, and who I would pay for an autograph. To be honest, most of the money I saved over the summer went to the ticket and the photo op. But I have a bit extra and I can pick and choose who I want. I just can’t also afford to buy their headshots.
So I got all my fan magazines, some archive glue, and one of those little photo scrapbooks from the hobby store, and I made a collage page for each actor I know I want to get. And I left blank pages next to each one, so they can sign there, and it’ll be perfect.
“We’re next,” Siggy says.
Imani and I let out muffled shrieks.
Imani buys a black-and-white headshot of James Cooper, and so does Siggy. I get out my autograph book, and we wait patiently as the lady in front of us gets an autograph, gets a hug, and gives him a stream of things she’s brought in gift bags, and gets another hug.
When she’s finally done, she turns and pumps both arms in the air, like she’s just finished a marathon.
Then it’s Imani’s turn, and without thinking, we all kind of press forward together.
Also Imani is squeezing my hand so tight I think she’s forgotten she’s doing it, so she just tugs me along with her.
James smiles, and omigod.
He is really, really hot for a dad-aged guy.
“You all are all together, huh?” His voice is rough like an old quilt, okay, or something like that. A warm burr-type noise. Scratchy but warm. Like a thistle in a patch of sunny grass. I’m thinking about it too much.
“Yes,” Imani says.
Siggy nods. “We’re best friends.”
I smile. I feel like my face is all teeth, weird, dry teeth.
“Okay, well, hi,” James says.
“Good morning,” Imani says.
“Hey,” Siggy says.
“I love you,” I blurt out. Blood rushes into my cheeks.
I want to sink into the floor.
“Thank you, I love you, too,” James says, easily, fluently, because he does love his fans, anyone can see it. And he unleashes that brilliant smile at us again. Then he’s reaching out over the table, and Imani automatically sticks out her hand like she’s going to shake his, like this is some kind of receiving line at a wedding, or like she’s going up for a job, and he doesn’t see it because he’s already leaning over the table and he gives her a hug.
It mostly doesn’t look awkward, even though one of her arms is basically trapped against her chest and the other is patting the side of his ribs.
James leans back and asks Imani if she wants him to inscribe her picture, which is definitely not something he does for everyone—and she says yes and spells her name. He chats with her as he signs and then hands the photo back to her.
Then he turns to Siggy, who lets out this high-pitched giggle the minute he leans over the table to hug her.
Siggy octopus-wraps her arms across his broad shoulders and presses her nose into the collar of his shirt.
Then he has let go and she’s talking to him as he’s signing, but I can’t hear what she’s saying because all I can hear is my own hyperventilations and my heartbeat.
Then it’s my turn. Imani and Siggy are standing just a few steps past the center of the table, waiting for me without going down the steps.
“Hello,” James says, smiling at me.
“Hi there, hello, howyadoin, hey,” I reply, and want to clap my hand over my mouth.
Not. What. I. Practiced.
He leans forward and I lean forward and the table is between us but we’re still hugging and really, it’s perfect, it’s the perfect scenario. Have I ever hugged before? Has a hug ever felt so warm? So personal? Even with the rounded edge of a table pressing into my thighs?
Get a grip, June.
I’ve let go before I realize I forgot to notice what he smells like, but everything’s moving too fast, so I look down and he’s signing my autograph book, across from the page with the collage of his character, and he’s flipping through my book, smiling at the actors and actresses I’ve made pages for, I guess, ’cause he laughs and the next moment he turns and says something to one of his assistants, and the guy nods and starts messing with the tables.
“You and your friends want a picture?” James says, and I swear to God he holds out a hand at me, like a prince inviting me onto the ballroom floor, or like a hero saying come with me if—
“I want to live!” I say.
Oh. My. God.
James doesn’t bat an eye, that I can see, I mean, I’m sort of understanding those sunglasses now. He just gestures to the gap in the tables that the assistant made by pulling one back.
Imani lets out a cheer and hands over her phone to the assistant. Siggy makes a noise like a hiccup crossed with a sneeze, like Pikachu, and I thankfully don’t know what noise I make as James Cooper drapes one arm around Siggy and me and places his other around Imani and we all smile for the photo.
Then we’re saying thank you, I tell him I love him again, and before we’re even down the steps we’re yelling and looking at the picture.
I’m doing the chin thing but at least my eyes are open.
Imani sends us the picture and we all post it, and basically write a hymn of adoration on the spot for James Cooper, how nice he was, how lovely, how very sexy, and how we always liked him, didn’t we? But we didn’t KNOW before but now we KNOW and so we are going to need to rewatch some of his best episodes this week, right?
As we talk, we’re walking to the next stop on the itinerary, the main antagonist’s autograph line, but when we get there, Cuellar’s line is already too long for me. Especially if I’m going to get another autograph I really want and have a chance to look at some of the merchandise.
Besides, he’s no James Cooper.
Siggy and Imani agree. If they didn’t I would wait with them, but we’re all a bit too hyped to stand in another line anyway. We start walking through the rows, zigzagging our way to Autograph Alley, stopping to look at all the amazing stuff on sale as we go.
Siggy buys a Nordic-looking tarot card deck. Imani buys a Human Wasteland official T-shirt and an ornate crown for Tishala’s
next photo shoot. I buy a necklace with a teeny bell jar suspended from it. Inside is a miniature scene of a tombstone, grass, tree, flowers, a bench, and a crow sitting on the bench.
The exhibit hall is getting more and more crowded; you can feel a surge of excitement, moving in the air above us like heat lightning.
At the bottom of one of the rows, a girl is sitting on the ground like she collapsed there, a spill of bags and posters strewn around her. A small crowd has gathered to watch or help, offering water, a hand up, a tissue for her very, very bloody nose.
“I’m fine,” the girl says, voice muffled from behind the Kleenex. “I just got a little light-headed.”
A ZombieCon! employee arrives with a paramedic. They crouch next to the girl.
“Let’s keep moving,” Siggy says. She gets queasy about blood, and it does feel weird staring so we ease past the girl and start down the next aisle.
After we get a little farther Imani turns and points at a table. A framed picture stands on a wire rack. In the picture, an anime character rocks back with a shooting nosebleed. It’s an image I’ve seen before in anime and manga to show something like how that character’s mind is being blown by the beauty of another person.
“I know who that girl just met,” Imani says. “James Cooper.”
8
Autograph Alley, where the B and C movie stars will sign for most of the day, is at the edge of the exhibit hall. The alley is opposite a wall of windows. They’re not as big as the ones in the atrium, and they are tinted more, but they still let in enough light to break up the fluorescent glare.
I realize my eyes are actually tired when I look at the windows. James Cooper’s indoor sunglasses make more sense now.
We stop at a vending machine tucked in the corner for some drinks and then walk to a cluster of upholstered chairs set against the windows.
Imani flops into a chair.
“How am I so tired already?”
“’Cause you got up at five a.m.?” Siggy asks.
“Lightweights,” I tease them.
“Isn’t your next stop just right there?” Imani asks, pointing down the Alley. An unbroken line of tables covered in black tablecloths face the windows. Celebrities stand behind the tables, talking in pairs or small groups, or interacting with fans. Every four or five feet a different ZombieCon! banner hangs against the curtain wall behind the tables, showing who the celebrities are and what they are famous for, in horror specifically, in case you didn’t already know.