I SQUINT IN THE DRESSING ROOM mirror, messing with the golden starwings on my lapel.
“Gail, this costume’s all wrong.”
Gail is sitting in a hard red chair, scrolling through emails and itineraries and fan mail—everything that I don’t want to do—while chewing on the string of her IGNITE THE STARS hoodie. She looks about as tired as I feel.
The film’s shooting in a studio lot outside of Atlanta, Georgia, under the codename Kingship. It’ll be my home for the next twenty-three days of principal photography. The director insists on using practical effects whenever we can, which means shooting on an actual bridge made in a sound studio and doing actual stunts and…and kissing Jessica Stone on said bridge in that soundstage while doing my own stunts.
I’m most nervous about that. The kissing, not the stunts. Well, okay, maybe the stunts too.
“Huh?” Gail looks up from her smartphone and squints at my Federation Prince uniform. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s the wrong color. The blue’s not—it’s not blue enough.”
“It’s the same color it was when wardrobe fitted you.”
“No, it’s bluer, Gee. It’s definitely bluer.”
“It is not.” She sends off an email and sets down her phone, finally turning her full attention to me. “It’s just the lighting in here. Trust me.”
“But you lied about Lonny. He’s great company, by the way. Loquacious even.”
The tips of her ears go red and she squirms in her chair. “Mark gave me strict instructions to keep him a…surprise.”
“Because I’d say no.”
“Surprise?” she offers weakly. I give her a knowing look and she quickly averts her gaze to her phone. “Let’s argue about it later, okay? You’ve got makeup in ten minutes. Do you need anything? Water? Or we could go over today’s script while we wait, help calm your nerves—”
The dressing room door flies open.
Sunlight streaks in, making me wince. At first I think it’s Donna, the makeup artist, come to yell at me for being late. But last time I checked, Donna the Makeup Artist doesn’t have long dark hair braided into a perfect royal Anorian braid. Or legs that go on for days. Or a female Federation uniform.
Gail jumps to her feet, looking flustered as ever. “Oh! Oh hello!”
“Mind if I hide in here for a while?” The amazingly beautiful girl plops down in Gail’s empty seat and pulls one golden leg over the other. Me, I’m trying not to stare. Because holy even tan lines, Batman.
“It’s troll o’clock and the paparazzi are out in droves,” she continues, leaning toward the mirror to fix her lipstick. “I’m already up to here with all the heckling. I had to get away. You don’t mind?”
Gail looks at me hesitantly. “Well, actually we were—”
“No,” I croak, giving Gail a meaningful look. Doesn’t she even know who this girl is?
Jessica Stone. The Jessica Stone. My costar. As in, indie film poster child, beloved by the internet for being sexy and cute and funny, sure to snag an Oscar one day Jessica Stone. I think I saw her last movie in theaters fifteen times, and not just because it was based on a graphic novel.
Don’t fanboy, I order myself. Don’t fanboy.
Gail looks at me, surprised. “But Dare, we were—”
I cough. Twice. Gail looks between Jessica Stone and me, widens her eyes, and finally gets it. Her ears go even redder.
“Oh. Oh.” She grabs her backpack and makes a hasty retreat. “I…um. I’ll be around if you need me, Dare.”
After the door closes, Jessica Stone turns her eyes—which are super, freakishly, ice-water blue—to me. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
My tongue ties into ten hundred knots. She can intrude as much as she wants. I mean, not intrude—like, let me politely be in her presence for the rest of my life—but intruding works too. Into my life. As much as she wants.
Is that weird? It’s probably weird. But it’s Jessica Stone.
Damn it, man, don’t fanboy.
“I have a bad habit of doing that,” she goes on. “Just barging in places. My therapist says I have no sense of personal space. Really, you can tell me to leave if you want. I’m Jess, by the way.”
“N-n-n—” I stammer, then bite the inside of my cheek. Stay. Cool. I try again, channeling Sebastian, my character on Seaside Cove. “No, Gail really was just legging—leaving.”
Her eyes widen, and for a moment I worry she’s about to take one of her heels and shove it through my eye socket like she did in Huntress Rising, but then she throws her head back and laughs. It’s a no-holds-barred laugh, the kind where if I get her laughing too much I guarantee she’ll snort. The edges of her eyes crinkle when she smiles. She’s beautiful in all the traditional ways—obviously the legs—but her personality helps, and her acting chops. She could quote Shakespeare in circles around me and I’d be none the wiser. It’s a respect thing, I decide, not a fanboy thing.
Her laughter dies down and she shakes her head. “You’re cute. No wonder they chose you for the lead. Equal parts dorky and sexy. A winning combo. If I were a guy, I’d be nervous. You’ll start taking all the good roles.”
I look back at the mirror, still fiddling with the lapel of my uniform. “Nervous? I’m the one who should be nervous. You’ll make me look like a sham. You were amazing in Huntress. You were Sylvia. You channeled her perfectly from the comic books.”
She shrugs. “Thank you. But I never actually read them.”
“You didn’t?”
“No time,” she says simply. She cocks her head and surveys my uniform. “How come the men get to wear pants while I have to wear these stupid things?” She motions to her mile-high heels.
“Sexism?” I offer. Jess smiles. With me, not at me, this time.
“Sadly,” she says. “It’s just ludicrous.”
“Yeah,” I say in agreement. “Because, I mean, the Federation never puts its female officers in heels, so it’s not even canon, right?”
Jess gives me a blank look. “No,” she says, not unkindly. “Because they expect me to run in them.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right. Of course.”
“In heels! With all those physical stunts! Seriously, I was telling Nicky”—our costume director—“didn’t you see the Golden Globes? Heels and I don’t have a great track record. But he told me to put them on anyway.” She looks down at her manicured nails and shrugs. “It’ll be hell. But it’s not like I didn’t know that when I signed up. Just a means to an end, you know?”
“To…what end?” I ask.
Jess looks up. “To something better.”
“Better than Starfield?” I say before I can stop myself. Jess opens her mouth, then shuts it.
“So you’re a fan, huh?” she says.
I shrug, even though it’s pretty obvious now that I am. “And you’re not?”
She snorts. “I’m a fan of paychecks.” I must look disappointed because she rushes to add, “Not that I don’t respect the Starfield fans! They’re the ones who’re going to propel this thing, after all.” She indulges me with another gloriously perfect smile. “And this kind of bigbudget stuff—well, it’s not art but it’s fun, you know? At least at first. It’s new, it’s shiny, it’s colorful. Before you get bored. And move on to the next one.” She fixes me with an intense look, and suddenly I’m not sure if we’re talking about the same thing anymore. “You know what I’m saying, Darien?”
Oh. Right. That. I shift uncomfortably. Another brilliant idea to drum up publicity—keep it in the air that Jess and I are, well, a thing. Which might explain why I’m so freaking nervous to meet her.
“Gail—my handler—she mentioned that we’re dating, yeah,” I say.
“For the twenty-three days we’re filming,” Jess corrects. “And that’s it. I don’t want anything after, okay? Unless we become good friends and then I might kiss you at the premiere.”
“I’m not sure I can kiss someone who isn’t a Stargunner,” I joke.
One side of her mauve lips twists up. “Maybe you can convert me.”
“On the Federation’s starwings, I’ll try.” I give her the promise-sworn salute.
“Dork.” She laughs. “No wonder you got cast for this role. You’re born for it.”
Born for it. The phrase makes my stomach curl—as if there isn’t enough already riding on this. I quickly look away. “Ha, right.”
Jessica squints at me for a moment before she pulls her legs off the side of the chair and sits properly. She looks me dead in the eye. “Darien, can I be real for a second?”
I can’t look away—her gaze is too intense. They’re going to need to give her contacts. Princess Amara has green eyes, green like the radiation from superheated quasars in space. “Um, yeah.”
She breathes in. “So, you’ve never done a big role before—”
What does she think Seaside Cove is? An after-school special?
“—but I have, and I know fans are the worst sometimes. The best, but also the worst. And you are a fan. So you’re going to be the worst to yourself. You’re going to judge yourself the harshest. My advice to you is—don’t. This is just one role. It doesn’t have to define you. Trust your instincts, trust your director, and it’ll be a cakewalk. And then you can go on to bigger, better things. This is a springboard, not a glue trap. Make sense?”
“Uh,” I say. But she’s already standing, and when she bends to kiss me on the cheek I feel the tackiness of her lipstick come off on my skin.
“I’ll see you on set, okay?”
“Sure thing, Princess,” I mumble.
She grins. “You’re not one of those method actors, are you?”
I mimic her grin, even though I don’t feel it. “Nah. If I really wanted to get into character, I’d call you ah’blena.”
“Isn’t that the Starfield question you missed?”
I give her a wounded look. “Did everyone watch that?”
“YouTube is forever, trust me. You’re looking at the most GIF’d red carpet moment in Golden Globes history.” She grimaces at her heels. “See you, Darien.”
And with that, Jessica Stone—my costar, my Amara, my fake girlfriend for the next twenty-some days—waves goodbye, one finger at a time, and leaves my trailer. But even after she’s gone, her words stick like tar on the walls.
Bigger, better things. This is just a springboard.
I turn back to the mirror and stare at the wannabe Carmindor in a uniform that is definitely the wrong color blue. And I have to wonder if I’m any different from her—or if I should be. Am I doing this just for a paycheck too?
That’s why Mark wants me to do it. He wouldn’t have booked me for the audition if he hadn’t seen dollar signs. Wouldn’t have hired a bodyguard if he didn’t picture my face on a billboard.
On the counter my phone buzzes, and I grab for it blindly, praying that it isn’t Mark wanting me to do another convention.
But it isn’t Mark.
Unknown 8:32 AM
—How do you get a one-armed Nox out of a tree?
—You wave at it!!!
I chew on my bottom lip to keep from smiling. At least I know one person who believes in Starfield as more than just a cash cow. I square my shoulders in the mirror and tuck my phone into Carmindor’s pocket.
Maybe it is a springboard. Maybe as a fan I’m the worst person for this role. Maybe I’ll screw it up more than someone who doesn’t care that way. Jessica wants artistic cred, serious roles, golden statues lined up on her mantel—and she’ll make a fine Amara. Serviceable, and certainly beautiful. The fans will accept her. Me, I’ve had posters of Starfield in my room since I was seven. I know every galaxy and every world in Federation space. I know the prince’s tics inside and out. I know his ending monologue. I know what he orders from the bartender at Belowgaze.
I don’t want Oscar nods or award speeches—well, not yet. I just want to be good. I just want to do the fandom justice. I could keep my head down and waltz through this shoot like the Darien Freeman the world thinks I am, but that’s not how my fanboy heart beats.
Because, most of all, I want to be good enough for a sequel.
AFTER WORK, I TAKE FRANK TO Our Blessed Days cemetery, a bouquet of daffodils cradled in my arm. Because it’s that day—The Day—and because…well, because I feel like I need permission. Or their blessing. Or something.
The graveyard is deserted and quiet. It’s one of the smaller ones in Charleston, not touristy because it isn’t as old as the haunted ones, but just as beautiful, with lazy weeping willows and oaks with large, gnarled roots. Franco and I are the only ones in the entire place, besides the night watchman. I pull out the droopy flowers from the WITTIMER vase and replace them with the vibrant yellow daffodils.
I sit back on the damp grass. Franco pants beside me, rubbing his head against my arm.
The tombstones are quaint and gray. LILY WITTIMER and ROBIN WITTIMER in crisp letters, newer than a lot of the other plots around them. Dad’s funeral is brighter in my head, Mom’s is a shadowy blur, but I remember the preacher’s words like an echo coming back from a dark, steep cliff.
Too young. Too soon. Too, too, too.
Too everything. Too little time. Too few memories. Too few “I love you”s exchanged from me to Mom to Dad. Mostly Dad. I miss Mom too, but I miss her like you miss a distant, beautiful place you’ve heard about but never actually visited. Her face is blurry, her smile a blank. I can’t even remember what she sounded like.
But in my head, Dad’s voice is still there. I hold on to it like a buoy, afraid I’ll lose it in the storm of time.
“I found your costumes,” I tell the tombstone. “I wondered for a minute if you caused the leak because it kind of felt like you were there, you know? Like you’re still…”
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. Franco puts his head on my knee, his tail swishing against the ground, begging me to rub him behind the ears. I begin to but then my phone dings in my hoodie pocket. I pull it out as Franco whines, so I switch the phone to the opposite hand and adhere to the beast’s commands.
Unknown 8:36 PM
—Do you think the people on Prospero ever get homesick?
I slide my thumb across the unlock screen. This is the first time they’ve texted me first, aside from the first time.
8:36 PM
—Missing home, Carmindor?
Unknown 8:36 PM
—It was blown up, remember? Episode 43. The Last Turn of Time.
8:37 PM
—Doesn’t mean you can’t miss it.
Unknown 8:37 PM
—I miss parts of it. I don’t miss the actual place. That’s never as good as you remember it.
—Sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s stupid.
Not as stupid as he thinks.
8:37 PM
—Would it be weird to say I know how you feel?
Unknown 8:38 PM
—We can be weird together then.
—What place would you go back to?
What a question. Because the place wouldn’t be as good as I remember it. And now, knowing what I know, there’s only one place I’d go back to.
I want to text back that I don’t know—that it’s a hard question.
But that’s a lie. I know exactly where I’d go back to—to the exact moment, seven years ago, when I sat on the steps of the veranda, the story I’d written that day in hand, waiting for Dad to come home. I would tell that little girl to go inside. To lock the door. To keep the bad news out.
My phone buzzes again.
Unknown 8:43 PM
—Let me guess. You’d go back to when Starfield was still on TV, right?
I smile.
8:44 PM
—Never saw it live. Too young.
I realize too late that I’ve just revealed to a total stranger that I’m a teenager, which I know you should never, ever do. But then they ping back.
Unknown 8:44 PM
—Same. Syfy reru
ns? 11 to midnight? Falling asleep in homeroom the next morning?
8:45 PM
—Every. Day.
Whoever this unknown number is, they don’t feel like a stranger. Or even unknown. Clumsily, on the stupid number pad, I hit SAVE CONTACT and type in the name, one letter at a time.
CARMINDOR.
Franco sits with me as the sun sets behind the tree line. In the dusky darkness, the night watchman begins his rounds.
When he gets to me, he tips his hat. “Closing time, Miss Danielle.”
“Just a few more minutes?”
His rigid gray eyebrows soften. “Just don’t let that fat rat pee on any tombstones.”
“You wouldn’t pee on a tombstone, would you?” I ask Franco once the night watchman is gone. In reply, the dog slurps at my cheek, tail whipping through the air. “Not unless its Catherine’s gravestone, no you wouldn’t, no you wouldn’t!”
Frank woofs and jumps onto my lap, and we settle in for a moment longer. To be honest, the night watchman will let me stay as long as I want—and if I could, I would stay for hours. I would curl up by the gravestone and just talk with the dirt.
But tonight, I won’t. Tonight, for once, I actually have someone else who knows how I feel.
FIRST I FIND OUT THAT I have a bodyguard named Lonny, then the hottest girl in Hollywood tells me we’re dating for the next twenty-three days, and now I’m about to die. Probably.
Is it too late to cash in my insured abs?
“I think I need a moment,” I tell the stunt coordinator—who is, I’m pretty sure, insane, a thirty-something woman with dark hair and a dead-eyed stare. I adjust the strap that’s digging into my left little guy. As stunts go, this is the one I have been looking forward to the least.
“What, getting scared, hero?” She claps me on the shoulder. Hero is her nickname for me, which, given how scared I am, is probably ironic. Like calling Lonny “Shrimp.” Really flattering, in other words.
“I just want to, uh, write my will first,” I reply. Or at least I think I do. My pulse thrums so loud in my ears that I can’t hear anything else. I stare down, down, down the fifty-foot drop onto the green-screen landing.
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