“Um, well. Eighteen, but—”
“Eighteen. So you can read?”
“I mean, yeah—”
“So when you went up to that roof, did the door say no exit?”
The muscles in my shoulder tense. I move away from Gail so she can’t hear him screaming through the phone. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Mark says. “I just wanted to make sure before we have this conversation, because now I know exactly how stupid you’re being.”
“What’s happening?” I ask. “What’s everyone saying?”
“Does it matter? You have an image to uphold, Darien. You have a career. You can’t be a stupid kid anymore.” He says the last part slower. “Do you understand?”
I can hear the undercurrent of his voice, the words squeezed between the ones he said. I have a part to play, I have a career, but it’s not mine to steer. I’m strapped to the pilot chair of my life, and my hands are tied. I swallow, fisting and unfisting my hands. The other actors laugh at the water cooler at something Jess said. I bet they don’t get scolded by their managers. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Good. Because I’m two seconds away from firing that idiot handler of yours and getting someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”
I shoot a look at Gail, who’s sitting in my actor’s chair, screwing and unscrewing a water bottle cap. “She’s not the problem. It’s me.”
“Then you make sure this doesn’t happen again, or I’m flying out there to watch you personally until the end of the shoot.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you lat—” I begin to reply, but he’s already hung up. I press END anyway and walk the phone over to Gail.
She looks up from her water bottle and takes her phone back. “I’m sorry, Dare. What did he say?”
“He…just told me to be careful,” I lie, with a shrug. He’ll never fire Gail, not while I’m around. “It’s fine. Besides, you manage me better than he ever did.”
She goes silent, not sure what to say. She looks like she might cry.
I squeeze her shoulder. “You deserve better than Mark for a boss—”
Amon shouts that our ten minutes are up, and I crack my knuckles and walk onto the set again, for once ready as hell to play the Federation Prince. Because being Carmindor means I don’t have to be me.
“AND IN MORE STARTLING NEWS, HOLLYWOOD’S latest heartthrob had a run-in with danger this morning when he was discovered locked on a hotel rooftop…,” the radio personality’s voice blares in her I-Hate-My-Life monotone as Sage pulls the Pumpkin into her driveway.
You wouldn’t expect that inside the home on the corner of Cypress and Mulberry there would be a shrine to electrified punk rock in the basement. I must’ve biked past this house a hundred times on my way to and from work and never once did I suspect that Sage lived here. It looks so…unassuming.
Sage flicks off the radio and hops out.
“Really, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” I say. “You can duck out—”
“Elle.” She comes around to my side of the truck and extends a hand inside. “Let us flee to yonder basement room and sew thy starry helm.”
When I don’t move, she yanks the passenger door open and grabs the duffel bag, pulling me out with it. She pushes me up the steps and swings open the front door, corralling me inside, and then leads me down to the basement, which is finished and strangely cozy, with its beanbag chairs and stack of records and crooked TV stand. Covering the walls are posters of fashiony people in brightly colored clothing, some I recognize from the magazines she reads, but mostly they’re of David Bowie. The Goblin King smolders at me as I sink into a green beanbag. It hisses softly, smelling like old hackeysacks kicked around for too long. A puff of dust rushes up between the cloth.
“Okay, so give me the lowdown,” she says. “What do I need to know?”
“Um.” I’m not sure what she means. “About sewing?”
“About the show!” Sage replies. “Gimme the deets.”
“Really?”
“Really really. If I’m going to sew this costume for you, I want to do it right.”
“It’s, um, it’s fifty-four episodes.”
“So start at episode 1?” she asks, cueing up the TV.
“Aren’t we going to sew?” There’s a little over two weeks until the convention, and as exciting as it is to have help, I’m not super confident about Sage’s ability to stay on task.
“Yeah, but you can’t sew without the TV on. It’s, like, boring.” She unrolls the jacket and shakes it out. “You take the helm, Captain, and I’ll start working on our masterpiece.”
I shift on my feet for a moment, hesitant.
“Elle?” Sage glances back at me.
The thing is, I’ve never introduced anyone to Starfield before. It’s only ever been Dad and me, and then the internet people I sort of know from Rebelgunner, but never someone in person. A thrill begins to creep up my spine, like the Prospero warming up to light speed, heading for destinations unknown. I grab the remote off the floor.
“Actually, we’ll do the crash course starting at episode 3. Then we’ll jump back to 1, and then go forward to 12 and then hit 22 and—”
“Um, why?”
I slowly blink. Right. I’m not talking to a fan but a soon-to-be fan. I need to lay out the rules of Starfield. “The TV series was made for syndication. It didn’t follow a linear storyline, so things just happened whenever the writers decided to include them. We’re watching them in order of the history of Starfield.”
She laughs. “Right! I’ll pretend I understand that.” She goes to the little workstation in the corner—where, I note with happiness, there is a sewing machine—and gets out a bin of tools. I flick through the various streaming networks until I find one with Starfield, select the episode, and then crawl back to sit on my squishy green throne to wait for the opening credits. I can’t help but look over at Sage as she handles Dad’s jacket.
She touches it so gently, like each thread is made of pure silk, tracing her fingers across the seams as though she knows the coat as well as I do. The starched tails are no longer stiff and the collar’s kind of fraying, but she smooths it out anyway to take stock of the cut.
“Okay.” She waves me to standing. “Up.”
I hit PAUSE and get out of the beanbag. Sage nods and whips around me, lifting one arm and then another, measuring everything from my waist to my neck. When she’s done, she turns one of the jacket arms inside out, marking with chalk and pinning things into little tents. When she’s done with that, she lays the jacket flat on the ground and fishes into her tool bin for scissors. Then she lines up the scissors with the chalk, her face composed and relaxed—probably how a serial killer looks, devoid of all humanity as they begin to ruin something beautiful—
“Stop!” I yelp. “What are you doing?”
She gives me a side-eye. “Alterations, Elle.”
“But you’re cutting it!”
“For alterations.”
“But…”
She sighs. “Look, do you want this to fit or don’t you? I told you. You can’t just hem it up, you have to get into the seams and stuff. Either stop me and try to win with nostalgia, or let me do this and help you clinch your victory.”
I hesitate, glancing between her and the jacket. Maybe she’s right. Pursing my lips, I nod and let her cut the fine seams that Mom sewed years ago. I watch as, thread by thread, Sage unravels the history of my parents and the opening credits of Starfield begin.
In the middle of the third episode, a raspy voice calls from the top of the basement, “Sage! You down there?”
“Yeah, Mom!” she replies as footsteps come down the stairs. I don’t say anything, seeing as I’m trapped inside the coat with a forest of pins preventing my moving even an inch.
A graying-haired woman reaches the bottom step. She looks as surprised as I am to see her, but then her smile turns warm. “Ah—well! Elle, right?”
“Hi, Miss Graven.
”
“Please, call me Wynona.” She extends her hand to shake. “Sage’s mom.”
“I think she figured that out,” Sage states, crossing her arms over her chest. “Seeing as you hired her?”
“She could’ve thought I was your sister.” Sage’s mom leans toward me with a mock-whisper. “I still get carded at bars, you know.”
Sage rolls her eyes.
“Don’t let her give you any mouth,” Sage’s mom goes on. “She’s really a sentimental brat under all that hair and makeup.”
“Mom,” Sage whines. “Stop it. We’re kinda busy right now.”
“All right, all right. Well, Elle, you staying for dinner?” she says with a lopsided smile. “It’s wheat-meat night!”
I glance at the clock—and then curse. How’d it get to be eight-thirty already? Jerking to my feet, I quickly begin to gather up the costume. “I have to get home—I’m sorry. It’s almost my curfew.”
Sage waves her hand. “Leave the costume here. And be careful, there’s still pins in the shoulder!” she adds when I pick up the jacket and yelp. I drop it, sticking my poked finger in my mouth. She looks at me patiently. “Told you.”
I hesitate, glancing down at the jacket.
“It’ll be fine here, daisy,” Sage’s mom says with a laugh. “It’s in the best hands.”
I nod, gathering my empty duffel bag. “All right.”
We climb the stairs out of the basement. A sweet aroma wafts from the kitchen, making my stomach grumble. Nothing at the Wittimer household ever smells half as good as wheat-meat night does. Probably because I season our dinners with tears for the carbs we’ll never eat.
Sage sees me to the door as her mom calls out from the kitchen, “Was a pleasure, Elle! Come back anytime!”
“You’ll see her tomorrow!” Sage yells back. She sees me out the door. “Sorry. My mom can get up in everyone’s business sometimes.”
“I like her,” I reply. “She’s cool.”
“Yeah, try living with her. You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”
I shake my head, thinking of Catherine and Giorgio and their hatred of the Pumpkin’s faulty muffler. “Nah, it’s nice out tonight. I’d like to walk. But, um, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” She gives me a salute, and I head down the porch stairs and toward the end of the block. After a few steps, I realize I’m grinning. For the first time, I’m looking forward to tomorrow—and I can’t remember looking forward to anything since the twenty-fifth anniversary of Starfield two years ago. And even then I looked forward to watching the recording while Catherine and the twins were on a ski retreat two weeks after it aired.
This feels different. Like something I can control. Happiness I can control. Happiness that is solely mine. I didn’t realize there was such a thing anymore. I didn’t think it existed in this universe. I thought that when Dad died, it moved to the other universe, the one where he’s still alive.
“Hey!” It’s Sage, yelling all the way from her porch. “Elle! When’s your contest again?”
“Two weeks from Friday. Is that…” I clear my throat. “Enough time?”
“Fifteen days?”
There’s a long pause. But then she gives me a thumbs-up.
“Are you kidding? Nothing’s impossible with me.”
WE FILM FOR TEN HOURS STRAIGHT, not to mention the two hours in the makeup chair and the time spent waiting on Calvin to get his freaking lines right (maybe they’re a little harder between Euci’s shark teeth, but no one forced him to sign on as Euci, so I don’t feel the least bit bad).
When the director finally calls it a wrap for the day, Calvin shrugs out of his coat so fast that his assistant doesn’t have time to catch it before it hits the dusty ground. He jumps off the soundstage, pulling his pointy teeth out of his mouth. He couldn’t at least wait to disrobe before reaching the costume trailer? Jeez.
Gail rushes up instantly, digging into her jacket pocket. “It’s been going off like crazy,” she says. “Who’s wanting to contact you so badly?”
“Dunno.” I take the phone and slide open the lock screen, a cascade of blue messages filling the screen.
Elle 6:42 PM
—Introducing a friend to Starfield
—this is going to be tres interesting
—I’ll keep you updated
Elle 7:02 PM
—Yesterday’s thoughts: she is not impressed
—kept asking questions like “What’s a solar flux capacitor and why is it broken?”
—Pssssh, Earthenders.
My lips turn up without my consent. Earthenders is what anyone from the stars calls people who prefer a planet. The people who stay in one place forever, stuck in their narrow ways. It’s like calling a person a Muggle in the Harry Potter world.
I scroll down. There are so many texts; she wrote an entire novel. Entirely to me.
Elle 7:32 PM
—TODAY: Fifth episode, not as many questions.
—Thought the general’s sawed-off horns looked like boobs on his head.
—oh, oh Carmindor
—they actually kinda do.
—huh.
—(also I know you’re probably busy but I have to tell someone or I’ll bust.)
Elle 7:35 PM
—pee break. Also, sixth episode or skip to ten?
—skipping to ten, executive decision.
Elle 8:10 PM
—BEST IDEA EVER.
—also it’s the episode with Carmindor in the shower
—I mean, not you in the shower—i’m sure you take showers
—and not that I’m repulsed by you being in a shower
—I was just saying it’s the one with the other Carmindor being sexy in the shower.
—Not that YOU couldn’t be sexy either…
—oh, gosh
—I’ll shut up now.
That’s the end of the texts, but my lips are straining so far over my teeth they’re beginning to hurt. Suddenly, getting my ass kicked by Calvin I’m-Better-Than-You Rolfe doesn’t seem too terrible.
“You’re smiling. What is it?” Gail stands on her tiptoes to sneak a peek at the messages, but I click off the phone and stash it in my pocket before she can read about me in a shower. “Is it that girl from Seaside?”
“No,” I say. “Just someone I met.”
“Randomly?” Gail’s eyebrows shoot up. “Like, a stranger? You don’t think she could be the one who—”
“She’s not the snitch. I’m going to get changed.” I exit the soundstage, with Gail following to ask more questions. The night air is humid and sticky as I cross the lot to the costume trailer. On the other side of the chain fence surrounding the compound, a girl cries out my name. “I love you, Darien! Look over here! Darien!”
I look over, pulling on my Darien Freeman mask, and wave to them. They squeal.
“Don’t antagonize them,” Gail scolds.
“I’m just saying hello. Can’t I do that?”
She fakes a smile to the fans, teeth clenched together. “Not without your bodyguard.”
“Spoilsport.”
In the costume trailer, Nicky, the costumes manager, is beating the dirt off Calvin’s costume, muttering darkly. Of course Calvin had to go and put him in a bad mood, so he’ll be in an even worse mood when I tell him that a button’s fraying on my coat. The same button. Again.
“Is this girl anyone I have to worry about?” Gail asks, following me into the costume racks. I decide to wait and tell Nicky about the button tomorrow. I’ll pretend I didn’t notice until then—I’m an actor, right?
“I don’t think so.” I shrug out of the coat and grab a hanger.
Gail’s face scrunches in suspicion. “How’d you meet her?”
I shrug. “The internet?” Sort of true.
“Darien!” she gasps.
“What? It’s cool.”
“It is not cool,” she stresses as I hang up my costume under the nametag FREEMAN, D. “You don�
�t know who she could be.”
“She’s funny, and nice, and caring.” I unclasp the mandarin collar of my shirt and begin to unbutton it, tugging the tails out of my pants as I think about the girl on the other end of the messages. “And she’s honest. Actually, I think I know her pretty well.”
“Do you two talk about…?” Gail waves a hand around us.
“The costume trailer?” When she gives me a stony look, I grin. “I’m joking. I know what you mean, and no, not really. I mean, she doesn’t know I’m me, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So you’re lying to her?”
“I’m not lying,” I say quickly. Except now I wonder if that’s true. “She just…she just assumed I was, I don’t know, normal, and I didn’t want to correct her. Don’t give me that look.”
But she’s giving me the eye of disapproval anyway—like she’s my mom or something. Not that I’ve seen my actual mom act like that. I just assume. I shrug out of my shirt, my arm muscles aching from the day’s swordplay. “I will tell her. I mean, someday. I just sort of wanted someone to treat me like a normal person for a while.”
“Oh woe is you being the famous abs-insured actor who wants to be normal.” Gail rolls her eyes. “You’re really in deep, Dare.”
“I’ll tell her,” I assure her. “When it comes up, you know…in natural conversation.”
“No,” Gail says. “You have to end it.”
“End it?” Alarmed, I almost drop my shirt. “Why? That’s not fair!”
“I don’t care if it’s fair. It’s for your own good and you know it.” She looks back at me, her gaze almost entirely steady.
“What are you, my mom? You can’t just tell me who my friends are.”
Gail’s mouth quivers. “If I don’t, Mark will. Dare”—her voice cracks—“I just don’t want any more trouble, you know? No more photos. No more—”
“I know,” I say. “I know, I know.”
I feel horrible, making Gail play the authoritarian. She doesn’t like it and can barely pull it off. On the one hand, I know she’s right, that what I’m doing is stupid and dangerous and can’t last anyway.
But on the other hand…there’s Elle.
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