FanGirl

by Lawson, Angel

  “Oh yeah, and we entered the lottery for spots in the Zombie Parade.”

  “Me, too. They said the drawing would be this week.” FantasyCon was the week after graduation. Memorial Day weekend.

  “Friday. I can’t wait. I hope we get chosen. I’ve been working on my costume.” I’d found the perfect face paint for my zombie costume and a method to make oozing sores online.

  “Going as Alexandra?”

  I scoff. “Like I said, that was a one-time gig. No more acting for me.”

  Famous. Last. Words.

  g

  Later, I’m trapped in what I consider the Sixth Circle of Hell. German class.

  Catching Reid and Taylor Lyn lip-locked at the midnight showing of Rocky Horror.

  Talking to my mother about college.

  That awkward moment when I shout, “Like during the zombie apocalypse” and everyone stares at me like a freak.

  Stupid Taylor Lyn.

  Drama class.

  I compulsively check the clock, minute by minute, until I can escape. Frau Smith has us translating a paragraph from a novel, English to German, while she grades papers. Das Spiel verderben. Mid-word, my butt vibrates and I slip the phone out of my pocket. Iris.

  Yr gonna die

  what?

  DIE!

  OMGWHAT??

  Meet me at the car after school. DIE!

  I hate you

  EMOTICON LOVE! <3

  She did not just emoticon me. I have this deep hatred for the use (and overuse) of the emoticon. The following are all forbidden:

  Smilies

  Hearts

  Winky eyes

  Suggestive commas

  The ban is primarily because the smiley is used to lessen the blow of a backhanded insult.Text: Your hair looked great today – good thing mullets are back in. : )

  I mean, what? People think the smiley takes away from the insult. In my opinion, if you’re going to insult someone, just do it. Tell them their hair looks terrible. Do it. Even worse is the pity emoticon:

  Text: O.M.G. Did you see Reid flirting with Taylor Lyn after soccer today? Did he dump you? : (

  Iris and I determined that if we were in charge of emoticons they wouldn’t be : ) or : ( or <3, they would be things like: Rage or Bitchslap or Despair or Eyeroll. Since I refuse to use emoticons, instead we say:

  EMOTICON FACEPUNCH!

  She sent me that <3 trying to get a rise out of me, which is evil since I have 20 more minutes of hell before I can make my escape. When I do I find Iris, she’s waiting at the car, bouncing on her toes. Her braids shake with excitement. “Get in the car,” she directs.

  I climb in the passenger seat. “What’s going on?”

  “Read this!” she yells, shoving her phone in my face.

  I grab the phone. “What is it?”

  “Just. Read. It.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Out loud.”

  “Iris…”

  “Do it!”

  “Fine. ’Hi, saw your video! It was great! Best fan video we’ve ever seen. We would love for you two to lead our Zombie Parade at FantasyCon later this month.’ Oh. My. God.”

  “I know!” Iris beats her hands on the steering wheel.

  I skim the rest of the email. The organizer of the Zombie Parade wants us to lead the parade. He requests that I wear my Alexandra costume.

  “This is crazy!”

  “I know!” Iris repeats.

  A thought enters my mind.

  “What?”

  “You know who’s going to be so pissed about this?”

  We both say his name at the same time. “Reid.”

  g

  Each Monday afternoon, Iris and I have a standing meeting at the Waffle Shop to discuss Z.net. It is our official “business” meeting where we put all other topics, gossip and general life issues aside and focus on the website. Plus, they make killer waffles and cheese grits. Yum.

  “So, this week we talk about FantasyCon, answer questions about the video and discuss what is your list.”

  I have a weekly list feature on Z.net. I am a list junkie. Mentally, on paper, ticked off my fingers, typed on my phone, whatever and whenever. I make lists about what to wear, my class work, the website, favorite books and almost anything else. Iris was smart enough to suggest this as a regular part of the website, where each week I establish a topic and make my Top Five. The Top Five can be anything fandom related.

  Five Best Weapons for Fighting Zombies

  Five Hottest Moments Between Wyatt and Alexandra

  Five Ways to Decapitate a Zombie

  Five Things We Want to See in Issue 4

  “This week, in honor of FantasyCon, I’m thinking ‘Top Costume Essentials for the Zombie Parade.’”

  “Excellent choice.”

  “I agree – it’s going to be hard to narrow down.” I pick up my fork and take a huge bite of waffle. “Have you been answering the hate mail? I’ve been avoiding my half. My attitude is not in the right place.” With all the praise for the video, there is a portion of fans that hate the fact we made it. They’ve been sharing the haterade with anyone who will listen.

  “A couple. I agree. It’s hard to be nice when you’re under attack. I’m starting to get a better idea of what it’s like to be famous, even marginally so,” Iris says. She stirs a pat of butter into her grits and spoons in some sugar. Despite her small, curvy figure, she insists she is on a diet (always). The actual food she eats implies otherwise. Sometimes I’m jealous of her figure and the pretty, dark brown skin she inherited from her Jamaican father and the green eyes from her mother. She’s grown her hair out for years, long and braided in rows across the top of her head, ending halfway down her back. She’s all natural, where I’m all straight lines occasionally enhanced by the wonders of a Miracle Bra.

  “Anything else?”

  She scans her notebook. “No.”

  “Good. You will never believe what Taylor Lyn said to me today in chem.”

  Iris’ eyes light up. “What? What did she say?”

  “She called me a two-bit, actress wannabe and then went on and on about how her role as a background cheerleader in the wolf show made her a star. And to get over myself.”

  “Pot meet kettle.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Seriously.”

  “Can we go home and spam her with the video? I can hack into her account.”

  “Yes. When I finish this bacon.” I take a bite.

  “Good plan. Bacon, then hacking.”

  I pick up my pen and jot it down.

  Iris leans over the table and pushes my pen out of the way. “Did you make a list for bacon and hacking?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So weird.”

  “You love me.”

  “I really do.”

  g

  With two weeks left in our senior year, things move at breakneck speed. In art school, everyone has some kind of performance or project due in addition to our normal exams. For every calculus test there is a dance recital or dramatic reading. Iris has been holed up in the computer lab for days and I’ve spent hours completing my portfolio for drawing. The good news is that everyone is busy enough to remove the focus from the video and, as a result, me. Finally.

  I’m walking to the cafeteria when Iris calls my name.

  “Ruby! Wait! Wait up!”

  She pushes past a kid with a wild afro and two tiny, freshman-sized girls in legwarmers to rush up to me. I see the look of mania on her face. I don’t like this look. “Oh no, what now?”

  “Remember how we thought the invitation to lead the FantasyCon parade was the best part of our senior year?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and try to walk into the cafeteria. Before I can cross the threshold, Iris grabs my hand and drags me down through a crowd of students to a quiet section of the hallway. “Iris, I have 20 minutes to eat my lunch. What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with me is I was in the counselor’s office and I ov
erheard Mrs. Lambert telling Mr. Jones that Mr. Long told him that we have a special guest coming to speak to our graduating class!”

  I stare at her. “You couldn’t tell me that while I ate my PBJ?”

  “No. Because I acted like I needed a pamphlet on teen pregnancy and found out that GABE FOSTER IS GOING TO SPEAK AT OUR GRADUATION CEREMONY!”

  I drop my lunch bag. And my jaw.

  “I know!”

  “Here?”

  “He’s coming back to speak to us.”

  “Gabe Foster?”

  “Gabe. Foster.”

  Gabe Foster.

  g

  The auditorium is stuffy and hot. Well, it may be the cap and gown and dress underneath. More likely, it the fact that Gabe Foster is standing at the podium on the stage wrapping up his speech and I am in complete and utter fangirl meltdown.

  Here’s the deal on Gabe Foster: He went to ELSAD three years ahead of us. He graduated by the time we were accepted into the program, but he is legendary among the students – especially the art majors. After high school, he moved to New York for art school and then dropped out to create his comic, Zocopalypse. Other important facts:

  Adorable in that nerdy, hipster way

  An amazing artist

  A groundbreaking writer

  Most Creative ELSAD 2008

  A certified genius 2010 Best Graphic Novel, The Stan Lee Best New Artist Award

  The first year we went to FantasyCon, Gabe had an autograph signing right after his panel. Zocopalypse was new and had good reviews, but had not become the pop culture hit it is now. When I reached the front of the line, I gave him my book and, well, this is what happened:

  Gabe: “Who would you like this signed to?”

  Me: “wuthahouahaut?”

  Gabe: “The autograph? What’s your name?”

  Me: “R…R…R…uby. Ruby.”

  Gabe: “Ruby, cool name. Thanks for being a fan, Ruby.”

  Me: “Guhhhngahaogohalgj haohesssss.”

  My fangirling of him is intense. I mean, before I “met” him, I thought he seemed cool. After the day he signed my book and asked me my name and looked me in the eye? HolyholyholyHOLY! That was the best day of my life. He’s so amazing as an artist and writer. Bringing the characters I love to life. Without him, I wouldn’t have Zocopalypse. I can’t even imagine.

  As I sit the middle row of graduates (Miller, the eternal middle-of-the-alphabet name), I’m determined this will not be a repeat of The Great Fangirl Implosion of 2010. If I have the opportunity to meet Gabe after the ceremony, I won’t act like a moron. Swear.

  I try to focus on his words and not the dark suit jacket he’s wearing, or the funny way his hair looks since he tried to tame it or something for the ceremony.

  “I appreciate the administration bringing me back to speak to you today. Not to sound cheesy, but I owe a great deal of my success to my classes here. Mr. Waters, my drawing teacher, threatened to fail me for spending too much time on my comic and not enough time developing my skills in other areas. Due to his threat and my belligerent attitude, I entered the Young Artist Contest at Marvel. My assignment in class was to turn in a varied portfolio. I turned in the proof of my comic that won the award and was published later that year.” A couple students clap and yell praise from the crowd.

  “My years at ELSAD prepared me for art school and work outside of an academic setting. Granted, those three forced semesters of dance and drama didn’t help much, well, maybe in Issue 3[7],” he smiles, pushing his glasses up his nose a little. “Immersing myself in an atmosphere where students strived for creative success helped me more than I could have imagined. Always remember to push yourself. Your dreams. Your goals. Get outside the box society makes for you and that you make for yourself. Go out there and create.”

  He pauses and runs a hand through his hair, loosening it from its managed state. Again, he smiles. “Congratulations, graduates! Welcome to the real world!”

  g

  “Let’s go,” Iris says, nudging me in the ribs.

  “Now?” Gabe is surrounded by a dozen faculty members and fanboys in the lobby. He looks smaller down here, off the podium, and I can see he’s wearing sneakers and jeans with his suit jacket.

  “There is no time but now, come on.”

  I follow Iris and her dark braids, pushing through the crowd of families and friends. When she gets to the circle engulfing Gabe, she grabs my hand and pushes through a break between two of our classmates. I hunch down and follow her, popping up on the other side. When Iris wants something, nothing, including rudely busting through other people, will stop her.

  “I really love your work and used a portion of Issue 1 as an example on my graphic design final, comparing modern comic designs to earlier works,” Owen James says. He’s one of Reid’s best friends. Whatever. “I’m hoping to draft my own comic. I have this idea where this guy, an archeologist, is exposed to —“

  “That sounds amazing Owen, but really, Gabe has like, 10 minutes or something and he’s not here to listen to your comic book pitch,” Iris interjects. She holds up her phone and takes an unflattering picture of a stunned and confused Gabe.

  “Hey!” Owen argues, but she has inserted us in the limited space between Owen and Gabe.

  “Hi, I’m Iris and,” she drags me closer, “this is Ruby, and we’re big fans. Huge fans. In fact…”

  Mr. Long, our principal, appears. “Sorry Miss Johnson, but I need Mr. Foster to come with me.”

  “But I was just telling him about…“

  “Iris, the press are here and waiting for us.” Even the principal wants his five minutes of fame.

  “Sorry,” he says. He narrows his eyes at me and frowns. “Z.net, right?”

  Iris jumps up and down, “Right! Z.net!”

  “This way, Mr. Foster.”

  He offers us an apologetic smile and is taken away by Mr. Long. I know I’m standing like a deer in headlights. Gabe recognized me. From the video. He must have recognized me. There was no doubt.

  “Ruby!”

  “I know!”

  “Gabe Foster knows who we are.” She’s about to go running after him but the crowd swallows him up as he goes across the room.

  “He saw the video,” I say.

  “I’m going to go blog this right now,” she says, her fingers already on her phone. “And tweet this picture. I can’t believe we didn’t get a photo with him. I just saw him and my mind blanked and, holy crap, I can hardly remember what happened.”

  “Well,” I say, feeling a little dazed and confused myself. “We met Gabe Foster and kind of made fools of ourselves.”

  “But he recognized us! He recognized you!”

  I nod.

  “This may be the best day ever,” she says, her smile huge and wide.

  “It may just be.”

  g

  “Do you think he’ll sign autographs this year?” I ask Iris. We’re in a FantasyCon costume workshop we’ve created in my room. “Only we would get a chance to meet him up close and personal and blow it.”

  “Look, that was out of our control” she replies, while shredding an old pair of jeans. She’s dressing as Chloe[8]. “I wonder if anyone will mention the video in the panel.”

  “I’m sure everyone in the Zombie Parade has seen it. Right? Obviously the die-hards have. I still can’t believe we’re leading the parade!” The scene in our movie is early, before Alexandra developed her trademark look and picked her weapon of choice. A hatchet. I’m attempting her more iconic look this weekend. The jeans from the video are cut to shorts and frayed at the ends. Her kitty shirt is refashioned into a tank. Black boots that stop midway up my calves complete the look. Real weapons are not allowed into the Con, so I fashioned one out of paper mache.

  My mom pokes her head in the room, James Brown slipping through her feet. “Ready?” My mom’s aware of my obsession. Supportive? I guess. She’s tolerant at least. Our families gave us this weekend as a graduation present. Other
girls went on cruises and trips to Aruba, we chose FantasyCon.

  “Almost, Mom. Just making sure these outfits work.” I shift my tank a little. “What?”

  “She’s looking at your rack.” Thanks, Iris.

  “Language, Iris. But yes, I suppose I am. I don’t recall them being so noticeable.”

  My boobs are pretty awesome in my torn-in-all-the-right-places kitty shirt. “Victoria’s Secret,” I suggest.

  “Do you have to wear that?”

  Iris and I glance at one another and say, “Yes.”

  My mother sighs, gestures for us to sit on the edge of the bed and takes the desk chair for herself. She smoothes her yoga pants and gives us both a hard look. Oh boy, here it comes. Iris and I brace ourselves for the lecture we know she’s prepared.

  “I know you’re excited about this weekend.” (So! Excited!) “We trust you girls to behave at the convention and the hotel. The fact we’re allowing you to stay overnight, in a hotel room without an adult is pretty big.”

  “We know. Thank you, Mrs. Miller.” I nod in agreement while Iris works her charm. “My mom told us the same thing.”

  “No drinking. No drugs. No sex.” My mother ticks these off with her fingers. “No one in your room, male or female. Do not leave the convention center during the day and do not leave the hotel at night.” She stares us both in the eye. Years of working with children as a social worker makes her hard-assed. “I expect a phone call, from the hotel room, not your cell, at 1 a.m. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Totally,” I agree. People at the Con can be a little freaky. No need to be on the 11 o’clock news. “We’ll be ready in about an hour.”

  “Let me know,” she says and walks out of the room shaking her head at us.

  I fold my costume and place it in my suitcase. Then I pick up my favorite issue of Zocopalypse for Gabe to sign if we get the chance. The edges of the pages are dog-eared and there’s a Coke stain down the side. I can honestly say I love this book. I place it in my bag, between clothing for protection.