FanGirl

by Lawson, Angel

  “Ready?” I ask Iris.

  “You know it.”

  g

  [1] My arch nemesis.

  [2] Reid. My first boyfriend. The one I loved. The one who cheated on me. I hate him.

  [3] Lie: 60,000 and counting as of this morning.

  [4] AKA: Jerky-Jerkface.

  [5] Wyatt and Alexandra 4EVA

  [6] Four-day, 100,000-person convention of comics, movies and video games held each year. Fanboy/girl heaven.

  [7] Alexandra and Wyatt must convince a herd of zombies that they are also undead.

  [8] Chloe, age 22, Cole’s sister. Alexandra’s nemesis.

  Chapter 3

  I’m face first and under two pillows when the alarm begins shrieking.

  “What!?” Iris yells. She knocks the clock on the floor, but doesn’t actually turn it off. We’ve been napping since after dinner and now it’s almost 11 p.m. I’d be happy to sleep through the night. Who knew marching in a throng of zombies down the streets of Atlanta would zap my energy this much? Even the two Mountain Dews I had at lunch didn’t help.

  “Make it stop,” Iris says. Her voice is muffled through the weight of the pillows.

  My body feels like a brick. Like a brick weighed down by cement at the bottom of the ocean. “Want to keep sleeping.”

  The bed shifts and the obnoxious noise stops. “Come on, let’s get dressed.” She pulls the pillows off my head and the bright light from the lamp next to the bed assaults my eyes.

  “Uggghhhhh. I hate you.”

  “I love youuuu.” she says, closing herself in the bathroom.

  I roll onto my back and rub my face. Daytime at the Con was fun and informative. A nerd’s paradise. But nighttime? The stories are legendary. The amateurs go home and the die-hards stay the night. Tonight, we are die-hards!

  “I made you something for tonight,” Iris says. There is a soft thud on the bed. I pick up the scrap of cloth. It’s a tank top, just like the other one except white. The kitty face is a black iron-on transfer. I pull off my shirt and tug the new one over my head.

  “Um, this may be a little snug.” The white tank and black push-up bra have my boobs up to my chin. “Not to mention kinda whore-y.”

  “Ruby, it’s nighttime at the Con. Every other girl out there will be dressed up like some slutty version of Tinkerbell or an anime sex goddess. Alexandra is a warrior, but she’s also sexy as hell.” She crosses her arms and defiantly sets her jaw. “Why do you think she’s every fanboy’s fantasy? You’re hot and cute and you need to work it.”

  “I’ll wear it, but know I’m uncomfortable and I’m bringing a hoodie in my bag.”

  “Of course you are.” She rolls her eyes, but I see the smile of satisfaction on her lips. I’m not sure, but Iris may have turned into my pimp.

  An hour later, I strap my hatchet to my belt and we head to the elevator. In the shiny gold metal doors, I check out my makeup and hair. Iris managed to manipulate it into some kind of conflicting state of just got out of bed/just killed a dozen zombies mess. I admit it: I look pretty hot.

  With a loud bing! the elevator doors open to reveal a Wookie, the Green Lantern and some guy wrapped in foil whose eyes go straight to my chest. Iris and I keep our eyes on the ground, refusing to make contact. A surge of laughter is one glance away. The doors shut and the Green Lantern, whose tights are too tight, says, “Hey, I know you.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “You’re Alexshhandra.” I eye his “water bottle” with suspicion.

  “Yep. Zombie killer.” I tug on my hatchet and pretend the tinfoil guy isn’t staring at my chest. “That’s me.”

  “You kick ass.” The Wookie nods in agreement. Foil guy continues to stare at my boobs and I shift further away.

  The elevator stops at the atrium. The second the doors open, Iris grabs my hand and the weirdoes are forgotten as we step into the most magical room ever.

  “Holy. Nerdfest.”

  The first words out of my mouth are, “Oh my God. Where is her shirt?” I point across the room to the girl in question since there is more than one semi-naked woman in sight.

  “There isn’t one. I think,” Iris narrows her eyes, “that’s tape?”

  Sure enough, those are tape-covered nipples. I palm my boobs in sympathy.

  “Ouch. Okay, don’t look now but behind that column I can see two half-naked girls and a guy groping each other on the couch.” Iris turns before I finish the sentence.

  “I said don’t look!”

  “How do you not look at that?” She’s right. My eyes are glued to the quasi-orgy. Oh my God! I was at a quasi-orgy!

  “He’s kind of hot.”

  “You think everyone is kind of hot,” I say, tugging on her arm. “Let’s mingle. Maybe a couple of those zombies will be worth chatting up.”

  “You and I could both use a summer fling. Well, I need a summer fling. You need a rebound. What better place to start looking than here?”

  We stroll through the crowd, absorbing everything. Nothing I’ve heard prepared me for this insane, awesome, amazing freak show. Loud music pulses and we stop to take pictures of all the incredible costumes. Even with my plunging neckline, Iris and I have on comparably tame outfits, but we do see security talk to more than one person about their (lack of) dress and public affection. I learn more in three minutes about sex education than I ever did in school.

  “There’s Reid. Let’s go make him jealous. Again,” she says. He’s standing with a group of zombies from the parade, including some kids from school. He has gobs of white/gray paint on his face. Personally, I think he’s using it to cover the green shade of envy that he’s worn since our video hit the web.

  “Go ahead. I’m going to get a drink first. You want a bottle of water?”

  She and I go in opposite directions. I manage to get about five feet into the crowd near the bar when I realize I’m trapped in a thick throng of people. It only takes a second to see that this is not where I want or need to be. One look at the faces around me and my Spidey senses flash on alert. The crowd behaves more like a storm than anything else. A storm of sex-starved, creeper geeks. In a panic, I push backwards, but the path I came from is blocked.

  “Alexandra!” Oh God, they recognize me. Not just one guy, but several turn in my direction, leering smiles on their made-up faces.

  “Excuse me,” I say, trying to push through the guys without actually touching anyone. But then it starts. The pick-up lines.

  Viking: “Do you have any zombie in you? Would you like some?”

  Gross.

  Spiderman: “Someone must have shot you with a phaser set on stunning.”

  Eyeroll. That one’s not even a zombie joke.

  Fabio-esque demon hunter: “If I told you that you had a great body, would you hold it against me and let me eat it?”

  Okay, that one got a laugh. I’m the type of girl you can impress with zombie pick-up lines. But then they get a little too close and the room feels way too stuffy. A guy dressed like The Hulk grabs the back of my shirt and another pushes his hips into mine.

  “Hey!” I warn, holding up my hands to push them back, but this only encourages them. I’m in a room of predators; pervy guys who spend more time online than they do in reality. It’s like the time Wyatt and Alexandra found themselves in the middle of a deserted school surrounded by a swarm of the Living Dead[1]. I reek of teenage sex and comic book fantasy and, from the looks on their faces, they can smell the fear on me.

  “Once rigor mortis sets in I can go all —,” My eyes flash to the hand cupping his junk.

  “Shut up, moron.” A strong hand clasps around my wrist.

  “But, that’s Alexandra!”

  “I know who she is.” The guy’s free hand pushes him out of the way and he whispers in my ear, “This way.”

  I am not in a place to object, so I follow him, tripping over the feet of everyone around us. This guy could be as much of a creeper as the rest, but getting out of that situation is
crucial. My savior (I’m calling him that until he proves otherwise) is on a mission and I let him drag me through the crowd. All I can see is the back of his head. He’s not in costume, but a baseball cap meets the top of his ears. His dark brown hair curls at his neck, and his hand pinches the skin on my wrist because he’s holding on so tight.

  “Slow down,” I say, stumbling over a pair of red platform shoes stretched across the carpet by a girl sitting on the floor. “Sorry,” I call over my shoulder.

  The wrist-grabber doesn’t stop until we’re in a quiet(er) corner. When we get there, I yank my arm away and step back. Although I appreciate his help, the last thing I need is to be alone with a psycho.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. I stop short. I peer at him. I know his voice. And his face. And his favorite book, movie and birthday.

  Book: On The Road by Jack Kerouac

  Movie: Attack of the 50 Foot Woman

  DOB: August 11

  “Oh my God. You’re Gabe Foster.”

  “And you’re Ruby Miller.” He picks up my arm again and touches the red skin. “I’m sorry. I saw you in that crowd and you looked like you needed some help.”

  “Excuse me, what?”

  “Um, you’re Ruby. I’m Gabe. Needing help?” I stare at him. Gawk really. And he stares/gawks back, kind of shuffling his feet in all the awkwardness.

  To break it, because I’m smooth and all, I say, “I love your novels!” The pitch of my voice is two octaves too high.

  He eyes me head to toe. “Yeah, I guessed as much.” Then he gestures to a red velvet couch near the glass-walled balcony that overlooks the second floor. “I’m sitting over there, watching the crowd. Want to join me or get a drink or something?”

  “I’m not 21.” Damn compulsive confessor. His eyebrows raise and I realize he didn’t actually ask me that. He’s not 21 either, but he lives in New York and is famous so he must to go to bars and stuff. “I’m mean, I’m 18 and out of high school. So, technically not jailbait anymore but…”

  “Good to know,” he says, and walks to the couch.

  I follow him because Gabriel Foster, creator of Zocopalypse, my hero and inappropriately-out-of-my-league-crush, wants me to sit with him and there’s no way in hell I’m going to say no.

  “How do you know my name?”

  He laughs. “Everyone knows your name.” I must look skeptical because he adds, “Everyone in my world. We’ve seen your video. Plus, you know, I kind of met you at the graduation the other day. I feel bad about that. Mr. Long was really determined to get that interview. I think he’s hoping for some funding or something.”

  “Right,” I say. Then ask, “So you’ve really seen the video?”

  “Sure. A dozen times. Plus, your fansite is awesome. You guys do a great job.”

  Um, what? I knew his website had linked it, but Gabe himself? Mind melt.

  “The video has been really successful. We track all that kind of stuff. Fan pages, videos, artwork, posts on Twitter.”

  “Oh,” I say, “Sure, I guess that makes sense. The video did okay. We were surprised.”

  “Over 1,000,000 hits in a week. That is beyond successful, Ruby.”

  He adjusts the brim of his hat, making me look at his face. Gabe is cute; I know this. He’s working a hipster look. The quasi-beard. Blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses and some kind of touristy trucker hat. I think there’s a cartoon pig dancing on the front. He’s wearing a red and white plaid shirt frayed around the collar. He looks a little bit like a frat boy, but I know better. He’s a successful art school drop-out. And he just admitted he watched our amateur video! Iris. Is. Going. To. Die.

  Iris. I look around the atrium. I see her across the room waving her hands in Reid’s face. They’re arguing. Again.

  “You know them?”

  “The one dressed as Chloe is my best friend, Iris. She was with me the other day. She directed and filmed the video. The one she’s fighting with is Reid. He goes to our school and is a douche.” Yeah, I said douche in front of Gabe Foster. Awesome. Good thing my face is covered in enough fake dirt to hide the blush.

  “Ah, okay, well, anyway, her costume looks good,” he says. “Did you guys make them?”

  “Yeah, I took costume design in school. It was cool.”

  “Oh, so design was your focus?”

  “No, visual arts, but I kind of took a little bit of everything – drama, dance, all that.”

  “Did you have Bowman for drawing?”

  “Yeah, he hated me. Said I talked too much.”

  “He loved me.”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course he did.”

  He smiles and again we slip into awkward. Somehow I’m sitting with this guy, this guy I have a fandom crush on, because he is so amazing and artistic. It’s too surreal that we’re casually talking about school and the video. What. The. Hell? “So you take drama classes?”

  “Some. I’ve been in some plays. It’s kind of required – plus it’s what everyone does. You know, art school nerds.” I explain. “Acting isn’t my passion, obviously. Playing Alexandra was just for fun. The idea of seeing her in a movie or on TV would be amazing. The whole story is great – she’s so badass. We wanted it to come to life and give people something to watch, you know? So, Iris and I just decided to go for it. For the fansite. She can use it on her applications, too,” I say. “I know it’s kind of lame.”

  Gabe laughs. “No, not lame at all. It’s pretty cool. I mean, it can be weird having people so into something I created, but I get it. If acting isn’t your passion, what is?”

  “Ah, yeah, well, the jury’s still out on that one. College is the plan.” Also, did he call me cool? He did.

  “College is fun.”

  “Ha, you dropped out.” Abort! Stalker alert! “I mean, I read that.”

  “True, but I found my passion and I dropped out to go to work. You’ll find what interests you I’m sure,” he says. “Anyway, thanks for making the film. I enjoyed watching it.”

  “Thanks for inspiring us – and writing the most hardcore female comic character in the history of all graphic novels.”

  “You’re welcome. You guys did an awesome job bringing her to life.”

  Awkward moment of thanking. Could it be longer? Yes. Yes, it could. I add one more. “Thanks for getting me away from those losers earlier. I told Iris this shirt was too whore-ish.”

  Gabe laughs again and he struggles to keep his eyes off my chest. Fail. I reach for my bag and pull out my jacket. “Alex wears a jacket in Issue 3: Winter Storm[2],” I justify. “I don’t know why she and Wyatt didn’t realize the zombies would reanimate once the temperature rose.”

  “I think they had other things on their mind[3].”

  Oh. Right. Sex.

  And again, I walk right into the awkward. After 10 minutes, Gabe Foster:

  Saved me from a group of horny dorks

  Listened to my fangirl ramblings

  Checked out my boobs

  Watched as I fumbled around sex talk and my douche ex

  OhmyGodmakemestop. I need to walk away now. I reach for my bag on the floor. “I guess I should go. Iris is probably wondering where I am.”

  We glance at Iris. She’s moved away from Reid and is now in a very close conversation with a super-buff demon warrior of some kind. Is that a 12-pack on his stomach or mutant ribs?

  “Or not,” Gabe says.

  “Or not.” I slide off my chair anyway. “Nice meeting you.”

  Gabe stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. “You, too.”

  I give him a smile. For a brief moment, I consider hugging him and asking if he would sign my boobs before I leave, but that feels inappropriate, so I walk away.“Ruby!” He calls. “Are you coming to the panel tomorrow?”

  Do zombies eat brains[4]?

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll get you and Iris press seats up front, okay?”

  I can’t contain the smile. “Up front?”

  He smiles back. All c
ute and scruffy faced. “Sure. You can invite the other kid too, if you want.”

  “Oh, no. Not Reid. He’s not invited.” He will be so pissed. “Ever.”

  “No douches. Got it.” Again, he’s all smiley and it makes me smiley which is dumb because he’s old and out of my league and, God, I’m a dork. “Stay out of trouble,” he says.

  I zip up the front of my jacket all the way to my neck to prove I’m a good kid and walk away. I have one thought on my mind: Iris. Is. Going. To. Die.

  g

  [1] Screwed.

  [2] Alexandra and Wyatt have a moment of reprieve when a freak ice storm hits and the zombies are frozen solid.

  [3] Sex.

  [4] Yes. Well, no. Not in Zocopalypse mythology, they just bite to infect. But in this case, yes.

  Chapter 4

  I’m right and wrong. Iris isn’t going to die. I am. She’s going to kill me. She’s more than a little annoyed at me for not calling her over during my meet up with Gabe. I realize what I’ve done the second I tell her. I may be the worst friend ever.

  She makes all this clear after we get to our room. We go to bed exhausted and angry with one another. Now, Iris sits on the chair in the corner of the hotel room with a cup of coffee on the windowsill and her computer on her lap.

  “Did you even sleep?” I ask, rubbing my hands over my eyes.

  “A little. I want to get these images up from the parade. Almost done.” Her tone is stiff. She’s still angry. Despite this, I know she’s determined to get as much posted on the website as she can before we leave for the day. Zocopalypse is the first big panel, starting at 10 a.m. We plan on being in line at eight even though Gabe offered us the press seats. What if he forgets? Our conversation from the night before feels like a dream. By the time I walked (ran) over to Iris and pointed to the couch near the balcony, he was gone. Our space on the couch was filled by two very affectionate girls dressed like Sailor Moon.