The Geek's Guide to Unrequited Love

by Sarvenaz Tash

  The next day, her grandmother was released from the hospital. The doctors had tested for a stroke, a heart attack, and a myriad of other things. It might just be an isolated incident, they finally concluded. Otherwise, they had no answers. But somehow, when I woke up the next day, a different sort of answer had settled into my heart—one to a question I didn’t know I was asking. I couldn’t stop thinking about Roxana’s tearstained cheek on my chest or the feel of her hand pressed into mine, which felt like clay that had hardened into permanence. I couldn’t stop feeling a sense of pride and awe that I was the first person she’d called, that I got to be a strong and calming presence through something that was so terrifying for her—just like she was there for me after my mom died. Within days, my feelings had fermented and fortified until I finally had to acknowledge them for what they really were: I was head over heels in love.

  “Merci, Mamanbazorg,” Roxy says now, taking me out of my reverie and putting her hand lightly on her grandmother’s. Then she turns to me to translate what Mrs. Tehrani just told her in Farsi. “She said that soon people will be lining up for our autographs at the convention.”

  I grin at Mrs. Tehrani, and she winks back at me. “Merci, Khanoom Tehrani,” I say, and her grin gets bigger. Roxana’s family never seems to stop delighting at the five words of Farsi I’ve picked up over the years. And I can’t say I tire of getting their stamp of approval, either.

  “Show-off,” Samira mutters, giving me a playful nudge, and then, louder so that her family can hear, “You sure you don’t want to go to Farsi school instead of me tomorrow, Graham? You can learn lots of wonderful words there.” I stick my tongue out at her when her family isn’t looking.

  After my third helping, I finally throw in the towel on trying to fit any more food into my stomach. We’re clearing up the dinner plates when my phone buzzes.

  It’s a notification that someone has sent me a direct message through the Z-men message boards. It’s a video message, and I realize after a second of staring at the sender’s username who it must be from. Amelia.

  “Oh my God,” I say to Roxy. “It looks like she sent me a video.”

  “Who?”

  “The girl I met at . . .” I almost say speed dating, but I catch myself just in time as her dad goes to take the salad dressing from where it’s tucked under my arm. “That thing Felicia signed us up for,” I finish, hoping that sounds vague enough to be misconstrued as school-related. “Can we go watch it on your computer?”

  “Sure,” Roxy says, and the two of us work double-time to finish loading the dishwasher before we race up to her room.

  “This girl I met at speed dating had a Zinc wristband,” I tell Roxy as we’re firing up her computer. “I found out she’s a Z-man, and she just sent me a video. I wonder if it’s from the panel. . . .” I know that earlier I decided I didn’t want to see or hear anything to do with this panel ever again, but things seem different now that it’s just Roxy and me in her room, sharing in the anticipation of whatever this could be.

  Being in Roxy’s room gives me a pang lately. Of course I’ve been here hundreds of times before, but it only recently occurred to me that her parents probably wouldn’t let her have any other boy up here. Maybe that should make me feel special, but instead, I have mixed feelings about it. Mostly because I think even her family doesn’t consider me a real boy . . . not the kind who might have anything other than friendly designs on their daughter, that is.

  We use my log-in on z-men.net and read the message together. Earhart5921 writes:

  They were very strict about camera phones. I tried to sneak in a longer video but was almost immediately spotted by security and had to quickly hide my phone before I got kicked out. So I only have four seconds of video to share . . . I thought you might want to see it anyhow. Oh, and please don’t share this online or anything! I don’t want it to somehow get traced back to me. ~Amelia.

  With trembling fingers, I click on the Play button of the attached video. “Hi, I’m Bob,” a man with tidy gray hair and an unassuming blue polo shirt says before the image goes all lopsided and cuts to black.

  Roxana and I stare at the computer screen and then at each other. Before I can think to do it, Roxana has rehit the Play button. Bob says hello from behind his table again. And again and again and again.

  After we’ve watched it nearly twenty times, Roxana finally turns to me. “That was really him . . . ,” she says.

  “And he said something!” I continue. “He said his name!”

  There hasn’t been video of the man in twenty years. This is precious. This is sacred. And, for this moment, it is ours.

  So we discuss it. How normal he looks. How soft-spoken. How no one would ever be able to tell that under that tuft of gray hair lies the brain of a creative genius. We find we can stretch that four seconds of video into an hour and a half of solid conversation, before I realize that I have to get home at some point tonight. Probably even the Afsaris have their limit as to how late a boy can be up in their daughter’s room, even if that boy is just me.

  That night at home, I write Amelia back to thank her profusely; it was beyond nice of her to do that for a stranger:

  You are a prince (princess?) among Z-men. This will probably be the highlight of my year. (Though please don’t ruin it for me by reminding me that the highlight of YOUR year will actually be seeing Zinc IN PERSON. ;-))

  And then, lying in bed, I think about watching the video with Roxana, everything we’ve shared today and over the years. Out of the millions of memories, I pluck a shining one, when she first called me a Weasley, one of our earliest inside jokes. I never really minded because Ron was always my favorite character; he was the funny one. It’s only now that I realize—he’s also the one who got the girl.

  I turn to my side and stare at my moon-splashed bookshelf. The two shelves that are exactly at my eyeline when I lie down are that way by design. They hold my mom’s books, the ones she wrote. Four slim volumes of critical essays on the works of filmmakers John Hughes, Cameron Crowe, Amy Heckerling, and Nora Ephron. Next to them is her scrapbook of movie stubs and short reviews, which I’ve kept up and added to through the years with ones of my own. And then, surrounding them and on the shelf underneath, her DVDs. Not all her DVDs, because there were too many to fit on a bookshelf. Most of them remain boxed in our basement somewhere.

  But her favorites. The ones that eventually became Roxana’s favorites. And, of course, mine. Sometimes I feel like Roxana and my mom sharing their love of movies like Sixteen Candles, Say Anything . . . , Clueless, When Harry Met Sally . . . it’s like they found a way to know each other beyond the grave.

  I didn’t get it at first when we were nine and Roxana saw the DVDs and asked if we could watch Mom’s favorite movies. I didn’t think it would come to mean anything. But when she just genuinely loved them, and she made me love them, it was, in a small way, like a piece of Mom was there—in her passions, which had found their way to becoming my best friend’s passions too.

  I think of all the romantic comedies my mom studied, critiqued, and wrote about. The really great ones. And I realize that tomorrow there are more chances to bring one of them to life. After all, the John Hughes retrospective and panel will be happening, and that ties Roxy and me together almost as much as Zinc does.

  Tomorrow, I think as I drift off to sleep. Tomorrow I will tell her.

  Chapter 14

  Is It

  Really

  Extortion If

  It’s in

  the Name

  of Love?

  “AND YOU DIDN’T LOOK AT today’s schedule, right?” I ask Roxana for the third time.

  She stops right in front of the glass doors, looks me straight in the eyes, and grabs me by the lapels of the mustard-yellow leather jacket I’m wearing on top of my Deadpool T-shirt. I was inspired to dig into my closet after reminiscing about our seventh-grade Halloween, but the jacket is the only part of Charlie Noth’s outfit that still fits me—mo
stly because it was enormous on me back then and I can actually fill it out now, thankfully. “For the last time, Posner, no,” Roxana says. “And can we talk about what kind of implicit trust I’m putting in you that I won’t be missing anything crucial because you want to surprise me with something?”

  I grin down at her. “You won’t miss anything crucial. I promise.”

  “I better not.” She pushes me away lightly.

  “Guys, let’s stand away from the door,” Casey, ever cognizant of con protocol, chimes in. It’s just us three here today, the true NYCC nerds.

  “Hi!” a voice says, and I see Roxy’s face immediately get simultaneously two shades brighter and pinker.

  Oh. And I guess Devin.

  He gives a hug to Roxy and a friendly wave to Casey and me, and it’s only then that I realize Roxy may have taken more care than usual with her appearance. There’s no cosplay for her today. She’s wearing a red polka-dotted dress instead of her normal T-shirt and jeans. It’s not even a comic-related dress, unless she’s going for a Minnie Mouse vibe, I think uncharitably. She’s also wearing a bit more makeup than usual . . . not that she needs it.

  “You would be proud to know that I read the first three issues of Althena last night. Downloaded them as soon as I got home,” Devin says to Roxana, and her face brightens up even more.

  “And . . .” She coaxes out his response.

  “Brilliant, of course. You were right.” He turns to me and grins, and I barely muster a sarcastic smile back. Like I really need his stamp of approval on just my very favorite thing ever.

  Devin turns back to his rapt audience instead. “The story is wonderful, but his color work . . .”

  “Oh. My. God. I know, right?”

  “I mean, how does he get it to be so luminous? I was trying to figure out the medium—”

  “It’s gouache,” Roxana interrupts him.

  “Gouache? No.”

  “Oh, yes. Zinc was one of the first to popularize paint in sequential art.” Roxana nods vigorously and they immediately go on to have a deep discussion about Zinc’s use of cadmium yellow.

  I stand there agape and useless, and it’s only Casey’s adherence to his schedule that finally gets us out of this nightmare discussion. He has a video game reveal he wants to get to in ten minutes, and the original plan was for me and Roxana to tag along. Of course, now we have a tall British boy-shaped tumor with us too.

  Casey and I end up leading the way to the Electronic Arts booth. I hear Devin telling Roxana all he’s planning for today, but I’m too wrapped up in my own dark thoughts to realize he’s holding a schedule in front of her.

  “I’m not sure what to do at five p.m.,” he’s saying. “There’s a couple of cool things. Probably the Adult Swim panel. But there’s also a John Hughes retrospective—”

  “WHAT?” Roxana practically screams, and I stop dead in my tracks causing her to bump into me.

  I turn around slowly and see her eyes shining brightly at me. “Oh, Graham! That’s the surprise, isn’t it?”

  I swallow hard. All this time I managed to keep it a secret. All this time. I turn to Devin, and never before have I wished so hard to have Cyclops’s optic blast ability at my disposal.

  But Roxana is squealing and hugging me and I have to bury my resentment quickly. “Yeah,” I croak out. “That was it.”

  “Oh, Graham! That’s amazing. Wait, can I see the schedule now?”

  I shrug my assent because what does it really matter at this point, and Roxana grabs the schedule from Devin.

  “So I take it you’re a fan?” Devin grins rakishly, but for once Roxana ignores him.

  “Oh my gosh. ‘Molly Ringwald, Jon Cryer, Anthony Michael Hall, Andrew McCarthy, and Pretty in Pink director Howard Deutch discuss the work of the venerable writer/director/producer John Hughes—the godfather of teen romantic comedies. To be followed by a screening of Pretty in Pink,’ ” she reads. “That is amazing!” She grins up at me, and it’s hard in that moment not to smile back.

  “I put the panel in my schedule too,” Casey says. “Though I’ll have to skip the screening.”

  I look at Casey confusedly as we get back in step to head toward the game reveal. “Really? I didn’t think that panel would really be your scene.”

  Casey looks back at Roxana in as unstealthy a way as possible and sees that she’s once again in discussion with Devin, before stepping a bit closer to me and whispering, “Well, isn’t that where you’re going to tell her?”

  “I . . .” I do a quick check back to Roxy too and catch her and Devin laughing together. “Don’t know,” I finally finish truthfully. “But wait. You want to be there for that?”

  Casey shrugs. “Honestly, there just happens to be nothing else that interesting going on at the time, so I figured why not. Plus Hughes is cool. And oh, I thought maybe I could pick up some pointers. You know, in case Callie and I ever happen.”

  Wow. I can’t believe he’s still on that. “Why do you like her so much?” I blurt out.

  “She’s hot. Don’t you think?”

  “Gross. No, I don’t think that.”

  “Well, if she wasn’t your stepsister, you would,” he says firmly.

  We’ve now finally gotten to the EA booth and found some room to stand in the back while we wait for the preview to start. “Okay, fine. Let’s say, objectively, you’re right and she’s attractive. You guys have nothing in common. Believe me, I know. Because she and I have nothing in common.”

  Casey considers this for a second. “Is that what you really think it’s all about? Having things in common?”

  “Of course!” I practically shout before catching myself and quickly glancing around at Roxy, who is, luckily, still not paying attention to us. “I mean, after all the physical stuff, you do actually have to talk to them, you know,” I say more quietly.

  “But, I mean, do you think it’s so great to have everything in common? Shouldn’t you have a few different interests?” He nods back toward Roxy, and I scowl.

  “We have some different interests,” I mutter.

  He looks at me dubiously. “Like British guys,” he says without preamble. Or, unfortunately, malice.

  I grit my teeth and lightly shove him anyway. “Uncool, dude. And why would I take love advice from you, by the by?”

  He shrugs, unfazed. “Fair point.”

  The presentation starts then and we spend the next twenty minutes watching some ultraviolent but beautifully rendered cut scenes and a demo of the gameplay. Then the audience is invited to stand in what is looking to be a two-to-three-hour line for the opportunity to slaughter some aliens in glorious Ultra HD for five minutes.

  “What do you think? Should we brave the line?” Devin asks.

  I expect Roxana to say no way, but she just nods brightly. “Sure!”

  Really? I know for a fact there are hundreds of things here that would be way more her speed than Mars Massacre.

  “Hey, Graham. Don’t you have that Building Characters panel in fifteen minutes?” Casey asks.

  I do, and one of my favorite writers is going to be talking craft there, but . . . I don’t think I should leave Roxana and Devin alone together yet again.

  “Oh! Is that the one with Suellen Ling?” Roxana asks before I get a chance to divulge my plans to skip the panel.

  “Yup,” Casey responds. “It’s actually on my schedule too. It’s a really great lineup. Peterson-Davitz is also gonna be there.”

  Great. Now I can’t back out without it looking too suspicious. Roxy knows this is a convention highlight for me.

  “So see you later, then?” Roxana says brightly, and I mutely nod, cursing Ling and Peterson-Davitz and, most especially, Casey Zucker right now.

  It’s only as Casey starts walking away and I feel obliged to follow him that I remember to at least make plans to meet up again. “Meet you back here at noon?” I call out to Roxana, unwisely walking backward across the crowded show floor.

  “You got it,
” she calls out, and I turn around about 2.5 seconds away from walking into, and possibly demolishing, an enormous homemade Optimus Prime consisting mostly of cardboard. I mutter an apology but get cursed out anyway as I follow in Casey’s wake.

  Saturday is understandably one of the convention’s busiest days, so the floor is even more packed than yesterday. We’re trickling along behind a group of six or seven Tetris blocks who keep getting stopped so that people can take their photos. But every time we try to pass them, we’re thwarted by a Spidey or Leia or their ilk heading in the other direction.

  The third time we get blockblocked (the new term I just coined for being barricaded by a 1980s video game graphic), I let out a loud sigh that fogs up the glass of the booth I happen to be standing next to. I peer into the case as my breath dissipates.

  And there, appearing as if out of the fog machine of a Whitesnake music video, is a small collection of Zinc memorabilia. Two original covers and an original page. They each have a price tag on them. The covers say they’re starting at the exorbitant price of $1,500, while the page starts at a slightly more reasonable $500. I take a closer look at the page and my heart nearly stops. Holy crud. It’s from Roxana’s favorite issue, the penultimate one of the Althena series. It’s also probably Althena and Charlie’s most romantic scene, at the moment when Althena is called back to her planet and Charlie realizes she’s about to be gone forever. That’s when he says the line about her being the most beautiful thing he’s never seen. It’s the closest they ever came to saying “I love you.”

  I look up at the booth and see the sign then: SUN AUCTIONS. ORIGINAL COMIC ART AUCTION SUNDAY AT 3:30 P.M.

  “I have to buy this,” I mutter to really no one, though I eventually realize that Casey is still beside me. So I turn to him and reiterate my vow. “I have to.”

  This is it. The Zinc panel didn’t pan out. And my John Hughes surprise is ruined. But I’ll buy this, and then I’ll say to Roxy, “Imagine it’s me and you on this page. You’re Althena and I’m Charlie. Only instead of me almost saying ‘I love you,’ I’m here, saying it to you for real.” I picture it perfectly. After the auction. The two of us in an empty conference room here at NYCC. Me presenting her with the page (enclosed in a hard plastic case, of course), her falling into my arms, the music swelling . . .