“Ships them?” Mom asks.
“You know, it’s, like, short for relationship.”
“Okay…” Mom nods, keeping her eyes on the road, but I don’t think she really gets it.
“Like how some people might ship Harry and Hermione, because they want them to be together forever and ever. It’s like that, only I ship Smokey and Heart.”
“Well, I ship myself with your dad,” Mom says. “Or maybe Barack Obama.”
“Okay, ew, and also that’s not really how shipping works.”
“I wouldn’t want to split up him and Michelle, though,” she says.
Very considerate. “I’d join your ship, but I’m really just focused on slash at the moment.”
“And slash is…”
“The gay stuff.”
“Right.” She takes her eyes off the road for a second to look at me. “So these guys, Smokey and Heart, they’re gay?”
“On the show? Well, no. Maybe. We don’t know. So far they’ve only dated women, but some people think they’re going to get together in the season finale,” I tell her. “They should, anyway. It’s the only obvious thing to do with all the sexual tension they have.”
“Oh.” She frowns. “So you ship them, but they’re not even gay?”
“They might be bisexual!”
“But they haven’t said so?”
“Mom, you don’t understand, they’re meant to be together.”
Mom gives me a look out of the side of her eyes. “Hon, is there anything you want to tell me?”
“What?” I stare at her, and she raises her eyebrows innocently.
“I’m just asking, that’s all. That’s my job, to ask you about yourself.”
It’s not the first time she’s asked me if I’m gay, but every time it makes me more exasperated. I just wish she’d stop prying.
“Just because you ship slash doesn’t make you gay, okay? Lots of people do it,” I say, then sigh and look out the window. “If you watched the show, you’d understand.”
“Okay,” she says, and leaves it alone.
I’ve seen the queer kids on Tumblr, with their proud statements on their profiles and their pictures throwing rainbow glitter at Pride. I get it, I’m happy they know themselves. But I don’t understand how anyone gets to that point. Did they just wake up one day and say, I see it now, I’m definitely gay! Or was it a long, slow, difficult process? And if it was long and slow, how did they eventually know they’d reached the end of it? Honestly, I can’t really imagine putting on some rainbow suspenders and going to a Pride parade with those kids. I also can’t really imagine putting on a cheerleading outfit and going to a football game like the straight girls from high school. Maybe I’m not gay or straight or bi or anything. Maybe I’m just nothing.
We pull up to the hotel and I can already see people coming out and headed for the convention down the street. I see a tiny woman dressed like one of the Ghostbusters and I feel a warmth inside of me. These, these are the people who are like me.
Once we get upstairs to our room, I fling my duffel onto the hotel bed and go straight to the window. Throwing open the blinds, I can see we have a full view of the convention center across the street. There are already so many people down there, picking up their badges, taking selfies, convention-ing. I’m itching to join them. They all look like they have friends with them, and I’ll just be with my mom. But still.
Mom comes out of the bathroom wearing a mom swimsuit. “I’m gonna check out the hot tub,” she says.
“You’re not coming with me?”
“How are you gonna make friends with your mother hanging around? Besides, I’m not actually here for the convention, I just had to get out of Pine Bluff for a while,” she says, slipping a shower cap on. “Don’t do drugs. Unless it seems like everyone else is doing it. Then make sure you know the name of everything you take so you can tell the EMTs later.” She slips into a fluffy white towel and winks at me. “And don’t tell your father.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t exactly looking forward to having her tailing me around the convention, asking questions, but somehow now that she’s not coming, I feel a little intimidated. Everyone else will be with someone and I’ll be alone.
“Hey, are you gonna ask any questions at the panel?” she asks.
“Oh god, no.”
“Why not, this is your chance, right? Tell that Jamie fella what you think should happen in the finale, face-to-face.”
“Oh my god, Mom, go away now.” Yeah, I can just see her waving her arms during the Q&A and forcing them to call on me. I decide it’s definitely better she’s not coming.
Mom shrugs. “Suit yourself. Have fun out there!”
She sweeps away in search of the hot tub.
I take in the scene at the Boise Convention Center as I cross the street. The building isn’t much to look at—a big corporate-looking slab of concrete and glass—but today the premises are alive, crawling with other weirdos who have chosen this place to spend their Saturday.
I push through the glass front doors, and the noise overwhelms me. People talking, cameras going off, somewhere in the distance, lightsabers fire up and I turn to watch a full-grown Kylo Ren cosplayer battle a toddler dressed as Rey as everyone in the vicinity melts at the adorableness. There’s no one for me to share the moment with, so I make a mental memory of it. Maybe I can tell Mom about it later tonight. Or Joanie, when I get back home. I’m not sure Joanie’s interested in Star Wars, but who doesn’t love stories about little kids?
The people are flowing around me and I realize I’m causing a traffic jam, so I move toward a column, press my back into it, and take in the scene. There’s an energy in this place, and it doesn’t even matter that the carpet is ugly and the fluorescent lights wash out everyone’s skin—it’s beautiful. The whole lobby is humming with excited fans—I see lots of young people, but also middle-aged couples, moms and dads with tiny kids. I see every body type, every fashion style, and, like, so much more racial diversity than you’d ever find in Pine Bluff.
And then there are the cosplayers. There’s a guy sitting against the wall who’s dressed as Black Lightning, chatting with a female Winter Soldier. In the line to pick up badges, I see a very tall Brienne of Tarth laughing with a short black Hermione Granger. By the stairs, I smile as I watch a Waverly Earp spot a Nicole Haught across the room and dash over to greet her and take a picture. My Demon Heart T-shirt doesn’t even raise an eyebrow here.
Against the wall, I see little pods of friends sitting in circles. At one pod, they’re splitting a pizza while one woman talks animatedly, gesturing wildly with a slice in her hand as the rest of the group looks on, nodding furiously between bites of pepperoni. I recognize the image of an “overexcited fan” immediately, but for some reason it doesn’t feel embarrassing here. The woman isn’t downplaying how excited she is about whatever she’s talking about. She’s just 100 percent geeking out, and her friends love her for it.
That’s when it really hits me. There are absolutely no Kyle Cunninghams here. There are no Andrea Garcias. There isn’t a single John Deere hat. There’s no shame.
These people get it. These people get me.
I want to cry. I want to shout. I grin like an idiot to myself and tuck my head down so no one wonders what I’m smiling at. I realize I need to find the line for the Demon Heart panel. My heart zips because I remember suddenly that Forest and Rico are somewhere in this building, getting ready for their panel. And I get to see them in just over an hour. How could I forget? The best is still to come.
WE’RE SUPPOSED TO be making our way through the service corridors to VIP registration, but Rico has taken a detour because the guy couldn’t follow simple instructions if they were tattooed on his arm. Promising me that he’s “done this before,” he pushes through a pair of doors and I hear people milling below us. Lots of people.
“Check it out,” he says, pulling me toward a balcony that overlooks the enormous main hall. I peek over the railing
and…wow.
I mean, okay, people-wise it isn’t that many. Wouldn’t even put a dent in OU stadium. But they’re packed in, and excited, and loud. Like this is the social event of the year in Boise for these people, which it probably is.
They’re also all dressed like it’s the Halloween dance at the United Methodist Church, which is to say they’re in real costumes, not sexed-up versions of everyday professions. Some of the costumes I recognize—there’s a lady who’s a dead ringer for Doc from Back to the Future standing by the entrance with a guy who looks like a hipster millennial version of Jughead Jones from the Archie comics—but most of them, I have no idea who they’re supposed to be. I point at a girl with elaborate face makeup and a dark, witchy outfit.
“Good god, how long do you think that took? She looks like she stepped out of a horror movie,” I mumble to Rico.
Rico drops his mouth open in shock. “Don’t tell me you don’t know Dark Willow!” He grasps his chest. Because of course he knows every character’s name here. “Willow Rosenberg? From Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Season six? Oh my god, Forest, what have you been doing with your life?”
“Dude, auditioning,” I say. I don’t have time to catch up on old shows that were on the air when I was in diapers. I push myself away from the railing. I’m ready to go find registration now.
“Well, I know what I’m getting you for Christmas,” Rico says, not leaving his lookout. “All seven seasons, and I’m not leaving your place until you’ve watched every episode. Yes, even the ones with Riley.”
“C’mon, dude, let’s go.” I’m eager to get out of another conversation where Rico (intentionally or not) reminds me how much older and more experienced he is than me, but Rico’s off pointing at another fan.
“Hey, look at that Groot!” he says delightedly.
I follow his gaze and see a guy dressed like a giant tree. “Wow,” I say. “He hasn’t had a free weekend in a year.”
“Tell me you know that one,” Rico pleads.
“Of course. From the first Guardians of the Galaxy. Made almost a hundred million opening weekend. Launched Chris Pratt as an action hero. Dude’s got an amazing career.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Rico says, still gazing out at the crowd below.
“I’m thinking I hope Chris Pratt’s too busy to go out for Red Zone.”
Rico laughs. “Well, I was wondering whether there are any Smokey and Heart cosplayers down there.” Rico raises an eyebrow at me. It hadn’t even occurred to me.
“Do you think?”
“Maybe. First time I saw a Star Command cosplayer, man…” Rico shakes his head nostalgically. “Magical.” He props one elbow up on the railing and looks at me. “That’s when you realize that people really care.”
“You think these people… you think they know us?” I say. I mean, I know rationally that our show has viewers, but our ratings are pretty low, and we’ve been shooting out in North Carolina for the better part of the last year, so I’ve never actually met any. Our fans are purely abstract concepts to me at this point.
“Definitely. But probably not many. We have what they like to call a cult fan base. Which means small,” he says. “But, you know, passionate.”
“Isn’t it kind of weird that people would be so into our show that they’d come to see us talk?”
Rico smiles at me. “Get used to it, brother.”
I look back out over the crowd, searching for guys wearing Smokey’s iconic leather jacket. I don’t see any.
“There,” he says, nodding at two girls passing below us. “I bet they watch the show.”
“Them?” They don’t look like the type of nerdy sci-fi comic-book-loving geeks I pictured as the audience for Demon Heart. They look like they belong in a record store, honestly—one of them in glasses and the other one rocking an oversize denim jacket with the sleeves cut off. But like magic, just after Rico says something, one of the girls glances up and spots us and it’s like her body lights up from the inside out. She straight-up whacks her friend on the arm, and soon they’re both screaming and waving.
I wave back, sort of in amazement. No one has ever reacted like that to me before. Rico cracks up and blows them a kiss.
“Never gets old,” he says.
Rico pulls away. I follow but my eye is drawn by two people working to unfurl a banner for… Red Zone.
“Holy shit,” I say, gripping Rico’s arm. “Holy shit, Rico, Red Zone is here!”
“Oh yeah, I meant to tell you! Jon Reynolds did a panel this morning on video game adaptations in the post–Lara Croft world. You have to go find him.”
Wait. Jon Reynolds is here? Jon Reynolds… is here?
“Forest,” Rico says, jiggling my shoulder. “We still have, like, forty minutes before our panel. You have time. Go find him. Get that face-to-face, brother.”
I meet his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Okay.” I turn to find the stairs down to the floor. I have no idea what I’m supposed to say if I find him, but I’ll go. I have to try.
Jamie cautioned me against venturing down to the convention, but Rico said Jamie is a fool and I should experience what he calls “The Floor” at least once per con. But I’m not going downstairs for the life experience, or whatever. This is a mission.
Thankfully, I’m already wearing a big sweatshirt, and I tug my Sooners hat down over my eyes. The idea of being approached by a fan while I’m on my own sort of freaks me out, so I’m hoping to avoid attention by being generically bland-looking.
The floor is crawling with people. It’s claustrophobically tight, like when everyone leaves at the end of a Thunder game, except with more costumes and nerds. Thankfully, I don’t see the two Demon Heart fans we waved to earlier. Hopefully they’re off somewhere, tweeting about it.
Oh god, tweeting. I flinch thinking about the account Caty set up for me that I haven’t used yet and then push it out of my mind.
The Red Zone booth sits right in the front of the whole convention. Prime real estate. They have game systems set up promoting the new version that will come out soon, Red Zone 4. I’m itching to play it—I’ve already played through Red Zone 3 many times and I’m ready for a new challenge—but I don’t have time for that right now because I have to get back for my panel soon. I find the banner with a photo of Jon Reynolds off to the side advertising that they’ll be doing signings at the booth later today. He looks like exactly who you’d want to helm an action movie—a perfect balance of wise and badass. He has this distinguished haircut, hipster glasses that probably cost more than my monthly rent, and a strong jaw and thick neck that indicates he works out. I wonder what he benches.
I called my agent from the staircase to ask him how he thought I should approach this. To his credit, he promised to do what he could to get me an audition, and then he said, and I quote, “Just get in there and talk to him. Face time is huge.” Like that’s just a thing. Like Jon Reynolds is just some dude and not a famous multimillionaire director in charge of one of the biggest film franchises in recent memory. Thanks for the tips, Mr. Agent Man. No sweat. I’ll take it from here, I guess. I wonder if Rico’s agent treats him like this.
As I approach the booth, there’s a guy setting up the signing table. Between his perpetual scowl, his tight red jeans, and the very modern, large, solid black rectangle tattoos covering both forearms, he’s putting out pretty clear too cool for this signals. I don’t see Reynolds anywhere. I wonder if he’s behind the curtain right there or somewhere else altogether, far away from the crowds and noise of this room. I gather myself up and approach the guy.
“Hi, can you tell me when Jon Reynolds will be around?”
Tattoo Guy barely glances up. “The signing starts at five.”
A nerd dude standing in front of the booth pipes up. “There’s a line,” he says, jerking his thumb behind him, where there are already about eight guys waiting.
Like, yikes, it’s not even three p.m., y’all, isn’t there something else you could be doing?
I turn back to the Tattoo Guy and lower my voice. “I’m not here for an autograph, I just wanted to have a few words with him.” I tip the brim of my hat back, giving him a look at my face. “I’m Forest Reed, I’m an actor?” The guy finally looks at me, but his flat expression doesn’t change. “Demon Heart? Mondays at nine?”
Nothing. I start to feel my cheeks turn red. This was a bad idea, why do I ever listen to Rico? I start talking a little faster. “Okay, no problem, my agent’s getting in touch with him anyway, but I just wanted to see him face-to-face, have a quick hello since we both happened to be in Boise….” I give a little chuckle here, but he is giving me nothing in return.
I take a step to go and then turn back because like, god, if I’ve already started to make a fool of myself, might as well bring it home, right? “You know, hey, if he’s inclined to swing by, my panel is today at three thirty in Hall C.”
“Okay” is all Tattoo Guy says.
“You’ll let him know?” I want to run away from here, but I need to hear him say it first.
He eyes me one last time. “Yup,” he says, and goes back to work.
And that’s it. The nerd at the front of the line gives me a nasty smile and I get out of there, pulling my hat back down and hoping this wasn’t all a waste of my time.
THERE’S A LINE for the Demon Heart panel, and it looks, well, lively. There’s maybe fifty people already waiting, chattering and buzzing with excitement. It looks like they all know one another, even though there’s no way that’s possible, right? Could I be the only person here who came alone? I wonder what my mom is doing right now. Probably convincing the Holiday Inn to make their pool area clothing-optional.
Ship It Page 4