“That’s not really the brand we’re going for,” Donna says.
“Put it on, Forest,” Paula calls.
I sigh, because yes, I take off my shirt for the cameras all the time, but that’s for work. I don’t like the expectation that just because they’ve seen me shirtless once means they’re invited to look at my body whenever. But there’s no dressing room here, so I pull off my T-shirt, very aware of the army of publicists probably checking out my abs. Not to mention Caty and Jamie, and Rico for crying out loud. And yes, they’re nice abs. I work really hard on them. But still, they’re mine.
The shirt fits. Donna pokes at my hair a bit before she leaves me alone, satisfied.
“You look great,” Paula says. “Perfect for this crowd.”
“Yeah, how big is this panel even going to be?” Jamie grumbles. “This entire convention couldn’t fill a courtroom.”
“We’ve found it actually doesn’t matter how many people are physically in the room so long as we generate great content. Demon Heart’s audience are internet people. Caty’s going to be live-tweeting and blogging the panel, and we’re livestreaming the feed. All you have to do is be interesting.”
Awesome, that’s not terrifying or anything. I wander over to the plush chairs where Rico is sitting, hoping that by staying in his orbit, he’ll keep some of the spotlight off me. As I sink into the chair next to him, he nudges my boot with his shoe.
“You’ll be great,” Rico whispers to me, which I take to mean my nervousness is written all over my face.
“Everyone take a deep breath. This is a strategy that’s worked before. We’ve done amazing things using social engagement on Ice Queens, Darkness Falls, and Time Swipers.”
Jamie snorts at the mention of Time Swipers. “So basically it’s all on our shoulders now. Just don’t say anything to screw it up,” Jamie says.
“How could we screw it up?” I ask. My nerves are already running high, but my stomach clenches even more when I remember that Jon Reynolds might be out there, too. A lot could be resting on this.
“Don’t worry, it’s a friendly crowd,” Rico says. “You’ve talked to fans before, right?”
“Not really,” I tell him.
“Handsome and lucky. Some people get it all,” Jamie mutters.
“Everyone just be yourself,” Paula says. “Except you, Jamie, you should try being someone else. Someone excited to be here.”
“We don’t really get a lot of fans out there in North Carolina,” I tell Jamie. It’s true, though aside from a few random locals, we didn’t have many fans come by set. Rico always said it was because our fans weren’t the “Confederate flag types,” which we do see a lot of on the trucks that drive past the woodsy areas we shoot in. But what does that mean? Who even watches Demon Heart, anyway? And what do they think about Smokey?
What do they think about me?
“You’ll be great,” Rico says. “Convention fans are the most supportive audience you can imagine. They’re here because they already love you. I mean, you know what fans are like.”
I conjure up an image of the people I saw out on the floor. “They’re nerds.”
“Sure,” Rico says.
“Geeks.”
“Yeah.”
“Fanboys,” I say.
Jamie, Rico, Paula, Caty, and the assistants all look at me. I’ve said something wrong.
“They’re not fanboys?”
I hear the cheers before I even see the door, and it takes me a few beats to register that they’re for us. My heart is beating in my ears, and I feel distant and shallow. There’s a nudge at my elbow, and I turn to see Rico running his hand through his thick curly hair and winking at me. I hear the moderator call our names from the stage and somebody opens the doors for us and I keep my eyes locked on Rico’s feet in front of me, stepping where he steps, climbing the stairs, finding my chair, the lights bright.
I shade my eyes and look out and see…girls. Women. Moms, daughters, friends. All screaming.
“Fangirls,” I whisper to Rico, and I can tell he’s dying laughing at me on the inside.
Some of these girls are even dressed like us, wearing heavy yellow Carhartt jackets for Heart and carrying battle-axes for Smokey, faux stubble drawn on painstakingly with eyebrow pencil, looking tough in leather jackets a bit too large for them. But someone should tell them that screaming that much is very out of character for either Smokey or Heart.
There’s a girl in the front row, maybe fifteen years old, who has broken down sobbing and I’m not sure why. Have we already disappointed her without even opening our mouths? She notices me looking at her. I give her a small smile, but she only cries harder.
The moderator, some comic-book website guy I’d never heard of before, quiets the crowd, somehow bringing order to the chaos, and starts the panel. I glance around the room, searching the faces for Jon Reynolds, but there’s no sign of him. Then the back doors open, and I see Tattoo Guy sneak into the back and stand against the wall. Okay! It’s not Reynolds, but at least someone came. This is my chance to show him I’m capable of being a star.
As the moderator introduces us, I pick up the mic, cool and heavy in my hand. Let’s do this.
SMOKEY IS SITTING, like, forty feet from me right now. I’m smiling, no, grinning, and I can’t stop. I might break into hysterical giggles at any second. I don’t even know why. I mean, I know why, Smokey is right there. But my body is outside my control. There’s a girl in the front row who is all-out bawling, and I know how she feels. Emotions are, like, leaking out my pores. Crying actually seems like a pretty minor reaction. All things considered, I might literally explode.
“Local girl explodes at Boise Comics Convention. Doctors mystified, but witnesses suspect she had too many feels. Details at eleven.”
The moderator starts the panel and he has prepared a slew of easy questions about the show (it’s great), life on set in North Carolina (very rainy), and what’s coming up at the end of the season (can’t tell us). Forest is wearing a Wonder Woman T-shirt, and I realize I didn’t even know he was a fan. I love that he loves Wonder Woman, how great is that? The shirt looks old; I wonder how long he’s had it. There’s still so much I don’t know about him—I wish the questions were more about his feelings and background and personality. What does he think about the new Star Trek movies? Is he a dog person or a cat person? Does he ship SmokeHeart? Will it go canon?
There’s a chick in a really cool bright floral blazer wandering around, taking pictures of the panel and the crowd with her phone and posting them somewhere, her thumbs flying over the screen. I assume she must work for the show; it seems like a cool job and I wonder how she got it.
Before I know it, it’s time for the audience Q&A, and I’m trying not to think about my mom’s dumb suggestion that I should ask a question. I just want to enjoy this, I don’t need to be a participant, too.
There’s a palpable shift in tone once the Q&A portion begins, as fans stand up to ask questions I’ve seen percolating on Tumblr that haven’t had an outlet until now. A girl with pink hair asks whether the demons on the show are intended as a metaphor for race relations in America. A woman in an electric wheelchair asks why her favorite female character was killed off after just three episodes. Jamie glides through one answer after another. “It’s just where the story took us,” he says breezily, as though the story were somehow sentient, like a jungle guide leading him through a forest of ideas, showing him the only possible path.
Which is obviously wrong. I might not know exactly how TV works behind the scenes, but I know story decisions are consciously made. By him. He’s trying to anthropomorphize the story to make it sound like the episodes spring to life and write themselves, but it’s just not true.
I listen to Jamie sidestep another question about why the only Asian character on the show was a hacker computer wiz—something that hadn’t even occurred to me but is definitely a tired stereotype. He deftly avoids answering the question by talking abou
t how the show is actually really popular in Japan.
The anger feels like sand on my tongue. I don’t understand how this guy could create this show that’s such a tender and thoughtful story about friendship and loving others despite our differences. He doesn’t seem capable of it.
I check the time on my phone. The panel will be ending soon. I’m waiting for someone to ask what I really want to know. Someone in her twenties with buzzed hair steps up to the mic. She has the look—maybe she’ll ask the question. She leans in, her mouth too close to the microphone. “Hi, my name’s Heather and when Smokey says in episode seven that he finally feels like he knows where he belongs, is he talking about working with Heart?”
Yes! This is the kind of question I came to hear. Sing to me of SmokeHeart, O Muse, sing.
“Forest, you wanna take this one?” Rico says. Forest looks a bit unsteady. He hasn’t spoken much so far.
“Um, sure,” he says. Then he pauses before continuing slowly. “When I played that scene, I was actually thinking that Smokey was talking about literally finding a home in this world. His apartment in town. His place to hang his hat.”
That is not my interpretation of that line.
Forest adds, “You know, Smokey’s a pretty independent guy. He doesn’t really need anyone else.”
And I can’t really explain it other than what he said is so wrong it’s absurd and that part of me that loves Smokey down to my bones knows that. Smokey doesn’t need anyone else?
“BULLSHIT.”
The adrenaline hits my system as I realize that I just said that. Out loud. And loudly.
As eyes turn toward me, I feel my blood thump in my ears, and I wonder what the hell I did that for. To my horror, I see Forest squint into the bright lights and find my eyes.
I’m making eye contact with Forest Reed. Not through a computer screen, but in real life. It’s a little too real. I came here to look at my favorite actor, not have him look at me.
But Forest Reed is looking at me. And he’s frowning.
“Did you have something to add?” he asks sarcastically.
I look around wildly. A few rows up, Tess is staring at me. Everyone is staring at me. More than a few phones are pointed at me. My palms start to sweat. I wipe them on my jeans. I remember what my mom said. This is my chance to tell them what I really think. I should take it.
“Yeah, actually.” I stand up.
A volunteer runs over to me. “Say your name and ask your question,” she whispers and puts a microphone in my hand. It’s heavy and holding it feels like power. I take a deep breath, look somewhere above Forest’s head, and pretend I’m just telling my mom what I think about Smokey and Heart, not Forest freaking Reed.
“My name is Claire Strupke, and of course Smokey needs other people. Everyone does. You can’t go through life alone, it’s not healthy,” I say. “Smokey’s whole problem is he doesn’t realize how lonely he really is, until he meets Heart.”
I notice Rico nodding along. Forest seems to be actually thinking about what I said. Is he considering my interpretation of his character? What is even happening? When I woke up this morning, the last thing I thought I’d be doing today is talking to Forest Reed. What?
The chick in the wild floral blazer comes up the aisle and takes my photo. She does it too fast for me to be nervous about how I look. I straighten my hair and push up my glasses, but it’s too late. Whatever it’s for, I’m sure I look like a freak. Then she winks at me and blows a giant pink bubble with her gum as she types on her phone.
Jamie smiles politely. “Thanks for that, thank you,” he says. And as I look at him, I realize I’m not done. I can’t be.
I steel myself. “I… Actually, Jamie, I have a question for you.”
“Oh.” Jamie exchanges a look with the volunteer standing next to me, who reaches for my mic, but I draw away from her, closing my fingers over its cold metal even tighter. I have a question and I have this microphone and I’m not going to sit back down until I’ve asked it.
“You’ve built this really strong relationship between Smokey and Heart,” I say, and the volunteer steps away, unsure what to do now that I’ve seized control. “They presumably hate each other, but they’re also kind of obsessed with each other.”
Jamie narrows his eyes, but I can’t stop. I have to know if my idea of Smokey and Heart is what the show intends; I have to know if what I feel about them is real.
“Some people would even suggest…” I say, my lips close to the microphone. “Some people would even suggest that Smokey and Heart…” I can feel Tess’s eyes on me from three rows up. She wants to know, too. We all want to know.
“Are they in love with each other?”
Dead silence.
I continue, “I think they are. So I guess my question is, are they going to realize they’re in love with each other by the end of this season…and kiss?”
There’s a collective holding of breath as all the eyes and phones in the room turn to Jamie, and I swear to god my heart simply stops beating for a second while I wait. Jamie looks at me with a completely neutral expression that I can’t read, as he probably deliberates what to say next, but already the pause has gone on too long. Was this a big mistake?
Jamie is raising the microphone when another voice interrupts him.
“You think Smokey is gay… for Heart?” Forest asks slowly, like I’m an idiot. He’s smirking at me. Smirking.
His accusation just hangs in the air.
“Forest—” Rico starts, and Forest shoots him a look.
“Obviously they have a strong connection…” Jamie says diplomatically, finally finding his voice.
“Yeah, but not that kind of connection.” Forest talks over him.
“We’ll see their conflict play out in the coming episodes,” Jamie says.
“No disrespect to people who are, but Smokey definitely isn’t,” says Forest.
“You’ll have to keep watching if you want to see more,” says Jamie.
And then Forest just cracks. He drops the mic into his lap and lets his head fall backward. “Jamie!” he says to the ceiling, then turns to stare at him. Jamie meets his eyes and it’s a battle of wills. Rico looks back and forth like a kid watching his parents fight.
Forest hisses, “What are you doing? What are you talking about? This is crazy. She’s crazy.”
And he’s covering the mic with his hand, so I genuinely don’t think he means for us to hear it, but we still do, and the hall is silent. The volunteer takes my microphone back from me and my ears are burning hot and I start gathering my things because suddenly this room is too small, they are too close, and all of this needs to be on a laptop screen and not happening in real life.
I vaguely hear Rico’s admonishment: “Forest. Dude.”
Then Jamie fills the dead air. “The finale is coming May twenty-second. You’ll just have to tune in to see what happens.” But I’m already edging out of my row and speed walking down the aisle to the back of the room as the moderator wraps up the panel and there’s sparse applause and I push out the doors and I’m gone.
I shove through the crowds of still-happy nerds in the lobby laughing and chatting and pretend-jousting with each other, but they no longer feel like my people. They feel like strangers, because they are.
Just because I like something doesn’t mean it likes me back.
I don’t stop running until I make it to my hotel room. The tears start welling as soon as I close the door. Mom isn’t there, so I drop my bag on her bed and crawl into mine and let myself sob in private.
Forest’s voice still rings in my ears. Did he have to be such a dick? He could have just said, “No, that’s not in the plans.” But instead he scoffed and sputtered and acted like I had suggested the most ridiculous idea in the history of television. But, like, what show has Forest Reed been working on? Because it’s not ridiculous in the slightest. It’s right there on the screen for anyone to see. I just happened to be the one to point it out.
I suddenly have the need to do what I always do these days when I get stressed—watch Demon Heart. I pull my laptop off the side table and click open episode four, one of my favorites. As the cold open begins, Forest’s face fills the screen and I glance away as anger floods my belly. Dammit.
No. I’m not going to let Forest Reed ruin Demon Heart for me. I look back at him and force myself to think of him as Smokey, not Forest. Smokey I have no problems with. Smokey I still love. It’s Forest Reed who I wish would just disappear.
“NOW WE HAVE to clean up this mess, and you’re going to do whatever we tell you to do to fix it.” Paula towers over Jamie and me in her black heels as I slouch even farther down into my chair. She’s been lecturing the two of us plus Rico—although let’s be honest, Rico didn’t do shit—for fifteen minutes with what should’ve been a five-minute speech that keeps getting interrupted by phone calls, emails, and taps on the shoulder from her staff. She seems to be wrapping up now.
“Do you understand me?” she asks, her eyes slicing back and forth between us.
“I understand,” I say, although what I’m supposed to understand, I don’t know. What did she expect me to say? Some girl called Smokey gay, and I’m supposed to, what, agree with her? Give her a damn award? Like, good for you, you’re delusional, here’s a trophy. She stood up and spewed a bunch of nonsensical fantasies, and when I shut it down, I’m the asshole?
Paula turns to Jamie next.
“Paula, what did you want me to say? I don’t think I did anything wrong up there.” Jamie sounds exasperated. He lets his hands fall in his lap, his legs spread wide in the plush chair next to mine. I adjust my knee so it won’t touch his, tucking myself into the far crack of the chair. Rico is pacing somewhere behind us, weirdly silent. I wish he’d defend me.
“I want you to say whatever it damn well takes to get them to tune in to the finale.”
“You want me to lie to them?” Jamie shoots back. “You want me to tell them these two bros kiss each other in the final episode?” He jerks his thumb at me and Rico. “Because unless we’re going back for reshoots, it ain’t happening.”
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