Ship It

by Britta Lundin

  I wince at the thought. Why are we even talking about this like it’s a legitimate thing? Why can’t we just ignore it and move on?

  “I don’t want you laughing in their faces.” She looks at me. “I don’t want you smirking at them and telling them they’re crazy. These people pay our bills, do you understand that?”

  I can’t look her in the eye. I dig my knuckles into my thigh and wait for this to be over. I just want to get out of here and change out of this damn Wonder Woman shirt.

  “Oh, hardly.” Jamie stands up in order to get out from under Paula’s oppressive towering. “That girl’s just the radical fringe, I don’t think all our million and change viewers have quite as little grasp on reality as she does.” Jamie grabs his coat off the back of his chair and slides into it. “Look, you got a job to do? Do it. Let me know what the plan is. In the meantime, I’m done being lectured by someone who has no idea what it takes to write a TV show.”

  Jamie slams out the door, leaving Paula to glare at me.

  “From now on?” she says to me coolly in a tone that makes my tongue shrivel back in my throat. “Your ass is mine.”

  I don’t trust my voice, so I give her a nod that says I understand.

  She takes a deep breath. Her gaze lands on Rico, who’s finding the carpet very interesting in the far corner of the room. “Rico, you got anything to add?” she calls to him.

  He looks up at her like he just noticed she was there and says brightly, “Sure am looking forward to Portland!”

  Oh right. We have two more conventions ahead of us. Can’t wait. Rico gives me a little shrug. Then I see his eyes raise up over my shoulder, and I turn to find Caty standing in front of me.

  “Hi,” she says with a big smile. “Ready for your first tweet?”

  BY THE TIME Mom returns, I’m deep into episode seven, digging into a room-service cheeseburger and reciting along with my favorite lines.

  “I’ll keep coming for you ’til the dirt hits my chest,” I murmur with Smokey, and I feel that familiar lightness as they stare into each other’s eyes, this long, loaded look.

  Just. KISS. For crying out loud!

  Mom comes back from wherever, barging into the room in a fluffy towel. “My god, the sauna in this place. I love the city,” she says, interrupting the moment. She slides onto the bed next to me, her hair still wet. “How’d it go?”

  “Fine.”

  She frowns and looks me over. Then she picks up my jeans, which are lying on the bed, and holds them in front of me. “You took your pants off?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble.

  “Okay, tell me what’s up.” She knows, of course, that pants are critical shields against the outside world and are only to be removed for showers and sleeping and times of great emotional distress.

  I sigh, but I know the look in her eye, and she won’t leave me alone until I tell her what happened. “I asked a question. I asked about SmokeHeart.”

  “Oh!” She clutches a hand to her chest. “And?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She gets that sad mom face and rubs my knee. I can tell she doesn’t really know what I’m talking about, but she’s searching for something to say anyway. I wish she’d just leave it alone. “I’m sorry, honey bunny, I know that was a big moment for you,” she says. “But hey, the important thing is you got up there and tried, right?”

  I wish I hadn’t. If I had just kept my mouth shut, I would be perfectly happy living in fantasy land right now, still believing that my ship might go canon. I would still have hope. Instead, I’m publicly shamed and humiliated. So. Yeah. Great. I tried. Whoop-de-do. Look where it got me.

  When I don’t say anything, she picks a new topic, whacking my leg. “Tell you what, how about tomorrow we go to that Thai place on the way home? A little pad see ew solves everything, right?”

  “Sounds good,” I say, even though at the moment I can’t really bring myself to care.

  “Okay, you hang in there, kiddo. I’m gonna change clothes.” She leaves me alone, and I let out a long breath. It’s so much more exhausting being around people when you’re sad, especially when they’re not as sad as you.

  As soon as she’s gone, I open up Tumblr to scroll through my dash. I search for pan-labyrinth and find Tess’s blog so I can follow her. She has a cool layout, very cute and well designed. Her bio says:

  tess || she/her || pan || p much just demon heart atm.

  She’s… pansexual. I know the word, I’ve seen it around Tumblr enough times. It means she’s attracted to all genders. It means she likes girls.

  I’m a girl.

  I think about the way Tess wouldn’t stop looking at me, the way she kept trying to make a conversation happen between us. I think about how my fingers trailed along her soft, round hand as I borrowed her pen.

  Is it possible that Tess might like me?

  But I’m not gay, so why do I care? This is literally the dumbest thing to be freaking out about.

  I remember how her legs looked really cute in her dress today. I’m allowed to think that and not be gay. There’s no rules that say I can’t think other girls’ legs are cute. She has objectively cute legs. It’s just fact, not opinion. I wonder if she thinks my legs are cute. Maybe if I didn’t wear old, dirty jeans all the time, she’d be able to see them. Ugh, I hate my clothes. Why don’t I own anything that fits me right like Tess does? I’d never be able to pull off a cute patterned dress. Not like she can. She did tell me she liked my T-shirt, though.

  I spend a moment remembering her laugh when I pinched Smokey’s and Heart’s faces together. I look down at my shirt, which I’m still wearing, and the memory floods back to me. The feeling of being funny. The feeling of being understood.

  I scroll down to see what she reblogs, but I don’t get very far before I find it. My breath catches. Everyone’s already been talking about it for hours, but I’ve been too mopey to check Tumblr and I almost missed it.

  Forest tweeted. To his almost 100,000 followers.

  His first message? Thanks to everyone who watches Demon Heart and comes to conventions to support us. Your passion is why we keep making the show.

  Maybe I’m being narcissistic, but is that tweet about me? Did Forest Reed just make his first tweet ever about me? It sounds like it was vetted by about fifty PR people before he published it, but still. Forest Reed might have just subtweeted me.

  Then I see Rico’s last tweet. Demon Heart is doing a prize giveaway on the floor of the convention in—I check the time—fifteen minutes.

  What kind of prizes? Maybe I could win a new T-shirt!

  But no. I can’t go. Not after today. I don’t have it in me.

  But what if they have new poster designs? I could finally finish covering the walls of my bedroom….

  NO. I’m not going.

  It’s in fifteen minutes, though. I could go and be back in half an hour tops.

  But what if Forest Reed is there? There’s literally no one I want to see less.

  But Tess might also be there….

  What do I care about Tess?

  She’s a potential friend! Of course I care. A friend. It’s not like I’m exactly rolling in friends. It might be my last chance to see her before I go home to Pine Bluff and we never meet again. How sad would that be?

  Okay, that settles it. I haul ass out of bed. “Mom, I gotta go!”

  She sticks her head out of the bathroom in only her bra. “What?”

  “Demon Heart is doing a prize giveaway! I gotta go!”

  “Ooh, prizes? I want to see this,” she says, wriggling into a shirt and jeans.

  “I thought you wanted nothing to do with the convention,” I say, yanking on my pants and shoes.

  “Well, now my daughter is sad and I want to be with her, is that so wrong?”

  “Okay, well… Hurry up, then.”

  Fine, Mom can be sweet sometimes. Still annoying, though, don’t get me wrong.

  PAULA ALMOST DIDN’T let me go,
but Caty told her I tweeted exactly what I was asked without hesitation, so I’m starting to get back in their good graces, unlike Jamie, who hasn’t been seen since he stormed out of the greenroom. Paula did force me to bring Caty with me, though, because apparently I can’t be trusted without a chaperone anymore.

  “God, don’t you just love the floor?” Caty says as we speedwalk through the wide, busy aisles on our way back to the Red Zone booth.

  I don’t answer, I just pull my hat down farther over my eyes as I skip sideways to avoid running into a man bending over to pick up his toddler. Caty is practically jogging after me to keep up, but I don’t care. I have to get back to the Red Zone booth and explain the situation to Tattoo Guy before he has a chance to report back to Reynolds about the panel. I have to explain Demon Heart isn’t like that. Smokey isn’t a gay character—I’m not gay. Of course, there’s obviously nothing wrong with being gay, I’ve known a ton of gay guys in the acting world, but I don’t want to be thrown in with that group just because some wack-a-doo fangirl reads my character that way. That way lies trouble. That way lies a lifetime of gay roles. That way lies the death of my Red Zone dreams.

  But when we reach the booth, there’s no one there. No Reynolds, no Tattoo Guy, no nerds in line, just a banner hanging over an empty booth. I slam my hands down on the table and bow my head. Dammit.

  “Guess they’re not here. We gotta get going, anyway,” Caty says, checking her phone.

  I try not to think about the worst possible scenarios Tattoo Guy could report back to Reynolds. Option 1: Oh sure, he’s got a following, but they’re all girls…. Not really Red Zone’s brand. Worse, option 2: Guy seems great, but there’s something about him, I don’t know if he can do action hero. People seem to think he’s a little, you know, GAY.

  Gay, gay, gay. Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?

  And then, of course, there’s option 3: Nothing. He could just not mention it at all. And my career could sputter and die, and this could all be over five seconds after it started.

  I can’t wait to get out of Boise. To get away from this convention tour, to never have to see another teenage girl again.

  Caty’s phone dings. “Seriously, Forest, we gotta go.”

  I remember when I used to wait tables and we’d get busy, I wouldn’t think about how many tables I had, or how many hours left in my shift, or how much I’d made in tips so far. I just did the work, and when someone told me to go home, I’d go home. I’m good at that. I’m a workhorse. But back then, at least, I could choose how to be. I could charm customers with my jokes and get tips. I could choose my shift, my outfit, my haircut. I could choose how to act and what to say.

  I’m not in charge of my schedule anymore. I’m not in charge of my shirts or my hair. I don’t get to decide who I talk to or don’t. I am the property of Demon Heart. I’m no longer a workhorse, I’m a show pony.

  I stand up straight and look at Caty, who is tapping her fingers on her phone case impatiently. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  Caty guides me through the aisles, around clumps of people, past vendors and artists, checking back to make sure I’m with her. At times I put my hand on her shoulder to keep her with me so we don’t get separated.

  Once, I hear someone shriek and say, “Forest, Forest!” I just keep my eyes on Caty’s shoulders as she tells them she’s very sorry, but we’re in a hurry and we can’t stop just now. I feel the flashes of their phones anyway as they take photos.

  I can hear the cheering before we see the reason. A large gathering of fans is being led in some kind of contest to see who can cheer the loudest. We round a corner and at the back of the floor, there’s a stage set up. Rico stands confidently up there, goading on an electric crowd of fans.

  “Is that the best you can do, left side?” he screams at one side of the crowd, and they lose their shit at him.

  “That’s right, that’s better,” he hollers, and pulls out—you gotta be shitting me—a T-shirt slingshot and flings three Demon Heart T-shirts into that side of the crowd. Fifty pairs of hands strain to catch one.

  He’s so comfortable on that tiny stage, so easy and happy, giving out merch and hugs and making the day of everyone here. I imagine myself up there with them, and the crowd going quiet. Paula seems to think they might all hate me now, but Jamie said that’s only a fringe group of the fans. What’s the truth? I don’t know. If they hate me, will a couple of free T-shirts make it all better? I really don’t want to find out, but Caty grabs my hand and leads me toward the front.

  “Oh, and look who decided to join us!” Rico says, pointing me out from the stage as everyone starts craning their necks. The fans closest to us pull out their phones to snap photos or take video. I pull off my Sooners hat and smooth down my hair.

  Caty brings me around to the stairs up to the stage as Rico waves at me to join him. Another stage, another chance to embarrass myself. But we’re just handing out free shit, right? How hard can it be?

  I glance back at Caty for any words of support, but she only brings her thumb and forefinger to the sides of her mouth to indicate that I should smile. I smile with my lips closed. She indicates to smile bigger, so I do, opening my mouth and baring my teeth, and feeling like a cheeseball. She takes my picture.

  “Perfect. That’s your power pose from here on. Now get up there and do your job.” She gives me a little shove and I climb the stairs to the stage.

  Don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up.

  Rico reaches into his bag of merch for another T-shirt, then feels around exaggeratedly. “I think that’s it,” he says, and tips the bag upside down to prove it. The crowd moans. Rico grins at them, then turns to me. “What do you think, Forest, can we scrounge up something else to give away?”

  Rico hands me another microphone, eyes twinkling. Now I’m standing on a stage holding a microphone in front of an expectant crowd, not entirely sure what I’m doing and what to say next. So I do what I’ve been doing for the last six months: I trust Rico.

  “I think we can probably find something,” I say, and the crowd cheers.

  “How much do you guys love Demon Heart?” Rico turns and asks the crowd. They scream their heads off. “And how much do you love coming to meet us at conventions?” They cheer even louder.

  “Well, Demon Heart loves you, too,” Rico hollers over the madness. “So as a special thank-you to all you fans out there supporting the show, we’d like to offer one all-expenses-paid trip to join the cast for the rest of the convention tour!”

  Wait, what?

  The crowd freaks the fuck out.

  Paula steps up to the stage and hands Rico a bowl, which I recognize as the Bowl of Holding—a prop from the show, decorated with “ancient”-looking symbols that are really just nonsense squiggles dreamed up by our art department. Paula gives me a pointed smile, and I know this is all because of what happened in the panel today. This is their apology to the fans, their new game plan. But why does Rico know all about it and I’ve been kept in the dark? I watch Paula carefully as she heads back to the sidelines, always behind the scenes, never in the spotlight.

  “We have the names of all the attendees of the Demon Heart panel today,” Rico says. “Or, at least, the ones who signed up for our email list.” The crowd grows quiet as they all hold their breath.

  “Forest, would you do the honors?” Rico holds the bowl up high so I can’t see in. I reach in and feel around, then look at him. He holds my gaze. Just do it, his look says.

  I pull out a name, then peer out into the audience and pause as the room completely stills in anticipation.

  I don’t want to read it. I already know who it is.

  Rico leans over into my mic and reads the name for me. “Claire Strupke.”

  There’s a scream as the crowd turns to look, and there she is, that outspoken girl from the panel, in a hoodie, with the ponytail and smudged glasses, standing frozen, staring blankly up at Rico and me. I look at Paula, who has her arms
crossed in front of her, glaring back at me as if to say, I own you, Reed. And she does. Because this convention nightmare is far from over. We’re headed to Portland next, then Seattle, and I’m going to have to do this all over again, and again, but this time I’ll be side by side with a wild-eyed superfan teen. One who thinks I am—or at least should be—gay.

  I toss the paper with Claire’s name on it back into the Bowl of Holding.

  It was the only paper in there.

  UM.

  Wait.

  What?

  Wait.

  WHAT?

  Everyone is looking at me.

  Probably because my mom just screamed pretty loudly.

  A moment ago, my name was inside Rico Quiroz’s mouth.

  WHAT?

  Mom pushes me toward the front. Rico gives me a hand up to the stage, then sweeps me into a giant hug.

  “Congratulations, Claire!” he says, his voice in my ear. He pulls away and grins at me, and I’m just straight-up dazzled, lost in his broad smile, in his happy eye crinkles. He brings me back to reality with a wink. “I can’t wait to get to know you.”

  Forest shakes my hand. I don’t really want to talk to him, but he gives me a bright smile that may or may not be fake, and says, “It’s nice to officially meet you, Claire.” It’s not wildly enthusiastic, but whatever, it’s fine.

  Then Rico takes my hand and raises it up, and we turn toward the crowd and they’re cheering for us and Blazer Girl, who I swear is like this omnipresent angel of photography, takes my picture. I spot my mom, who is grinning. Rico is grinning. I am grinning.

  I’m literally holding Heart’s hand and he’s looking into my eyes with excitement and I’ve just won something and I never win anything. What even is my life right now?

  “You’ll come along with us for the remainder of the convention tour,” the woman says. She’s tall and her black bob is tucked behind her ears like an evil Taylor Swift, but she doesn’t look evil, she just looks in charge. Her name is Paula Greenhill. I like the way she stands very straight. I pull my shoulders up and back and try to mimic her posture. Maybe if I feel as powerful as she looks, I won’t be shaking so much about what the hell I just won. I glance down at my hands and, nope, still trembling, so I stuff them in my pockets.