Ship It

by Britta Lundin

The booth is shared with Witchcraft, Ice Queens, Time Swipers, Darkness Falls, and all the other shows at the same studio. There are screens above our heads showing a loop of nonstop promos, and two false walls surrounding a carpeted area with tall chairs set up in front of a camera. The walls are covered in enormous images of the cast members of all the shows. It’s disorienting to see Smokey standing next to a medieval knight, who’s next to a spunky young doctor, who’s next to Heart. I’m so used to seeing Smokey and Heart alone, but here in this environment, it’s hard not to view them as cogs in a much bigger network machine.

  Ms. Greenhill is bustling around, making sure everyone’s on task. I wonder if she watches Demon Heart. She must, to do her job properly. I wonder if she likes it.

  Since no one’s watching me for the moment, I wander over to the area of the booth selling officially licensed swag for the shows, and I see a wall full of T-shirts, tote bags, prints, and toys. My breath catches in my throat when I see a numbered Demon Heart print from a graphic designer featuring the quote: ’Til the dirt hits my chest. It’s large and hand screen-printed and gorgeous. It would look amazing in my room.

  “What can I get you, miss?” the vendor asks, coming over to help me.

  “Yeah, how much are those prints?” I point to the one I like.

  “Two hundred,” he says. Then, seeing the blood leave my face, he adds, “Limited edition.”

  I don’t have nearly enough money for something like that. I gaze at the print a bit longer, then start to move away.

  “It’s fine, Eduardo,” Paula says, coming up behind me. “Go ahead and give it to her.”

  I turn around to look at her. “Really?”

  “I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than you,” she says.

  Eduardo rolls the print into a tube for me, and I can’t believe it. I take the tube from him. How can I put this print up in my room with my cheapo $14.99 posters, knowing how much this costs? How could Paula just give it to me without a second thought? How is this my life?

  “Okay, now,” Paula says, “let’s go over a few things about this interview. I just want you to be super positive, which shouldn’t be too hard, right? Just keep smiling, you’re happy to be here, you’re excited, this is a dream come true. Sound good?”

  She looks at me to make sure I understand, and I realize the print she just gave me is more than just a kind gesture. She’s trying to keep me happy. I remember that nothing here is free, not really. They’re buying my loyalty—or trying to, at least.

  Of course, I could use this opportunity in front of the cameras to make a scene, talk about SmokeHeart, speak my mind. And maybe I should, maybe this is my only chance. But making a scene here isn’t going to help convince Jamie to make it canon, it’s only gonna piss him off, and possibly get me sent home. This interview is small potatoes, and I’m gunning for the whole hog. So I look at Paula innocently and nod, the poster tube clutched under my arm.

  “This is a dream come true,” I say, which is completely true.

  She smiles and hugs me. “You’re gonna do great.” She gestures to a woman in headphones who comes over with audio equipment and starts attaching a tiny mic to my shirt.

  Across the booth, Forest is getting mic’ed up as well. He’s completely ignoring the crush of fans taking photos and video and calling his name. I realize, horrifyingly, that some of the fans have their phones pointed at me, too. I tilt my head down, letting my hair fall in front of my face, and take a few breaths. Okay, okay. No big deal, right? Just answer some questions on camera with a hundred jealous fans watching me from the sidelines and thousands more livestreaming it at home, as I sit next to a guy who thinks I’m a joke. No sweat.

  An assistant guides me to the tall chair I’m supposed to sit in. Forest is seated in a second chair already. He’s wearing a NASA shirt…. Was he wearing that earlier? I can’t remember. We make flickering eye contact.

  “‘Show me your fics.’” He reads my shirt slowly like he doesn’t quite process it. Then he looks at me and says, “Heart-of-lightness, right?” He seems hesitant, like he doesn’t know how to behave around me, his hands clasped in his lap.

  “What?” I ask tightly, my stomach falling like it’s made out of lead. How does he know about my Tumblr name?

  “That’s you, right? Heart-of-lightness? I like the name.” We’re both talking low so the fans nearby can’t listen in.

  “Where did you hear that?” I demand.

  “I met some fans. They like your writing,” he says with a shrug. “Is that what you were working on earlier? On the bus? I’d love to read your stuff sometime.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say flatly. “If you’re going to get defensive about a basic SmokeHeart question, you’re definitely not ready for fanfiction.”

  “You know what, at least I’m trying here,” he says with a hint of frustration. “What do I have to do to prove that I’m not the homophobic asshole you think I am?”

  “I never said you were—”

  “I have gay friends,” he says. “I love them. I went to a gay wedding once. I’m glad Moonlight won the Oscar.” I roll my eyes. “I once told my dad I thought Jasper Graves from Red Zone was handsome, and he didn’t speak to me for a week.”

  Whoa. That stops me. “That’s terrible,” I say, my eyebrows furrowing. I’ve never even thought about what kind of environment Forest might have grown up in.

  “Yeah, well, guess what? Flash forward ten years and now Graves is fired and I’m trying to replace him.” He holds out his hands and smirks. “Wait’ll my dad hears about that.”

  His arrogance really knows no bounds, does it? I was almost feeling sorry for him, too. “Good for you, Forest,” I say, and look away.

  “Claire, what’s it take?” His smirk disappears. He’s practically begging me now. “Can’t we just start over?”

  It’s like he wants absolution, but I’m not his priest. I’m just some “crazy” girl, right? I glance over at Paula, who is watching us from behind the cameras. I know she put him up to this, that he wouldn’t be even trying unless she was forcing him to. Forest doesn’t actually care about me, he just wants me not to hate him anymore because it looks bad. Well, that’s not my problem.

  I lean over my chair to get closer to him, and I make eye contact so he knows I’m being serious. “When will you understand that you’re not the center of the universe, Forest Reed?” I don’t say it cruelly, just matter-of-factly. This is true: “You think all these people are here for you? They don’t know you. They love the character you play. You? You’re just a haircut with a battle-ax.”

  His jaw is tight as he holds my look, then gives me a brief nod and sits back in his seat.

  I’m a little amazed that I may have actually rattled him. I didn’t think anything could shake his confidence. I almost feel bad, but I remind myself that he’s a grown adult man and he can handle a little criticism from a teenager. Right?

  “Everyone ready?” Paula asks, coming over.

  “Let’s do it,” Forest says stiffly.

  “Sit up straight, Claire. Don’t forget to smile. We’re rolling in three…two…”

  As the camera rolls, Forest puts on his big charmer-boy smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He combs his hair back off his forehead with his hand in a perfectly practiced move. He looks fine again, normal. He looks like the Forest I know from my computer screen. And I remember… he’s an actor. He’s always acting. I don’t really know him at all.

  I’VE NEVER HAD more faith in this publicity team than when they asked Claire literally one question and gave the rest to me. The girl’s a loose cannon. If it were up to me, she wouldn’t even be allowed in front of a camera, but apparently they think she’s “good for the brand,” so what do I know.

  Haircut with a battle-ax.

  After the interview, a large-necked security man leads us through the crowd as fans snap photos, calling out my name… and Claire’s. He leads the two of us to the service corridors, where
Claire is shuffled in one direction and I’m put into the back of a black town car to be taken to my hotel. I’m shuttled everywhere these days. My schedule planned for me, my days no longer my own. I’m surprised they let me pick what I want to eat.

  Haircut with a battle-ax.

  I could have this driver take me through the Dairy Queen drive-thru right now. I could get a double cheeseburger and a Blizzard, and no one could stop me. I could rip off this NASA T-shirt, I could shave my head, I could tell Paula and Jamie and Claire to go fuck themselves.

  But I won’t.

  I’ll go home and get whatever high-protein, low-fat option I can find from room service and I’ll work out in the hotel gym and I’ll say all the things I’m supposed to. My career depends on it.

  People don’t realize just how much work it takes to be a haircut with a battle-ax.

  “Hey, it’s me again.” It’s a new day and I’m back at the Red Zone booth. Red Zone appears to be on the same convention circuit tour that we are, and I’m grateful for it. Tattoo Guy looks unsurprised to see me, but I’ve never actually seen him show any emotion beyond waiting for all this to be over.

  “That last panel back in Boise,” I say, “I just wanted to apologize. Things got a little out of hand.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you think there’s a chance he’ll show up today? I have another panel in half an hour. It’s going to go smoother.” And it will. I have a plan. I stayed up half the night playing Red Zone 3 and figuring it out. Who’s the haircut now?

  “He’s very busy.”

  “Can you just… can you tell Mr. Reynolds that I play Red Zone every single day, and I love it—as much or more than these fans he’s meeting—and I’m… I’m just very interested in this role.”

  He nods distantly. “I’ll let him know.”

  I manage to make it to the greenroom with a few minutes to spare. Paula shoots me a look for being late but doesn’t say anything, just waves her assistant Donna over to me. Donna wordlessly hands me a Batman T-shirt, and I put it on. Then she tuts over my hair before walking away, and I have just enough time to steel myself before Hurricane Claire touches down on my coastline.

  “Hey, Forest,” she says, and before I can greet her back, she dives into it. “Look, we have to talk about this afternoon’s Q and A, because the questions aren’t going to be written by your publicity team today. You have to have a good answer to the SmokeHeart question. Someone out there will ask about it.”

  Looking down at her now, it strikes me just how much authority Claire tries to pack into her small frame. She must only be about 5′3″ or so, her blond hair tied up in a messy bun on the top of her head that gives her the illusion of a few more inches. Some women might wear heels or boots to accomplish this, but she seems pretty attached to her scuffed-up high-top Vans. I take a minute to wonder how this stubborn, obnoxious high schooler became such a real and unignorable part of my life. At least it won’t last much longer.

  “I took care of it,” I tell her. Across the room, I see they’ve set out little bottles of Perrier. I start to head toward the craft table to grab one. Claire follows me.

  “What do you mean you took care of it?” she demands.

  “I mean don’t worry about it, it’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she says. “Tell me specifically.”

  I take a mini Perrier. Ahhh, it’s in a glass bottle and still cold. I crack it open and take a sip.

  “Forest, are you listening?” she says. “You have to reach down somewhere deep and find a way to not be a dick out there.”

  I finish the whole thing in one drink and burp. Refreshing. Claire flinches.

  I look her in the eye. “I said I took care of it.”

  From the door, Paula waves at us. She’s waiting with Rico and Jamie to head toward the panel. I take the opportunity to squeeze Claire into a hug.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, looking confused.

  I glance over her head to make sure Paula is watching, and she is. She gives me an appreciative nod.

  “I’m just glad you’re here, Claire. Keeping us on track.” I pull away.

  Claire frowns at me. “Okay, I guess.”

  “See you after.”

  I suppress any instinct I have to feel bad or protect her. Just because she’s small doesn’t mean she’s helpless. She’s done enough damage. It’s time I take back control.

  WATCHING A PANEL from the side of the stage instead of the audience is weird and suboptimal. There aren’t chairs to sit in, people are whispering and not really paying attention. No one here is a fan, they’re all just working. Ms. Greenhill has gone to stand in the back of the hall so she can “read the crowd,” which means the only people left here are me and that chick Caty, who is typing madly on her phone as usual, and a few of Ms. Greenhill’s minions—who, in the absence of their strong parent figure, are horsing around and laughing.

  But as the panel starts, Caty leans over to me and whispers, “It’s a good view from here because you can see everybody, the panelists and the attendees.” And I find that she’s right. There’s something powerful about being able to watch over the sea of faces looking up at the stage. There’s a girl in the middle of the front row shaking with excitement, her friend holding on to her hand to keep her calm. I recognize her joy because I feel it, too. I see thumbs racing over phones as they live-tweet for the folks back home who can’t be here. I see Tess, happily perched in the third row. She notices me and winks, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from breaking out in a grin. I wish she were here watching the panel with me. And then there’s Rico and Forest, right there on the stage. I’m so much closer to them than any of the audience members. Close enough to see the gray hairs among Rico’s thick black curls. Close enough to see the worry lines in Forest’s forehead as he waits for his first question. And I’m struck again by how amazing it is that I’m here, that they know my name, that this is happening.

  “You know,” Caty whispers to me, taking a break from typing, “I’ve been following your blog basically since we premiered. You were always one of the tastemakers in the fandom.”

  I tear my eyes away from the stage to look at her. She knew who I was from the beginning?

  “You might not have the most followers out of everyone, but you’re smart, Claire. You don’t wade into every petty little fandom debate, but the ones you do comment on, well, you have a good voice. People trust you.”

  Something’s nagging at me, and I recognize my chance to get confirmation. “Caty, did you guys… did you fix the contest so that I would win? Because of everything that happened at that panel in Boise, and because I have a lot of followers?” I’m not sure what I want the answer to be. Do I want to believe that I was selected because of the quality of my writing and my ideas? Or do I want to believe that the world is fair and any fan could have had the same chance I’m getting?

  Caty smirks. “Just a crazy lucky happenstance,” she says. But the way she says it, I know.

  I was chosen.

  “Hey, if you wanted to liveblog this panel, nobody here would stop you,” she adds, nodding at the phone sticking out of my front pocket. “Use the hashtag #demonheartpdx.”

  I take my phone out and do as I’m told, liveblogging mindlessly through the moderator-led section of the panel, waiting for the Q&A to start. I’m itching to know what Forest has planned for any potential SmokeHeart questions.

  When they finally turn it over to the audience, there’s a scramble as people move to the microphone in the aisle. As the first fan steps up to the mic, a convention staff member intercepts her, speaking to her low, off-microphone. As they exchange words, the fan starts to tear up, then heads back to her seat, but I can’t tell why.

  Another fan steps up to the mic, but again the staff member exchanges words with her before she can ask her question.

  I look at Caty. “What’s going on?”

  She shakes her head slowly, frowning. “I’m not sure.�
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  The second fan starts to get angry with the staff member, and I can tell her tone is rising, even though I can’t make out what she’s saying. Another staff member guides her away from the microphone.

  The third fan in line steps forward and speaks to the staff member. This is honestly getting ridiculous. Are we ever going to get a question? This time, the fan is permitted to step up to the mic.

  “My question is for Forest.” I lean forward. Could this be it? Could this be the question? “How are you liking Twitter?” she asks.

  I groan. Like a full third of the audience groans. I think people in other panels in other rooms in other buildings groan. This is not what we came here for.

  And I realize then what’s happening. Somehow, he got the convention staff to step in and weed out any questions he didn’t like. Forest is flat-out refusing to engage on the topic of shipping.

  Fans are talking about something he doesn’t like?

  Ignore, block, mute, reject.

  I look down at my phone, open to a new text post. Blinking cursor. He might be able to moderate what people say in a Q&A, but he can’t moderate this.

  “Claire…” Caty looks down at my phone with concern. It’s like she can read my mind.

  “No,” I say. “You guys chose me for this because you liked what I post online, right? Well, now you’re stuck with me.” Yesterday I was afraid to make waves in my interview because I didn’t want them to kick me off the trip. Now I know that this wasn’t random, I don’t feel quite so careful. They picked me for my voice, and I’m gonna let them hear it.

  I start typing.

  Forest Reed doesn’t care about fans. I tag it #demonheart pdx and publish it. Then I open a new post and keep typing.

  Let them silence this.

  I didn’t know how long I’d have to sit here until he showed up, but I was ready to wait all night. At every ding of the elevator, I raise my head to see if it’s him. I’ve twice had to assure the cleaning crew that I’m fine, I’m not locked out, I’m just waiting for my “dad.”