Ship It

by Britta Lundin

  I stand up, itching to get online and search for ideas. “Hey, Claire, one more thing?” Caty whispers, and I look back. “Like I said, not everyone agrees with this strategy, so, you know, keep it hush-hush.”

  We exchange conspiratorial nods, then she swipes open her phone and goes back to tap-tap-tapping.

  By the time we pass through the industrial outskirts of Tacoma, my plan is taking shape. I open Tumblr on my phone and start to type. Before this, I let myself get distracted by Forest, by Tess. That’s all gone now. I have a mission. And it’s on.

  SEATTLE IS AN even bigger convention than Portland. I have my hat pulled down low over my eyes and a baggy coat on, so I’m hoping to be able to make it to the booth without being noticed, but the floor just keeps going and going. I wish Rico had come with me, but he said he needed a teriyaki bowl, and no one gets between Rico and his lunch. But maybe it’s good that he didn’t come along, considering I haven’t been able to look him in the eye since reading Claire’s story last night without being reminded of, well, of SmokeHeart, kissing dramatically in a messy billiards bar.

  I try to push the image out of my mind as I slip through the crowds of people. It’s not hard to find what I’m looking for—the convention walls are practically wallpapered with banner advertisements for Red Zone 4, out this week, all of them plastered with the Red Zone booth number. Bandit Games must have doled out a fortune for this setup, but it’s their hometown, and they’re launching a new game, so this is their big moment.

  When I make it to the Red Zone booth I find it’s more of a Red Zone zone, with a dozen game consoles attached to giant screens where people can play the new game, and cardboard cutouts of Jack Tension to take selfies with. Gamers swarm the entire area, lining up to get their first crack at the game. I see a few girls in the mix, including one with rainbow-colored hair who’s kicking ass on a console in the corner, but most of the gamers fit the image I had pictured of attendees for these cons: a lot of guys, a lot of beards, a lot of backpacks and cargo shorts.

  “Can I help set you up on a game?” a woman asks me. She’s wearing a very revealing, sexy version of the Jack Tension costume. She must be working the booth. I wonder what Claire would have to say about Bandit Games using sex to sell their video games. I can already kind of picture her going on a tear about it, which brings a smile to my face.

  “Um, no, I’m cool,” I tell the woman, careful to look her in the eyes and nowhere else. “I’m gonna just buy a game.”

  “Over there,” she says, pointing, and goes off to help someone else. I pick my way through the overenthusiastic knot of gamers and make my way to the purchase desk. “I’ll take one for Xbox,” I tell the pale, skinny guy working the counter.

  “Just ran out here, but hold on, I’ll grab more from the other side,” he says, and runs behind the curtain. I lean against the counter and take in the panorama of gaming around me.

  I watch a dude make a spectacular kill shot in the new game, and his friend full-body hugs him—just wraps him up and lifts him off the ground in this giant, physical display of hetero brodudery. What would happen if they held on a little too hard, if that final backslap lingered a fraction too long, if their eyes accidentally met, and they didn’t look away?

  Would they awkwardly laugh it off? Make a yo, get your hands off me, homo joke? What if they did it again, later, in private, after a few drinks, with fewer people around to see it, to label it? What if they unlocked a room in their hearts that they had always kept bolted tight? What if they kissed?

  Jesus, Forest, what?

  I shake my head. What the hell is wrong with me this morning? When I look back, they’ve returned to their game. Because obviously.

  She’s in my head. She’s got me seeing shit that’s not there. Just like she does. I should never have read that fanfic; now it’s goddamn everywhere. Does she do this? Go around imagining every straight person she sees is gay? Is that any way to live?

  I look around for the booth babe, and I spot her across the way, chatting with some gamer guy. Boobs, butt, boobs, sex, I think over and over until the Red Zone guy comes back and slaps down my game. I pay him, and as I turn around to leave, I find myself face-to-face with like six wide-eyed girls clutching one another and giggling nervously.

  It never ends.

  “Hi, Forest,” one of them squeaks out. She has a long chain of ribbons hanging off her convention badge, down to her waist. Three of her friends are either filming or photographing on their phones.

  I don’t want to deal with this today. “I’m sorry, but I have to get going,” I say as I attempt to edge by them. The crush of the convention crowd pushes in around us, and people are looking, wondering who I am. Nothing gives me away as a minor celebrity more than a gaggle of teens taking photos.

  “Can we take a selfie?”

  “It’s my friend’s birthday, will you call her? She’d flip out if she knew I met you!”

  “Where’s Rico?”

  A flash blinds me. I flinch. When my vision returns, I see another small group of girls down the aisle shrieking and heading toward me. I need to get out of here.

  “Forest, have you heard what Claire is planning?” one of them asks.

  But I don’t care what Claire is planning. I turn away from them, slide into a current in the crowd, and let it take me away.

  Rico’s picking through the snacks on the craft table like he’s defusing a bomb. We’re the only ones in the greenroom, and I’m leaning back in my chair, watching him get just the right ratio of Chex Mix to pita chips to hummus to carrot sticks on his little paper plate.

  As I watch him select an apple from the fruit basket, I wonder if he’s ever googled himself. If he’s ever googled us. What would he think? Something tells me he wouldn’t be bothered by it, but how could he just pretend it doesn’t exist? Knowing there’s basically… well, it’s porn, is what it is. About us. On the internet. That lots and lots of people read. That I’ve read.

  I didn’t know this was part of the job.

  He catches me watching him. “Yo, this is real Chex Mix over here, not the knockoff stuff.” He holds up his plate. “You want some?”

  “I’m good,” I say.

  He looks at me a moment. “You okay?” I shrug. No, not really. “What’s up?” he asks.

  The greenroom is empty, I know it is, but I glance around anyway, to double-check. I stand up and join him at the snack table. He looks at me, concerned. Of course he’s concerned, I’m acting like a freak. Relax, Reed.

  “I was just thinking about that scene we shot in the woods at night…” I say.

  “You’re gonna have to be more specific,” he says.

  “I think it was episode one-oh-three or one-oh-four. I was freezing my ass off and you told Kelsey to get me another shirt.”

  “Oh sure, yeah, I remember that. One-oh-four, I think,” he says.

  “Do you remember what we were shooting that night? I mean, after all the fight stuff, we were doing a few pages of dialogue.”

  “Yeah. That was a good scene.”

  “I was just wondering…” He takes a bite of his apple as he waits for me to finish picking my words. “Like, how did you—how did you play that?”

  He squints at me. His mouth is full. I wait for him to chew. Was this a terrible idea? Oh my god, this was a terrible idea.

  “You know what, forget it,” I say, waving him off.

  “No, no,” Rico says and swallows. “What are you asking me?”

  “Nothing, never mind. Is this Ranch flavor?” I grab a handful of Chex Mix.

  “Are you asking if I played it gay?” He’s so casual, somehow.

  “Dude, no,” I say, my breath catching in my throat. I wish someone would walk in and interrupt this nightmare conversation. I wish an earthquake would hit, forcing us to take cover and never talk about this again.

  But mostly, I wish he’d answer the question.

  I stare into the Chex Mix in my hand. And wait.

 
“You can’t play a sexual orientation,” Rico says finally.

  What the hell does that mean?

  He shrugs. “I go out there, and I… react. That’s all.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  “Why?” he asks, and I dare to meet his eye. “How were you playing it?”

  He holds my look for a long moment, then I throw my handful of Chex Mix straight into the trash and walk away.

  “I gotta pee,” I mutter.

  “You think too much, Forest,” he calls after me as I duck out of the room.

  The bathroom is blissfully quiet.

  I take the last urinal on the left and drop my head to my chest. What a trip. I can’t wait to get back to LA and have this madness be over. I need some distance—from Claire, from Demon Heart, god knows I need distance from Rico.

  I hear the door open and two people enter, one of them mid-rant: “I remember when this con was actually about comics instead of teenyboppers in TARDIS dresses. Nowadays, if a regular, everyday comic-book fan wants to see Stan Lee talk, he has to wade through, my god, an endless stream of sexy werewolves, sexy angels, sexy vampires, and screaming teenage girls.”

  I tense up. He didn’t specifically mention “sexy demon hunters,” but I know I’m a part of this.

  He carries on, “I mean, this is a comics convention. When did this industry start caring what fourteen-year-old girls like?”

  And I can’t help it, I feel a rankle rising in my chest. I know there are a lot of different kinds of people here, but a lot of those fourteen-year-old girls are fans of my show, and, well, I don’t care if this guy finds them annoying, they have as much right to be here as anyone. I zip up, and I’m getting ready to turn around and say as much when I feel a slap on my back.

  “If anyone knows what I’m talking about it’s this guy, right, Forest?” the man says, and I turn around to find I’m face-to-face with Jon Reynolds.

  Holy shit.

  “Jon Reynolds!” I say, too loudly.

  Reynolds is grinning this perfect toothy smile. He’s got a face for Hollywood but the demeanor for politics. His jeans are expensive and his graphic tee projects youth, even as the distinguished gray in the temples of his perfect haircut declares aged wisdom. Tattoo Guy stands two steps behind Reynolds, watching us.

  “If anyone’s had to deal with the onslaught of teen girl hormones, it’s a heartthrob like you,” Reynolds says, grasping my shoulder and giving me a friendly shake. Jon Reynolds knows who I am?

  “I guess so.” I mean, he’s not wrong, but I don’t know if I would put it in exactly those words.

  “Don’t give them an inch, Forest, or they’ll be the ones dictating your next role. Do you wanna be a Tiger Beat boy your whole life, or do you want to act?”

  “I want to act,” I say. Definitely.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says, and I worry that he might be done. This is my chance, I can’t let this go, so I start talking, not entirely sure what I’m saying yet.

  “Sir, I just want to say… I love Red Zone. I play the video game every single day. If there’s a role in the new film, if I could even just read for it…”

  “We’ll see about that,” Reynolds says, waving me off. He must get desperate actors approaching him all the time. I probably look like an idiot. “Let’s see how this panel goes first.”

  My stomach drops. “You’re coming to the panel?”

  “Guess so. Got a text from Davies. Said I owed him one for getting richer than him. Which I probably do.” Reynolds chuckles a bit and shrugs.

  Jamie came through! I’m swept up in the feeling of holy-shit-ness—Jon Reynolds is coming to my panel today. My career is moving again, my path laid out in front of me. All I have to do is make a good impression today, and I’m on my way to a role in a blockbuster film.

  “I can’t wait,” I say, like a dolt.

  “Now get outta here and let me piss in peace, huh?”

  “Of course!” And I’m out of there like a shot.

  It’s all finally happening.

  AFTER MOM AND I shared room-service lunch, she wanted to check out the convention, but I wanted to stay in my room until the panel, checking replies to my post on Tumblr. After some harassment about getting out and meeting people, she finally left me alone. I should have had the rest of the afternoon to plot, but instead, I’m staring at two texts from Tess, debating what to do.

  Can we talk? I’m in the food court.

  I have fries.

  I’d rather not. I need to focus on my work, and Tess is one giant, curly-haired, dress-wearing, queer homoromantic pansexual distraction.

  Is she going to consider this another date? If I go eat fries with her, will she tell Forest we’re engaged now? Will she drag me back into her chamber of confusion and questions I don’t have the time or power to answer right now?

  Is she going to ask me to decide what I am?

  I keep thinking about last night. When we were kissing.

  I still want to kiss her again.

  I don’t know why.

  So I go.

  She’s wearing her hair in a scarf. I love it, because it means you can see her whole neck all the way around. I never really thought about necks before, but now, seeing hers, I realize how nice they are. This perfect curve from ear to shoulder. Whoever designed necks should get an award.

  The food court is located in the back corner of the convention floor, and it’s full of lively con-goers sitting down for hot dogs and Diet Cokes and nachos and other terrible, overpriced food of the kind that you’d find at a high school football concession stand. Tess has saved a table for us, a basket of fries in front of her, sipping on a straw that’s sticking out of a can of Sprite. I’ve never seen anyone drink a can of pop with a straw before.

  She sees me coming toward her, and I swear, it’s like her whole body lights up. “You came!” she says, and slides the fries toward me as I sit down, as though the fries were the big selling point for me, instead of her. Instead of that expression she just made. She has blue paint specks on her face like she just came from Mom’s art studio.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi!”

  “Why do you have blue paint on you?”

  “Oh!” She wipes at her face with her sleeve, suddenly a little embarrassed. “They’re doing this thing where you get to screen-print your own T-shirts, and I had a bit of a disaster with the paint.” She shrugs. “It’s a cool booth, though. It’s over near Artists’ Alley. You should check it out.”

  I nod like I will, but I don’t say anything, and then she doesn’t say anything. We both eat a few fries. I’m starting to wonder why I came. I need to confront her about what she said.

  “Tess…” I say at the same time that she says, “Claire…” and we both stop and then laugh, and then she says, “You go.” But I don’t want to go first because it’s awkward to start off a conversation with an accusation, so I say, “No, you go.”

  “I keep going over and over that conversation we had with Forest,” she says. “And you have to be honest with me, was I being an idiot?” She fiddles nervously with the cat necklace she’s wearing. “Because I do that, I get going talking about something I care about and it’s hard to stop. But I feel like I kind of… went too far for him.” She pauses to meet my eye. “And for you, maybe, too.”

  I pull the fries closer to me and eat another one. They’re getting cold and mealy. I can feel her watching me.

  “Forget Forest for a minute, can we just talk about us?” I say.

  “Okay.”

  “You told him…” I start, but I can’t figure out how to finish without looking petty, or like a scaredy cat.

  “What?”

  “Tess, you told Forest that we were dating,” I say, finally. And I hate that this bothers me, but it does.

  “Did I?” she says, straightening up and frowning. “I said we went on a date.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But we did!” Tess exclaims, and I wish
she’d keep her voice down.

  “We had dinner, that’s all. You specifically said it wasn’t a date when you asked me.”

  “That was before we made out on your bed for, like, the rest of the night…” Tess says slowly, as though that clears everything up, which it definitely does not. It only makes everything more confusing.

  I can’t argue with what she’s saying, I just know that I’m uncomfortable. And it would be easy to back down and agree with her and say it’s not a big deal. But it is a big deal.

  “I just… wish you hadn’t talked about it with him before we agreed what to say.”

  She lets out a breath. “Okay,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  I look at her a moment, and she seems to really mean it. So I guess that means I’m supposed to just forgive her and we’re back to normal, but I don’t feel back to normal. I feel like my world is slowly turning upside down and I’m barely holding on.

  “I… really liked hanging out with you last night,” she says. “I want to do it again.”

  She reaches across the table and holds my hand. And I try to be okay with that, I really do, but it feels so weird and so public, and so strong a declaration to the world. It feels like this is who I am and I have no idea who I am.

  I pull away gently.

  “Okay, no PDA, got it,” she says, but I feel like I can’t stop hurting her feelings.

  “It’s just that I’m not… like you,” I say.

  “What, out?”

  “No…” What are words? I never have them when I’m around her. “You’re just so…sure.”

  She examines me. “What do you mean?”

  “About your sexuality, like, how do you know?”

  “I don’t know, it just feels right.” She shrugs like this is no big deal, instead of literally the biggest deal ever. “Did it feel right to you? Last night?”

  I remember kissing her. I remember the feeling I got in my stomach. Wanting more. But what if I was just going along with the moment? What if I just got carried away? It seems ridiculous to base this whole huge part of your identity on something so squishy as a feeling.