“It sounds like you have to sit down with Jamie—make your case,” Caty says.
“You said before that that wouldn’t work!”
“I said cornering him on the bus wouldn’t work, but if you really lay it out for him? Explain everything?” She shrugs. “You never know. You’re pretty convincing.”
“Yeah, well, even if I wanted to, I don’t know how to get him to meet with me. He avoids me at every turn. I don’t know what to do, short of kidnapping him and holding him hostage.”
Caty’s eyes light up.
I laugh. “What, you think I should kidnap him?”
“No, of course not, but—” she says slowly, like she’s thinking this through as she speaks. “You could kidnap something of his until he agrees to speak to you.”
“What do you mean, like his shoes? His toothbrush?” I snort. “He’s, like, rich. Whatever I take, he’ll just buy another one rather than talk to me.”
“It doesn’t have to be a physical item,” Caty says, her eyes gleaming. And I start to get a little scared, and a little excited, because for the first time I might have met someone more devious than me, and she’s willing to help.
Caty outlines her idea, and I have to admit, it’s pretty extreme, but it would definitely get his attention.
“Why are you helping me?” I ask, taking a bite of my mac and cheese.
Caty smiles crookedly. “Bunch of reasons, I guess. Because you’re right, that Smokey and Heart is, like, the natural direction for the show to go in, and those two studs would look hot as hell together. Also Jamie’s an asshole, and I want to see you take him down a few pegs.” She shrugs. “But also? I like you and I want you to be happy.”
I poke at the last bites of food on my plate. “Are we friends, Caty?”
Caty pulls her napkin out from under her wineglass, writes something on it, and slides it over to me.
“What’s this?”
“That’s my personal Tumblr. Not only are we friends, now we’re also mutuals. Don’t show that to anyone or I’ll take back my internship offer,” she says.
I run my thumb over the napkin’s rough surface, then fold it carefully and put it in my pocket, marveling at how many people have called me their friend on this trip.
Caty starts signing the check. “Speaking of friends, I’ve been meaning to ask, where’s that other fangirl you’ve been hanging around with?”
Oh. Tess. Well. “You know about her?” I didn’t realize anyone was keeping track of me like that.
“Sure! News travels fast at a con. You know, everyone is rooting for you guys.”
The news brings unexpected tears to my eyes as the pain of our fight yesterday floods back.
“Oh man, I’m sorry. Did something happen?” Caty puts her hands out, but doesn’t touch me, not sure what to do.
And maybe it’s because I’m tired, so tired, or because I can’t talk about it with my mom, or just because she’s been so nice to me, but something makes me trust Caty.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say.
“Yeah, of course.”
“I’m just wondering if you’re at all, in any way…” I run my hand over my mouth and let out a big breath. Caty waits for me to finish. “I’m wondering if you’re gay.”
Her face flashes a look of heartbreak as she realizes what I’m asking, which eventually turns into a smile.
“What gave it away?” she asks, looking down at her wild outfit, running her fingers over her furry pink vest. “Is it the clothes? The give-no-fucks attitude? The so-sexy-she-can’t-possibly-be-straight hotness?”
“I just hoped…”
She nods. “Yeah, I am. Bisexual.”
I let out a breath, a weird relief falling over me. “When did you know? Like, for sure for sure know?”
“I mean, god,” she says, “I’m twenty-four now, and I still sometimes second-guess it. I think knowing is overrated.” She sweeps her curls out of her eyes and looks off. “It’s okay not to know. Just because I like both boys and girls doesn’t mean I’m attracted to literally everyone in the world. I still get to decide who I like and who I don’t. It doesn’t define me.”
I get all that, it makes sense. But it also doesn’t really help me with my current situation. I slouch down and let my head tip back against the chair and talk to the ceiling. “It’s just… Tess. She’s pressuring me to, you know, like, come out.”
Caty takes a moment to sip her wine before she replies.
“There’s no time limit,” she says finally. “Take as long as you want. Sometimes it helps people to have a name for what they feel. But if it helps you to leave it open, and not decide on a label… that’s fine, too. And if Tess is forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do… there are other girls. Or boys. Or whoever.”
I nod, but I feel a pang of sadness at the very idea of leaving Tess behind. Even though we fought, I still like having her around. I wish she were helping me today, with Jamie. I wish she were here right now, to hear this.
Caty stands up. “Whatever happens with Jamie, keep in touch, okay? Now, give me a hug,” she says, stretching her arms wide, not caring at all that there are other people in the restaurant staring at her, at us. I shimmy out of my seat and slide into her arms, pressing my face into the soft fuzz of her vest. “You’re gonna be okay, Claire Strupke,” she whispers into my hair.
I’m not convinced that’s true.
But I’ll take it.
My mom texts me as I’m trying room handles on the third floor, looking for one that opens. The convention is only on the first two floors, so I was hoping to find a quiet private space up here, preferably with AV capabilities, where I can confront Jamie.
I try another door—locked—before I swipe open my phone to read her text: Hi honey Bun I wnt 2 show u what I’ve been doing Rm203love Mom.
I sigh. No matter how many times I try to show her how to use punctuation, she refuses. Her texts are a mess. I check the time, and I still have a couple hours before the finale tonight, so I decide I can take a detour to the second floor. I have been wondering what the hell Mom’s been up to this whole time.
Down on floor two, there are more people around, but room 203 is sort of isolated. As I approach, I hear voices, followed by laughter. Peeking around the door, I see like ten nerds around a table full of crafting supplies. PVC pipe, foam, X-Acto knives, tape, scissors. Plus, every surface is covered with little bits of foam, including the floor. It’s a mess.
“Claire!” My mom barrels toward me, crumbs of foam sticking to her with static electricity. The nerds look up from their craft projects to watch with big smiles as Mom wraps me up in a giant hug.
“Mom,” I squeeze out as she lets me go, “what are you doing?”
“We’re making weapons!” she shrieks in delight. “Go on, show her.” The others hold up their projects: a few broadswords, a mace, a couple shields, and a pair of nunchucks. Mom gleams with pride. “We’re larkers,” she announces.
I stare. “You mean…LARPers?”
“Yeah, you know, when you go out into the woods and have pretend fights.”
“I know what LARPing is.” I just would have never guessed that she did.
“I want to start a group in Pine Bluff. Do you think your father will join?”
“Mom…this is what you’ve been doing this whole time?”
“Yeah! I’ve found a way to help out here! I met Winston in Portland.” A guy in a Utilikilt at the end of the table waves at me. “He was leading this workshop in weapon construction, and I had a few ideas for him about structural integrity….”
“Your mother is very knowledgeable about this stuff,” Winston says with a British accent. This is all so weird.
“And I just started sharing my ideas! You know, finally putting that MFA in sculpture and creative design to work!”
“Great,” I say. I’m covered in foam from hugging her, and I start to pick the pieces off. “I’m really happy for you. This is not weird at all.”<
br />
“What are you up to?” she asks.
“Well, I need a room for something, and it has to be private. Something like this one,” I say, flicking a foam piece onto the floor with the others, “but not a mess.”
“What do you need a room for?” Winston asks.
Do I tell them? Do I tell Mom? I think about how Tess says I’m the most confident person she knows. I’m really not, like really really not. But about this? About SmokeHeart? I’ll stop at nothing.
“I need to find a room to use to lure the showrunner of my favorite TV show in order to convince him to make his characters gay,” I say. “And I need AV, too.”
There’s a beat of silence before my mom says, “If it’s important to you, I’m in.”
A weight lifts. Winston waggles a key card in the air. “Will this help, love? Should open just about any conference room in this wing.”
I grin. “Um…yeah.”
Winston, Mom, and I pop upstairs to the third floor to try his key card in various conference room doors and assess the rooms. As we search for a room, I tell them everything. I tell them about the plan and the video and Jamie, leaving out the parts about Tess. Winston doesn’t know what shipping is, but once I tell him, he gets on board pretty quickly, and once I’m done explaining, he’s actually excited for me.
My mom gives me a hug and says she’s so proud of me and hopes that my plan works, but even if it doesn’t, the most important thing is I tried.
“Good luck,” she says, just as Winston shouts from down the hall that he’s found the perfect room, and it has a projector and everything.
And on top of that, Ballroom 6E is pretty darn big. Holy moly, I’m about to make a splash.
IT ONLY TAKES a single Google search for “heart of lightness Dairy Queen” to find the fic the girls back in the DQ were giggling about. First hit, a fanfiction called “Sugar and Cream” written two days ago. That means it was written after Claire met me.
I steel myself for whatever it is.
And I click on it.
FOREST’S FEET ACHED after another long night of shooting outside in the woods—always night shoots in the woods on this damn show.
WAIT—
Fuck. She’s writing about me, now?
Not Smokey. Me.
She can do that?
I hate everything about this. I hate what I think she might say, I hate that she’s thinking about me like that at all, but most of all, I hate that somehow she’s dragged Jasper Graves into it. This is way, way over the line.
But I have to read it to know just how over the line it is. So I set my jaw and start reading.
FOREST WALKED THE short distance back to his trailer, dreaming of the moment he’d get to kick off Smokey’s ridiculous boots and tight-ass jeans and slide into a pair of sweats and sleep all day until tomorrow’s late afternoon call.
As his trailer came into view, he yawned, but he wasn’t too exhausted to gaze at the pink blot of sky on the horizon. Sure, North Carolina was remote and full of rednecks, but it also had some of the most marvelous sunrises Forest had ever seen.
“Mr. Reed!” It always bothered Forest that the PAs here called him that, but North Carolina was in the South and no matter how many times he told them to call him Forest, their upbringing just wouldn’t allow it.
Forest looked over to see his favorite PA running (they were always running) toward him. Lynn was endlessly friendly, whether it was midday or four a.m., and never batted an eye, even when the 1st AD—a grumpy old dude in an ancient Yankees hat with no patience—snapped at her for something that was barely her fault.
“Your Dairy Queen,” Lynn said in her folksy North Carolina accent. She reached him, out of breath, and held up a paper bag.
“Oh, I didn’t order—”
“I did.” Forest turned to see Rico walking up to them. Rico took the bag from Lynn, who nodded at him and scampered away toward her next task. “Happy birthday, bud,” Rico said, slapping Forest’s back lightly.
He remembered. In fact, Rico was the only one who had.
“What are you now, sixteen, seventeen?” Rico added with a chortle. Forest winced. The eleven-year age gap between them seemed endlessly funny to Rico, but to Forest it just reminded him how inexperienced he was, comparatively.
“I’m twenty-four,” Forest said, with a little grit in his voice that made Rico shape up.
“I know,” Rico said. “Look, I figured you wouldn’t want to make a big deal out of it, so I told the producers no cake, no singing, no full-crew shenanigans. Just you and me and two Peanut Buster Parfaits.”
And something about the way he said “you and me” made Forest’s heart twang.
Me and him.
A team.
“Now, you gonna invite me in before these melt?” Rico asked with a friendly jab at Forest’s upper arm. He could feel the phantom touch linger after Rico pulled away. The shadow of contact.
Forest shrugged casually. “All right, come in.”
Rico and Forest had been close since the first day of the pilot, before they even knew if they had a series. They had been partners: Rico, joking around, chatting with everyone, playing tricks on the camera crew, and Forest, laughing at his pranks, delighted to be on the inside, letting someone show off for him. It felt good to have someone he could trust. A scene partner, a teammate, a friend.
But outside of work, they didn’t spend time together. Rico liked to go out with the crew and cast on his nights off—big group dinners or bar-hopping excursions or karaoke parties. Forest had gone a couple times, but always ended up begging off early; the loud bars and laughing groups were too much for him. He had always hoped Rico knew it wasn’t personal.
Once, late on a Saturday night, alone in his apartment, he had started a text to Rico, telling him what his friendship meant to Forest. Halfway through typing, he had seen ellipses pop up on Rico’s end…. Rico was typing to him. Forest had stopped typing and waited. And waited. He fell asleep on the couch, his phone on his chest, still waiting. The next morning he checked his phone: no text. He deleted what he had written, never asked Rico about it. Forest assumed it had been a mistake.
But he wondered. Did Rico feel the same pang when a day went by without a scene between them? Did he think of Forest when he went home at night? Were his incessant jokes a smokescreen for his feelings? Or was it possible that Rico was just as friendly and flirty with everyone as he was with Forest? Forest had no measure of what was in Rico’s head, and it killed him, the not knowing. It was impossible to tell if Rico liked him in particular or if he just liked people.
So tonight, with Rico waiting to be invited into his trailer after hours, the sunset glinting pink off his skin like cosmic rouge, felt special. Rico wanted him alone—there was no misreading that, was there? It was a private party, just for them. It felt like progress.
Which is why, when Forest opened the door to his trailer and stepped inside, saw what Rico had done, it hit him extra hard. This wasn’t a play to get Forest alone, this was simply a cruel, personal practical joke.
Every inch of the inside of Forest’s trailer was wallpapered in full-color pictures of Jasper Graves.
I SHOVE THE laptop away in disgust. The fanfiction was one thing, but this is completely over the line. I told her one time—one time—that I thought Jasper Graves was handsome, and now I get this crap? Am I supposed to never tell her anything personal again in case it ends up online in one of her stories as some sort of “evidence” of my gayness? I feel the anger curl into a knot in my stomach. I can’t keep reading this, but I need to know how it ends. I need to know what else she put in there.
THE PLAN IS in motion. now all I have to do is wait. I pick a chair in the enormous empty ballroom and pull it into the aisle so I have a direct line of sight to the doors in the rear. Then I sit backward in it, resting my chin on the back, and opening my phone. I take long breaths to calm myself as I check my Tumblr dash to see what the current chatter is about the show, the fans,
me. Of course there’s still a healthy debate roiling about whether I’m the hero fandom needs or the loudmouth millennial activist that represents the worst of entitled internet culture.
I skim my messages—I’ve been too busy to reply to any, and I feel bad about letting them stack up, but I’ve been so busy. Not to mention, a cursory glance reveals that some are positive, some are thoughtfully critical, and many are hate-filled tirades and personal attacks. Definitely don’t have time for that. My follower count is up to 44,000, which is only a fraction of the numbers a typical episode of Demon Heart would get, I remind myself to keep it in perspective. But still, it’s at the point that I’m afraid to post anything. I had racked my brain, wondering if I had posted anything too personal on there that I should take down, but I rarely write anything about myself at all. Besides, if this goes well, I’ll be a hero, and if it goes poorly, well, I’ll delete my account and disappear back into the anonymity of rural Idaho.
But it cannot go poorly.
Just then, the rear doors open and Jamie walks in.
He stands in the doorway and stares at me, his arms stiff at his sides, his mouth curled into a snarl.
“You’re a goddamn psychopath,” he growls.
I knew he’d be angry, but I don’t think I was quite prepared for him to be this angry. I stand up and put my chair back in its place.
“Hi, Jamie, I’m glad you came,” I say.
“Change it back. Now,” he says, not moving from the doorway.
“You didn’t like it?” I ask innocently. “I honestly don’t think it looks that much different than any of your official publicity photos.”
“They’re making out, Claire. They’re practically playing tongue hockey.”
Okay, so Caty might have given me the password to Jamie’s Twitter account that she still had from when he needed her help changing the settings to privatize his DMs. She told him he needed a stronger password than PeterParker1976, but apparently he didn’t listen. And apparently he didn’t turn on two-step verification like she recommended, either, because it was super easy for me to get into his account, change his password, and then do whatever I liked. So the first thing I did was change his Twitter icon to a very convincing fan photo manipulation of Rico and Forest kissing. Then I drafted a bunch of tweets and saved them. Then I took screenshots of the whole thing and texted Jamie (his number also came from Caty), and said Meet me in Ballroom 6E or I start tweeting. It only took fifteen minutes for him to show up.
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