Oh, what the hell.
“Dude, honestly? I couldn’t have done this without you. You’ve been wonderful. And I just figure I should let you know”—deep breath—“howmuchIloveyouisall. So… thanks.”
Rico holds my look, this soft smile on his face that slowly turns into a smirk. “You know what Claire’d be saying now, don’t you?”
“She’d be yelling at us to kiss. Don’t you dare tell her we said any of that.”
We both laugh.
“You should text her, see what she’s up to,” Rico says.
I shrug because, well, I’ve thought about it. The other day in West Hollywood, I saw a billboard for STD testing that had a stock photo of a close-up of two guys holding hands, one in a leather jacket and the other in a workman’s jacket and it looked so much like SmokeHeart that I almost pulled over to take a picture for her, because I knew she’d laugh. I didn’t, though. I’m still kind of pissed at her for that fic she posted. And besides, she hates me.
“When she left,” I tell Rico, “we had a bit of an argument.”
“You need to apologize?” he asks.
I dunno. No? Maybe? Probably? So does she, though. “I’m probably never gonna see her again, dude.”
“You kidding?” Rico says, raising his eyebrows. “Mind like that? She’ll be running this town in ten years.” He might be right.
A customer brushes by, knocking our table and causing our coffees to slosh onto the Spanish-tile tabletop.
“Reed?”
I look up. Holy shit. It’s Jon Reynolds, holding an iced coffee, wearing new clear plastic glasses. I fix my hair real quick. I haven’t seen him since that disaster of a panel back in Seattle.
“Hey, sir, hi.” I get up and shake his hand while Rico mops up rivers of coffee.
“Hey, I watched a little of your Demon Heart show the other day. Turns out my stepdaughter and all her friends are goddamn lunatics about it, who knew? The two of you are good, real good. You got chemistry.”
I exchange a look with Rico and bite my cheek not to laugh. “Thank you.”
“Anyway,” he says, “lucky running into you. I was just telling casting to bring you in to read for Tension.”
No way.
“Oh! Yeah, yeah, great.” Be cool, Reed. BE COOL. I want to ask why the hell he’s bringing me in after watching that dumpster-fire panel. Did he not witness my complete meltdown? Was he not present as a room full of people who ostensibly loved me turned against me? I start to open my mouth but think better of it.
“Yeah, I know, that whole mess up in Seattle,” he says, reading my mind. “Look, I have a teenager, I know how manic these things can get. Frankly, I thought you were great up there. I liked how you shut the whole thing down.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. Though I don’t really know if that’s an accurate description.
“This is just some fantasy for them,” he says. “But for you, it’s your whole life. You indulge these people once, and these little gay rumors will plague you your whole career. Not that there’s a problem with the gays, but let’s face it, we’re never gonna cast that kid from Glee as Jack Tension, you know what I’m saying? There’s a certain expectation.”
I want to say, So, what? Gay people can’t play Jack Tension? But I don’t. I just need to get the audition, that’s all. Just land the role.
“Anyway, we’ll be in touch.” He raps on the table before striding away.
I feel a little dirty. I don’t want to look at Rico, but he just says, “Congratulations, dude!” and smiles hopefully. But I don’t feel quite as jubilant as I should.
IT’S THE THIRD week of summer vacation when the call comes. I’m deep into my sixth read of the Citybreakers books, lying on my back on the trampoline behind our house just as I’d planned, and enjoying the feeling of sunshine on my face, the overgrown vines blowing in the breeze. I haven’t opened my laptop in weeks, haven’t touched Tumblr, haven’t looked at my email, haven’t watched a frame of Demon Heart. Most days, I’ve been leaving my phone by my nightstand and not even looking at it except to plug it in when it needs a charge, keeping it on the pile of my things from the trip, my bags still unpacked, my expensive screen-printed poster still rolled up in its tube, never hung.
I am disconnected. I am outdoors. I am not looking at screens. This is what I needed. I’m also not talking to anyone. Not Tess, not my internet mutuals. My entire world right now is in Pine Bluff, in this house, this backyard. I keep hoping this will cure me, but I don’t feel better.
I still ruined Demon Heart. I still ruined our ship. I still ruined everything with Tess.
I still failed.
I keep wondering what would have happened if I had gone to that first convention and never said anything, never asked a question. Just showed up, enjoyed the panel, and went home. Would I still love the show? Would I still have my fandom intact? Would Forest still have a job? Or was Demon Heart a powder keg that was waiting to explode, and I just happened to be the first spark that came along?
Mom and Dad have stopped asking me if there’s anything they can do. We’ve found a way to work around each other, Mom moving me out of the way when she needs the dining-room table for her LARPing projects, Dad asking me if I like this word choice or that one when he wanders out of his office in the back shed, his pencil tucked behind his ear, his glasses up on the top of his head, reading a half-finished poem to me.
“Claire, telephone!” Mom hollers from the kitchen door. I stick my bookmark in my page and clamber off the trampoline to come grab the cordless from her, frowning because no one ever calls our landline for me.
“Hello?” I say.
“Claire.” Rico’s voice is light and smiling.
“Rico?” My heart lifts at the sound of his voice.
“Heyyy, it’s good to talk again! How you been?”
How’ve I been? Alone, mostly.
“Good, good. How are you?”
“Well, it’s pretty weird here,” he says. “No one quite knows what to expect, so we’re just sitting around, twiddling our thumbs, waiting for the decision to come down from on high. I’ve been learning to knit.”
“You’re knitting?” I laugh, because it’s surprising and yet so perfectly Rico. I lean against the edge of the trampoline as I realize how much I missed him.
Weird to think I, a mere fan, missed hanging around Rico Quiroz, fandom icon, but it’s true.
“Hey, Claire, I’d love to keep chatting, but I have to put you on speaker because there’s some people here who want to chat with you.”
And like that my good vibes evaporate. Of course this isn’t just a social call. They want something from me. They always do.
“Yeah, okay,” I say.
“Claire, it really is good hearing your voice,” Rico says, low and genuinely. Then he resumes his normal voice. “Okay, putting you on speaker now. You’re on with the fabulous Caty Goodstein and the very wise Paula Greenhill.”
“Hi!” Caty chimes.
“Hello, Claire,” Ms. Greenhill says.
Hearing their voices brings everything right back. The nervousness that I wasn’t doing a good enough job, the excitement that I might make a difference. The crushing realization that I didn’t. I take a deep breath and tip my head back to let the sunshine hit my face.
“Hi, guys, what’s up?”
“Listen,” Ms. Greenhill says, “first things first, I was really sorry we didn’t get a chance to chat after the Seattle convention. I know a lot happened, between the panel and the screening and everything that went down on Twitter….”
That’s a nice euphemism for Blame heart-of-lightness.
“Yeah,” I say.
“I feel like we left things on a bad note, and I was hoping to give it another shot. What do you think, would you be interested in joining us for one more convention?”
I feel a zing of excitement at getting to go to another con, but it’s quickly followed by caution. The pain of how things ended is still too fresh.
“I… I don’t know.”
“Claire,” Caty says, jumping in. “It might help if we told you the name of the convention. Maybe you’ve heard of it. San Diego Comic-Con?”
I snap to attention. San Diego is the biggest, most important convention in the country. Everyone—everyone—goes to it. I stand up straighter. I’ve wanted to go to this convention practically since my first fandom.
But still…
The idea of going back, seeing Forest, seeing Jamie. I just don’t think I can do it.
“We know you deleted your blog,” Caty says, barreling on. “And that’s totally fine, I get it. We’d set you up as the official guest-blogger on the Demon Heart Tumblr. We’d also have you doing media for some of the digital outlets that would be there. You’ve still got a lot of interest swirling around you, girl, even more so now that you’ve dropped off the grid. People want to know what you think. So? What do you say?”
“I, um…” I stumble, wondering. Go to Comic-Con? Liveblog for the show? Be another PR shill for them?
“No.”
There’s silence on the other end. I picture them wordlessly conversing about who should speak next. I save them the trouble.
“I just don’t want to go back into the same situation as before, you know?” I say, rubbing my eyes under my glasses. “It didn’t end well for me.”
“It didn’t end well for a lot of fans,” Caty says. “That’s why we want you back. To reset the conversation. A fresh start.”
“I can’t reset the conversation by liveblogging,” I say. “If you want me to help out, you should—” I stop myself. Do I mean what I was about to say? Would I really do that?
“What?” Caty prompts.
“Tell us what you want and we’ll discuss it,” Ms. Greenhill says.
I shake my head, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but talking to these three, I’m starting to feel that I can still make a difference. They’re offering me a voice in the conversation, and I’d be missing a big opportunity if I didn’t take it, and then ask for more.
“Let me moderate the panel,” I say. “At Comic-Con. Put me in charge of it.”
Rico laughs—one short, exuberant bark—but no one else speaks. I imagine Caty and Ms. Greenhill are probably having another wordless conversation. I wait it out, wiggling my toes in the grass nervously.
Finally, Ms. Greenhill clears her throat. “Okay, let’s do it.”
Holy smokes, I didn’t think that would work.
Rico lets out a hoot. “This should be fun!”
“I’m emailing you the info I need for your badge right now,” Caty says.
I peek at the house, where my parents are watching me through the kitchen window. “Do you think I could get three badges?” I say. “I have a couple of old folks I need to bring with me.”
The sky as we descend into San Diego is bright and clear, and I can see seagulls circling over the sparkling blue ocean. There’s a man with a sign that says STRUPKES at baggage who takes us to the convention in a shiny black town car. Mom is freaking out and wondering what the taco situation in San Diego is like. Dad is quiet and, I would bet a dollar, composing poems in his head about this. I don’t think either one of them has ever been south of Reno.
We see our first cosplayers when we’re still miles away—a Peggy Carter mom holding the hand of a very young Luna Lovegood. I wonder if it’s the girl’s first Comic-Con. I wonder if she’s as excited as I am. As we get closer to the convention center, the crowds get bigger and bigger, until they pack the sidewalks and move in waddling huddles. It’s truly a spectacle.
Every single kind of fan is present in this place at this time. Most of the cosplays I recognize, but some of them are completely new to me. I see a whole group dressed like punk-rock Disney princesses and smile to myself. Beyond them, there’s a group of pale, twitchy guys in oversize T-shirts who look like they haven’t seen the sun since this time last year. To their left, there’s a news camera interviewing a Castiel on the street. Next to Castiel is another Castiel. Actually, looking around, there are so many Castiels.
“Wow,” Mom says, in awe, taking in the totality of the convention swarming around us.
“I know,” I say.
The driver pulls up in front of a hotel. As we get out, Ms. Greenhill comes up to us, her smile huge.
“Claire! Trudi! Chuck, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, vigorously shaking our hands in turn. “You guys ready to have fun this weekend?”
“I suppose so,” Dad says. He’s already overwhelmed, I can tell.
“You betcha!” Mom says.
“Yes,” I say. And I am ready.
Ms. Greenhill nods at me warmly and holds out a manila envelope. When I tip it open, my badge slides out. Claire Strupke. VIP. This should all be old hat to me now, the fake-y, temporary glitz of conventions. But holding that VIP badge with my name on it in my hand, it still feels magical.
People travel from all over to come celebrate their favorite thing together in one place with other people who love that thing. Conventions are entirely based on mutual love of stories. I feel that love in the costumes of the people walking past, in the excited chatter of friends talking about what they want to go see first, in the eyes of the little kids gripping their parent’s hand, just hoping for a glimpse of their fave.
No matter what my feelings about Demon Heart are now, I still adore this. I put my badge around my neck and nod at Paula. “Let’s do it!”
“Great,” she says, handing envelopes to Mom and Dad as well. “I’ve put an itinerary in there for you, too. We’ll want to see you at the panel, but you’re free until then. I’ve also put your room keys in there. Chuck and Trudi, you’re together. Claire, you’ve got your own room. Thirteen forty-six. Go ahead and drop off your stuff, and I’ll see you at the panel!”
RED ZONE 4 is just so sick. The graphics look incredible, the story is immersive. I don’t even know how long I’ve been sitting here in my hotel room playing it, but it’s hours at least. This is my third time playing through the game since I bought it, and I know every stage. For the last month, I’ve done nothing but play Red Zone and work out. I’m calling it research.
In June, I auditioned for Jack Tension with the casting agent, who liked me, so I read for Reynolds, who liked me, so I read for the studio, who freaking liked me (holy shit!) but had concerns that I wasn’t known enough. They’re vetting you, my agent says. Live the role, my agent says. Don’t screw up at Comic-Con, my agent says. My whole life could change with one phone call, and unless I make some kind of spectacular mistake here in San Diego, it’s completely out of my hands. So I’ve decided if anyone asks about SmokeHeart, my answer is a simple “no comment,” and until it’s time to go onstage, I’m obsessively playing Red Zone 4 and trying not to think about it.
Now, I’m deep into enemy territory with three clips and a hand grenade left when I hear the door beep and then open. No one else should have a key to this room. I slip off my headphones and say, “Hello?”
“Oh,” I hear a voice say. I can’t see her yet around the wall, but I hear her fumbling with her bags. “I thought this was room thirteen forty-six.”
I know that voice. I pause the game and rise.
“It is,” I say as Claire rounds the corner and sees me, finally. She looks different from the last time I saw her. Her hair has lightened like she’s been spending a lot of time in the sun. She looks rounder, softer, less intense. She also looks surprised to see me as she glances around the room and notices my stuff everywhere.
“Oh…” she says. “Hi. I… thought this was my room.”
“Pretty sure it’s mine.”
“Ms. Greenhill gave me the key.”
“She gave me the key.”
“Ah,” she says knowingly as we both come to terms with the fact that we’ve been set up.
I take a seat on the bed again, but she continues to stand in the doorway. “So, you’re back for another round,” I say, tryin
g for a playful jab, but it might have come out sounding too much like an accusation.
“Yeah, I guess so.” She leans into the wall and picks at her fingernails. “I, ah, I deleted that fic you read off my account,” she says. “I shouldn’t have brought that stuff about your dad into it. Or Jasper Graves. I betrayed your trust, posting that. I’m sorry.”
I nod. “Thank you.” Well, well, well. Claire Strupke is capable of humility after all.
“I thought about deleting all of my fics,” she says.
It makes me sad, thinking about the sum of her creative work just disappearing like that.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“I’m just not sure I see the point anymore.”
“What’s Tess have to say about it?”
“Oh, ah…” Claire shrugs, meets my eyes fleetingly, then looks away again. “That wasn’t anything.”
“Kind of seemed like something,” I say.
Maybe our convention tour turned out to be a major clusterfuck of epic proportions, but at least it seemed like one good thing had come out of it. Those two deserved to find someone who would make them happy. I’m still kind of rooting for them.
“Yeah, um, you know, I should go find Ms. Greenhill and get the right key,” she says. “I’ll leave you alone with your…” She gestures to the TV as she picks up her bag to go.
“Hey, Claire,” I say, stopping her. I don’t know what to say, but I know we can’t leave it like this. With a few weeks of distance, some of the stuff I said to her in the heat of the moment makes me wince.
“I’m sorry I freaked out on you in Seattle. I lost my temper.” She nods. “And I’m sorry I tweeted about you. I should never have done that.”
“Thank you,” she says, then narrows her eyes. “You just trying to butter me up so you get better questions?”
“What do you mean?”
“They didn’t tell you?” Her eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “Oh man, okay. Um, well, I’m going to be moderating your panel.”
“Oh! Wow.” I snort. “Jamie’s going to lose it.”
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