“Probably.”
“You gonna make it all about SmokeHeart?”
“I have to ask about it.”
“Okay, but just a warning, all I’m going to say on the topic is ‘no comment.’”
She shrugs but smiles, and it almost feels like maybe we’re finding a way to be normal. I wiggle my controller at her. “I’m in the middle of a game here. Do you… maybe want to play with me?”
She frowns, dubious. “Did Ms. Greenhill ask you to do this?”
I hold up my hands and laugh. “I swear to god, this is all me.”
She thinks about it, then drops her bag and comes over and takes the controller from me. “What’re we playing?”
“Red Zone,” I say, and she shoots me an amused look.
“Still on that?” she says.
“Once a fan, always a fan.”
“Oh no, is that how that works?” she asks in mock horror. “You can never unfan something?”
“Sorry, dude, you’re gonna be obsessed with this” —I draw circles around my face—“forever.”
She laughs, and it feels like a breakthrough.
Claire’s actually pretty good at Red Zone. After thirty minutes of playing, she’s killed almost as many enemy fighters as I have. We’re closing in on the final battle when she asks me something I wasn’t expecting.
“So, Jack Tension, huh? You think you’re gonna get the role?”
“How’d you hear about that?”
“There were a bunch of gamer bros talking about it in the lobby,” she says. “They seem stoked.”
“Those are just rumors,” I say.
“True ones?” She shoots an enemy who had the bad fortune of sticking his head up in the desert just as she was training her rifle on him. Dang, she’s getting good at this.
“Studio hasn’t approved me yet. They’re worried I don’t have the necessary appeal.”
“The necessary appeal? Do I need to send them some URLs to fanblogs?”
I laugh. “I’m not sure that’s the kind of appeal they’re interested in.”
“Ah,” she says as she creeps through the remains of a bombed-out shack in the game, “they’re not looking for girls.”
“Well, it’s a big action movie, so…”
“Yeah.”
She lobs a grenade over a half-bombed wall, and as it explodes, it takes out three enemy fighters.
“All this gay stuff probably isn’t helping you, either,” she says.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” I mumble. “But… no. It’s not.”
“I get it,” she says. “No one’s gonna make a movie with a gay action hero.” She fires—TAT-A-TAT—into the brush, laying out several more enemies. “Even though that sounds rad.”
She runs through the doorway of the next checkpoint, with me on her heels. The game dings our successful completion of the mission and goes into a cut scene, congratulating us on our work so far and explaining the next stage.
I drop my controller to my lap. “I’ve never wanted a role as much as I want this one,” I say. “I mean, I don’t envy them their decision—they have to find the right guy in the entire world to bet a billion-dollar franchise on. But I’m just sitting here hoping it’s me and trying not to do anything that could jeopardize that.”
“So basically, you’re hoping SmokeHeart doesn’t come up at the panel today,” she says, not cruelly, just matter-of-factly.
I take a deep breath. “It would be easier for me if it didn’t, yeah. But, Claire…” I rub my neck and think about the best way to say this. “I want you to know that I’m genuinely sorry for how I reacted. That first day in Boise, especially, and all those days afterward. I was uncomfortable, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”
She nods and chews on her lip. I’m half-afraid I accidentally said something wrong in my apology and she’s about to launch into a lecture. But instead, she says, “Thank you.” Then, after a beat, she adds, “I know you can’t do this, but it would be nice if you said that publicly. This is your last convention with Demon Heart, your last chance to tell people how you feel.”
“I… don’t know how I feel,” I say, and that’s the truth.
“Do you still think we’re crazy?”
I remember the Demon Heart marathon back in Seattle, a park full of sighing fans. I think about Claire’s fanfiction—surprisingly well crafted, emotional, and thoughtful. I think about her sitting me down over doughnuts and showing me the Tumblr fan experience. I think about what Rico always says: You think too much, Forest.
“No, you’re not crazy.”
She nods and half smiles at me. We both know this is progress. “It would mean something to a lot of people to hear you say that.”
I know that’s true, but I just don’t think I can do it.
Claire looks at the TV, where our characters are being told to infiltrate a whorehouse popular with army men and weed out the “authentic whores” from “those enemy spy bitches.” Her face changes. I’ve played through this level twice already, but it hadn’t occurred to me how sexist it was until I saw Claire see it. I scramble for the remote control, searching the bed until I find it on the TV stand. I click it off so we don’t have to hear it anymore. I feel sheepish and dumb, and I really don’t like the way she’s looking at me.
I expect her to say something about Red Zone, like Some game. But she doesn’t need to. I already hear it in my head.
Instead, she just gathers her things. “I’ll get going. See you at the panel.” She heads for the door.
“Claire—” I don’t know what to say, but I don’t want her to leave like this.
“If Red Zone is what you want, then I want you to have that,” she says. “I really do want you to be happy, Forest. I hope you get what you’re looking for.”
She slips out the door and leaves me alone.
What I’m looking for.
If anyone knows what I’m looking for, maybe they could give me a call and let me know? Because I have no idea. And every time I try to do something good, I end up screwing it up. I drop onto the bed, bury my face in the soft covers, and groan into them.
GETTING FROM THE hotel to the convention is more overwhelming than anything we’ve done so far. Making it harder are Mom and Dad, trailing behind me, distracted by literally any little thing.
“Who’s that?” Dad asks, pointing at a cosplayer.
I look. “That’s Poe. Remember? You like Poe.”
“Edgar Allan?”
“From Star Wars, Dad.” I’m trying to get them to safely cross this street without being hit by a pedicab or trampled by one of the literally gajillions of other people here.
“Who’s she supposed to be?” Mom asks.
“Oh, I know that one,” Dad says. “That’s Xena the Vampire Slayer!”
“Close enough,” I mutter as I take their hands and run them across the train tracks so they don’t get run over while mixing up their badass female characters.
As we crowd up against other fans and wait for the light to change to cross the final street, Mom leans over and points to the guy next to us as she whispers, “What’s he?” I look at him. It’s a Jack Tension. And he looks game-perfect, down to the dusty fatigues and the replica assault rifle slung over his shoulder. The light changes.
“I don’t know,” I say, and lead my parents across the street.
Inside the convention center, the crowds don’t lighten up. As we ride the escalator to the second floor, I can look down over the mob of fans and marvel at how many of us there are. It is simply awe-inspiring. I think the entirety of our little Boise convention could fit in one ballroom here. Looking out over the vast ocean of nerds, weirdos, and fans, I remember how far I’ve come from that first con in Boise. I wonder how far I’ll go from here.
As we get closer to the ballroom where the Demon Heart panel is, I see that same Jack Tension cosplayer again, and then realize, no it’s a different one. A little farther ahead, I see a guy in a Red Zone T-shir
t, also walking the same direction as us. As we round a corner and the Demon Heart line comes into view, I see at least a dozen guys with Red Zone shirts, hats, or commemorative Comic-Con bags. Suddenly, the Demon Heart crowd looks much more like a Red Zone convention than anything else. I feel a knot of worry growing as we take our places in the line.
“Aren’t you thrilled to finally meet them?” Mom says excitedly to Dad. “Forest and Rico, they’re so dreamy, Chuck, you’re not gonna believe it.” Dad humphs like he’s not excited, but I can see he is. There’s so much energy in this line, it’s impossible not to feel it.
“Okay,” I tell them. “Once the line starts moving, just go inside and find a place to sit. And try not to yell anything too embarrassing at me, okay?”
“We would never!” Mom says, clasping her cheek in horror.
“Right. I’ll catch up with you after.”
I turn to go make my way backstage when I see her.
About a hundred people up, wearing an adorable yellow dress, talking animatedly to someone next to her.
Tess.
I feel the knot of worry clench even harder. Has she seen me? Does she know I’m here? How is she here? God, she looks good. Who is she with?
I haven’t talked to her since Seattle—since she texted to tell me she was going to a sleepover instead of watching the finale with me. She texted a few times after that, but when I didn’t answer, she stopped trying. She must have seen that I deleted my Tumblr. I hope she knows it wasn’t her fault. I hope she knows I don’t hate her. But how would she know if I didn’t tell her?
My hands are sweating at the very idea of talking to her. What if she’s mad at me for basically shutting her out for the last two months? What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if—my stomach drops at the thought—what if that girl she’s with is her new girlfriend?
“I’ll be right back,” I say to my parents, and, sweaty palms be damned, I start up the line.
My heart is racing like I’ve just run a 10K. My vision narrows so I can only see her. Everyone else here is irrelevant.
I have. No idea. What I’m going to say to her.
I start with, “Hey, Tess.”
She spins around, and her expression is this weird mixture of things I can’t pin down. “Claire,” she says. “Hi.” She stares at me like I look different, or something. I’m pretty sure I look the same as always. So does she: amazing. She got a haircut since the last time I saw her, the shaved fade on the sides of her head perfectly fresh.
“You look great,” I say. That yellow dress pops against her deep brown skin. It comes in nicely at the waist and then flares out, but it’s not until I’m looking at it up close that I notice the tiny pattern. “Are those… battle-axes?”
“They are!” She smiles softly and juts her hip a little. “I had to special order the fabric, and I made the dress myself. Don’t they look just like Smokey’s?”
“They do,” I say, impressed. She made this herself? And she’s wearing fandom gear in public? It’s subtle, but still… “I can’t believe you made this, and you’re wearing it.”
“It took some convincing, believe me,” the other girl says, and Tess steps aside to show she’s been standing with one of her friends from the sushi restaurant. I tense up at the very sight of her.
“Claire, you remember Jillian, right?” Tess says, and Jillian smiles at me.
“Yeah, hi.” I’m looking back and forth between them, waiting for an explanation. I can’t believe it—two months ago, she was afraid to even talk about nerd stuff with her friends, and now she’s here with one of them at Comic-Con.
Tess rubs the toe of her red Mary Janes into the carpet. “You remember that sleepover I went to? Well, Harper basically had a meltdown.”
“Completely,” Jillian agrees.
“She told me that it’s fine if I want to do nerd stuff, but it meant that she didn’t really ever know me at all, and basically put our friendship on the line. But it turned out the other girls were cool about it, so she didn’t have a lot of backup. And then she just kind of…caved.”
“Yeah, she’s all talk, no action,” Jillian says.
“Anyway, later, Jillian asked to see some of my art, and I showed her, and I’ve just been a little better about talking about it since then.”
“That’s great,” I say, a warm feeling taking over. But I try not to notice the way Jillian is standing so close to Tess, try not to focus on the easy way they talk over each other.
“Tell her about the store!” Jillian says excitedly, nudging her. My eyes linger on the skin of Tess’s long, open arms where Jillian’s fingers touched her.
“Oh, well, I set up an online store to sell some of my art,” Tess says. “They put it on shirts and mugs and stickers and stuff. Someone in Paris bought a shower curtain with my SmokeHeart art on it!”
“Wow, that’s amazing!” I say. “I’m really proud of you. Really.”
“Thank you. I would have told you sooner, but…” She trails off.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking away. “I should’ve texted you back.”
Tess shrugs. “Yeah. That would’ve been nice.”
I cross one arm over my stomach and grab my other elbow, not sure what to say next. I look at Jillian, who’s watching me carefully. Is she being protective because Tess is her friend or…
I try not to think about it. I want Tess to be happy, and it is my fault I didn’t text her back. If she moved on, that’s totally fair.
But I really hope she hasn’t.
I have to ask. I don’t know how, but I know I have to. I bury my hands in my pockets. “So, um, are you guys, like…” I look between them meaningfully.
Jillian doesn’t get it, just stares at me. But Tess’s eyes go wide right away. “Me and Jillian?” She starts laughing. “Oh god, no. No, no. Sorry, Jillian, but no.” She reaches over and touches Jillian’s shoulder, and Jillian catches on and starts laughing, too. My cheeks are burning up. I look away.
“Oh, okay, yeah, I was just wondering,” I mumble.
Tess steps a little closer to me, and she must give Jillian a look or something, because she kind of turns her back and opens her phone to at least pretend like she’s not listening to us anymore.
“I know I told you over text, but I wanted to say again,” Tess says, “I’m sorry. I should never have pressured you to come out, I should never have outed you to your mom. You should be able to do it on your own terms, whenever you feel like you’re ready.”
I nod. I want to say thank you, but I’m afraid my voice will crack, so I stay quiet.
“Have you…” she starts, then lowers her voice. “On that front, have you… thought any more about it?”
“I’ve thought a lot about it,” I whisper. “I’ve thought a lot about…you.”
“You have?”
“I’m sorry I was dumb. I couldn’t see that what you face is different than what I face. For me, it’s just about whether I’m queer or not. Which is stressful enough.” I laugh. “But for you, you have this whole other thing to deal with, too.” She nods solemnly. “I’m sorry I didn’t get that. That I still don’t really get it. But I want to.”
And I hold my breath that maybe what I see in her eyes is hope. That maybe I can stop being quite so dumb. That maybe I’m not the big freaking coward she thought I was. That maybe she and I could…
Then she leans in a little closer so that everyone else in this line fades away and it’s just me and her. I can feel her breath on my cheek as she whispers, “I really want to try again… if you do.” Then she pulls back a bit and looks me in the eye.
I do. I really do.
“I’d like that,” I say, and watch as her face breaks into a smile. I want to say more, but my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Caty: Where are you?
I look back at Tess. I really don’t want this moment to end, but: “I gotta go.”
Tess frowns. “You’re not gonna sit with us?”
A smile pulls at the corne
r of my mouth as I realize she doesn’t know. “No, I can’t, I’m sorry. Find me after, though, okay?”
Tess nods. I wave at Jillian, who gives me a little smile.
I hurry off down the hallway. I pass my parents down the line, and they’re giving me thumbs-up and waving. Oh god, they weren’t watching that, were they? I feel my cheeks flush hot, and I put my head down and push through some service doors to an employee access corridor.
I bring my hand up to my cheek to feel where Tess’s breath was on it just moments ago. My heart zips as I think about meeting up with her later.
I walk through the hallways toward the greenroom. I’m familiar with the ugly white industrial cinder-block look of these corridors now. It’s ironic that the more successful you get, the uglier the hallways you walk through are. Maybe that’s a metaphor for something.
The long walk gives me time to think about what I’m going to say onstage. I could use my very first question to ask about SmokeHeart, and then use the remaining time to ask follow-up questions about it. Or I could ask a bunch of regular questions and then use my last question to be about SmokeHeart.
I want to ask Jamie a million questions; I want him to say all the frustrating, complicated stuff he told me back in Ballroom 6E in Seattle, about how the TV industry works, about how he doesn’t feel like he’s in charge of his own show sometimes, and mostly about how he doesn’t give a rat’s ass whether we think his characters are gay or not, because he says they’re not. I could press him on it today, I could get him talking. I could use this time onstage to finally expose Jamie’s real opinions.
But how would that affect Forest?
Forest said his situation with Red Zone was very fragile at the moment, and it would be better if SmokeHeart didn’t come up at all. If I push it, if I make a big deal out of it, will that sink his chances for that role? Will that tank his career?
And for what? At this point, Jamie has made it as clear as he can that he’s never going to make it canon. Everyone has said that Smokey’s dead for good, Forest is off the show. All I can do today is get some kind of cathartic release for the fans, but I can’t make SmokeHeart happen. It’s over.
Is it worth it to press them on it if it’s not going to happen, and it might kill Forest’s chances at his next job? The job he really wants, and is, let’s face it, much better suited for?
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