Later, I tried to tell Cody that women have to deal with those kinds of personal space violations all the time, and he said, “Would you stop making everything about women?” His elastic was clearly still pulled tight about it, and for a moment, I almost felt sorry for him, so I didn’t push it.
These guys outside the VIP room, who’re probably a couple of years younger than me, look a little less clueless, but not a lot. The Asian guy in the middle has this worn-out beige Team Meister shirt on that should have been thrown out a dozen wears ago. On his left is a chubby white guy in a Codester shirt who at least has the decency to look sort of embarrassed at what they’re trying to do. On the other side is a scrawny white guy in sweatpants—sweatpants!—who’s staring in the opposite direction, watching the crowd file out of the hall.
“We just want to show him something,” continues the middle guy.
An idea comes to me. Maybe I can use Cody’s elastic to my advantage. I hold up my badge to the LotSCON guy and squeeze past them, then turn back to look at them. “I’ll ask if he’ll come out,” I tell them. “But don’t get your hopes up,” I add as the middle guy’s eyebrows shoot up in excitement. “He probably won’t.” I feel bad for using them in my plan, but it’s for the greater good. Or at least for ShadowWillow’s good.
Inside the VIP room, I lean the tripod against the wall, then survey the room. Legs has disappeared off somewhere, but Cody is on the couch beside Noog, with Willow standing close by, looking on. Perfect. If I can’t get Cody to change, maybe I can at least force him to reveal his terrible side to Willow. She might not be my favorite person, but girls need to look out for each other, and every girl should know the truth about Cody.
Plus, once she knows, maybe she’d talk to him about it. He didn’t listen to Z, but maybe if it’s a girl whose leggings he’s trying to get into, it’d be different.
I stride over to the little circle. “Hey, Cody,” I say, “there are three elevator fanboys outside, desperate to talk to you, refusing to leave.”
Cody vaults to his feet. Yep, he’s still sensitive about it, just as I expected.
“Not this again,” he mutters, quieter than I hoped. I glance over at Willow, who’s watching. Good. If I can just push his fear into anger, maybe he’ll spout off at the mouth a bunch and Willow will know to steer clear.
“You scared of a few fans, Cody?” I laugh.
He scowls at me. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not afraid of elevator fanboy creeps.”
Noog glances up at Cody, then returns to his conversation with Wolf and Ben. Grumpy Cody is nothing new to any of them. “Aw, Code just wears his heart on his sleeve,” Ben said when I complained to him once about Cody.
“What’s an elevator fanboy?” Willow asks.
Cody’s eyebrows furrow together under his beanie, like he’s about to start ranting, but then he turns to her and slips on his I’m-a-famous-streamer mask, hiding his anger faster than I knew he was capable of doing. “Nothing,” he says. “We had this kind of creepy experience with a fan in an elevator. Thought the guy was going to knife me or something, but he didn’t. It’s actually a funny story looking back.” He smiles at her, all charming, and she smiles right back.
I stare at Cody. He has never looked at me and thought, “Maybe I shouldn’t be my worst self around this person. Maybe I shouldn’t yell or use slurs or make offensive jokes in front of them.” Never ever.
And I mean, I know that being around your little sister is different from being around a girl you’re trying to impress, but still, would it be too much to ask for a little respect?
Apparently it would.
Which is exactly why I need someone other than me to get the message across to him. Someone he’ll listen to. And maybe he’d listen to Willow, but if he doesn’t show her his bad side, she’s never going to believe me that he needs a talking to in the first place.
“So are you going to speak with them or not?” I snap. Not that it matters now.
“Oh, um . . .” He glances at me, then at Willow. He doesn’t want to talk to them, but also doesn’t want to make a bad impression. “Why don’t you take them to our network’s table in the vendors hall and give them each a Codester sticker. Tell them if they come to the autograph session later, I’ll sign them.” He flashes another grin at Willow, like he’s some sort of superhero.
“Who designed your stickers?” Willow asks as she strides over to him, and Cody starts to tell her about “this great designer” he knows, and that’s it, I’m dismissed, unimportant. While Willow still fawns over him like he’s the greatest.
That did not go as planned.
I head back toward the door but pause before going through. I don’t want to go out there and deal with three fanboy Codesters. Though as I glance over my shoulder at Willow and Cody lusting over each other, I realize that I don’t want to stay here either. So I push out the door.
The Codesters are standing to the side against the wall, the two chubbier ones leaning together over a program while the skinny one watches me exit the door. He taps the other two on their shoulders simultaneously, and they straighten at the same time. Tweedledee and Tweedledumb. Great.
“Is he coming out?” the Asian guy in the Team Meister shirt asks. I want to believe he’s a general Team Meister fan instead of a Codemeister fan specifically, but then he wouldn’t be asking for Cody specifically and looking at me with such hope. Why couldn’t they all be wearing Z shirts or Wolf shirts? Aside from the fact that they’re friends with Cody, those guys are actually decent human beings.
I shake my head. “He had to rush off to another event,” I lie.
The Team Meister guy’s face falls.
“Darn,” the guy in the Codester shirt says, then mumbles something to himself about one chance left. Screw the stickers; I’m not going to do that much work just to perpetuate their unhealthy obsession.
I step back from them and pull out my phone, dismissing them, and check for messages from Legs. There’s one from him fifteen minutes ago, telling me he went nearby to grab a book for his mom’s upcoming birthday, and asking if I want to go for a walk once he gets back. Sure, I message back, then slide my phone back in my pocket. And since the whole thing has taken me about twenty seconds, when I look back up, the three guys are still there.
I happen to meet eyes with the guy in the Codester shirt, and he says to me in this really genuine way, “Thank you for trying. It meant a lot.”
I sigh. Stupid heartstrings.
“If you all come with me to the vendors hall,” I say, because I’m apparently a huge pushover, “I can give you each a sticker, and Cody said he’ll sign them later at his autograph session.” Maybe I can give them Team Meister stickers instead of Codester ones.
“Dude!” says Team Meister guy, elbowing Codester guy in the side. “Perfect conversational in!”
“I actually bought something for him to— Never mind.” He turns back to me. “Thank you. That’s super nice, though I don’t want you to have to go out of your way.”
“Hey, I want a sticker!” the skinny guy pipes up.
“Come on, then,” I say as I start walking across the auditorium. Out of the corner of my eye I catch Tweedledee and Tweedledumb trying to talk to each other with their eyes, except communication goes poorly and they both try to fall in beside me and end up bouncing off each other. The Codester one goes around to my other side, while the skinny guy follows behind.
“We’re Mark and Leroy,” Team Meister guy says, pointing to the skinny guy instead of at his Tweedle brother. “And that’s SamTheBrave. He’s a streamer. Have you heard of him? No? Well, you’re going to. He’s absolutely hilarious. I just started watching his videos and he’s already one of my favorites if not my very favorite. You should check him out. You work for Codemeister, right? Or are you a streamer, too?”
SamTheWhatever clears his throat.
“Never mind. I’ll let you two talk,” Mark-or-Leroy says as we step out of the auditorium into the big hallwa
y with the giant poster of Cody’s face. Then he falls back with the skinny guy, becoming Mark-and-Leroy. I’m left walking down the hall and into the big open registration area with SamTheWhatever, whose face has become adorably red, like he’s nine years old and someone mentioned girls’ underwear.
“You have very enthusiastic friends,” I say.
“Oh, I just—” He breaks off and glances behind him, then smiles. “Yeah, I do.”
We pass the big dragon thing, and I step onto the escalator. Instead of stepping on beside me, they all fall in line behind me, one after another, leaving room on the left for people to walk past. And for a moment, I have this vision of the four of us as the Beatles on Abbey Road or as the Fellowship of the Ring crossing one of those big mountains in a line, and I can’t help but laugh to myself. We’d be a funny fellowship.
At the top of the escalators, I show my badge and they show their wristbands to the LotSCON volunteer in the red shirt, and then we’re in the big, chaotic vendors hall that takes up the entire top floor of the convention center—though it’s still much smaller than at PAX.
The Meisters’ YouTube network’s table is in the back corner, so I wind past the nearby exhibitor booths, weaving my way through the crowds of people, at least a quarter of them in varying levels of cosplay. We pass a guy and a girl dressed all in black, thick layers of it in various textures of fabric cascading off them, matching veils over their faces, even their hands painted black. I have no idea what they’re supposed to be, unless it’s something to do with the shadows that fill the farthest reaches of the Legends of the Stone rifts. I’ve only been in those parts of the game once or twice. I’m happy to just build my house on the surface and let other people clear out the rifts—or turn them off on our server altogether.
The alleys between the booths are busy and full, so it’s not until we reach the back of the hall that SamTheWhatever is able to fall in step beside me again.
“So, do you work for Codemeister like Mark said?” he asks. He’s eying my badge, which has turned around backward and is showing nothing except its white back with tiny print. I keep it that way.
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Okay,” he says, dropping it immediately. He fiddles with a Band-Aid on the outer part of his wrist as we weave our way between some artisan booths to the big-name brands along the side wall. Then he drops both hands and straightens his shoulders. “Well, if you ever want to check out my channel, it’s easy to find. SamTheBrave. Here, I’ll write it down for you.” He pulls his program out of his tote bag and Mark-or-Leroy hands him a pen, and I’m about to tell him that it’s okay, I’ll just remember it, when I realize his hand is trembling. It’s subtle, but enough that writing his name while we walk looks super difficult.
I stop walking so he can stop walking, and he sets the program down on a nearby table and finishes writing, then rips off that corner and hands it to me. “You can call me Sam,” he says.
Perhaps he’s trying to talk up his channel to as many people at this convention as he can. I can’t really fault him for that. I know enough streamers and YouTubers to know what a tough business it can be. It’s not like posting a cat video that goes viral; Legs and Cody and everyone else all work their butts off every day.
I slip the scrap into my pocket, even though I know I won’t use it. Aside from the odd Legs video, watching people play video games just isn’t really my thing. I smile at him as I do so, though—but then looking at him makes me see his Codester shirt, which I had forgotten about when we were walking side by side. Ugh.
“Why do you watch Cody’s videos, anyways?” I spit out.
Sam tilts his head in thought before answering. “I watch his streams, mostly. The energy of them is incredible—everyone laughing and cheering him on.” There’s longing in his voice.
“And he’s funny!” pipes up the skinny guy.
“Right, yes, he’s funny,” Sam parrots.
“Well, come on, then,” I say, and once again the three of them trot after me like they’re puppies and I’ve got a dog biscuit. At the network’s table, I wave to the guy who helped me find a spot for Cody’s sticker boxes yesterday, then slip around the back of the table. I grab three palm-sized stickers of Cody’s logo—at least they’re not the ones of his face—and then return to Sam and his buddies.
I study the three of them—Mark-and-Leroy all wide-eyed and expectant, Sam’s face still tinged red from his fumbling attempt to gain a new viewer. They’re not so bad, really. Almost sweet, honestly. Maybe Cody really is good at censoring himself, and they don’t realize the truth.
What would they do if they knew? Or do they already know and they just don’t care?
I need to know.
“Hey, if you found out that Cody was a misogynist jerk, would that bother you?” The question pours out of me.
Sam pauses for only a moment before saying, “Of course it would.”
The tightness inside me loosens the tiniest bit. And as it loosens, the dark, wavering tendrils of an idea start to creep through the cracks. “How much would it bother you?”
Sam’s eyebrows furrow with what I think—I hope—is worry. “Is he?”
“I didn’t say that. Would you stop watching?”
The bigger half of Mark-and-Leroy pipes up. “Of course we would.”
Sam is slower to respond, cocking his head as he gives it honest thought. “I hope so,” he says at last. Which is enough. The dark tendrils solidify into a black mass in the middle of my brain. I know what to do. I know how to do it.
“Cool.” I thrust the stickers into their hands. “Have a great day.” I start to march away.
“Is he, though?” Sam calls after me.
“Again, I didn’t say that,” I call back over my shoulder.
I won’t have to say it.
When I post a video to the Codemeister channel with clips of Cody mouthing off behind the scenes, it’ll do the talking for me. And when Cody’s subscribers—at least the ones like these good boys—tell him with the clicks of their unsubscribe buttons, maybe Cody will finally have to listen. Maybe he’ll finally realize he has to change.
I’m sorry, Cody.
I’m sorry, but I have to do it. For Janessa’s sake. For Willow’s sake. For Cody’s subscribers’ sake. And, especially, for his own sake. I have to save my big brother by burning him to the ground.
Fourteen
SamTheBrave
“WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT?” I ASK AS THE GIRL STALKS OFF.
“Apparently Codemeister’s a misogynist jerk?” Mark says uncertainly.
“She didn’t say that,” Leroy says. “In fact, she specifically said she didn’t say that.”
“Thanks for the recap,” Mark says with a nervous laugh.
“I got your back.” Leroy gives him a little salute.
“So . . . what do we do with this . . . noninformation?” I ask.
Mark shrugs. “Nothing? Like you said, it’s noninformation. You can’t judge someone based on something someone else didn’t actually say about them.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” I say, though the words sit uneasily in my stomach. My hand reaches for the Band-Aid on my wrist, though I catch myself and draw it back. “I’m guessing she’s not going to show my videos to Code,” I say.
“Hmm, no, probably not,” Mark says. Then he slaps me on the back. “But at least you got some practice. And we’ve got free stickers.”
I nod. It was nerve-racking talking to that girl (why didn’t I ask her for her name?) about my videos, but Mark’s right; it was good practice. And she was nice about it. Of course. Everyone here is nice.
Beside me, Leroy is waving over the guy behind the table. “When does the lineup start?” he asks, tapping a sign on the table that says:
Team Meister
Autographs
4 p.m. Saturday
Right. This is where they’re having them.
“The line’s started already.” The guy points toward a near
by wall, where those retractable rope-fence things shape out the place where a long line will go. At the front, there’s a little clump of seven or eight people, some sitting and some leaning against the wall, standing.
“Ooh,” Mark says. “Should we go get in line?”
“Already?” I glance at the time on my phone. “The autographs don’t start for over an hour.” I didn’t come here to spend my whole time waiting in line for things. Waiting feels like lost time. I could be wandering around this magical place, maybe running into Code at a vendor’s booth or in line for ice cream. Code’s not going to be in the lineup of people waiting to see himself.
“People are already lining up, though. What if they run out of time and don’t get through the whole line?” Mark asks. “Isn’t your whole reason for being here to talk to Code?” He starts moving in the direction of the line, Leroy trailing after him. “Why risk it?”
He has a point. A very good point that should have been the point I was already making to myself, especially since last time I almost missed being in line entirely. I’m starting to think I’m not cut out for this real-life self-promotional stuff, though Mom’d probably smack me upside the head—in a loving way—if she ever caught me thinking this way.
“Sammy, you’re cut out to do anything you’re willing to work hard for,” she’d say.
Which is why I follow Mark and Leroy over to the wall to sit in line over an hour early—well, that and also because I’ve just realized that hanging out with them in line sounds more fun than wandering around the convention all by myself.
Once we’ve filed through the rope fence to find our place in line, I pull out my phone and find myself on Code’s Twitch channel, staring at it. It’s not live now, of course, but simply staring at the page takes me back to that first stream I watched of Code’s. He was playing LotS with a couple guys, and his viewers were all yelling in chat that he had forgotten to equip his armor as he went running into a rift screaming, “Victory is mine!” And then he died to an unbuffed wereboar and his thousands of viewers about lost it with laughter, and so did I.
Fan the Fame Page 13