I want this—the viewers, the panels, the signings, the fame—and if I have to put up with a few Sleazemeisters to get there, so be it.
I glance down the hall toward Z, thinking of all the CodeWillow shippers’ comments from last night. Now, if only I could figure out what I want to do about all that, I’d be set.
I push all those worries out of my mind and set the postcards down on the table, where people can take them. Boy, do I hope someone wants one.
“You’re doing autographs now, right?” a female voice says, and I look up, expecting to see the red-haired girl. Instead, a thin Asian woman and a curvy white woman, both in their early twenties, stand there smiling at me.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “I mean, in about fifteen minutes I will be. You can line up . . . uh, right there, I guess, if you want.” Good golly, I’ve gone full awkward baby skunk. I wait for them to tell me that no, they’re not going to waste their precious time waiting, thank you very much, and wander off to do something else and maybe or maybe not return later.
Instead, the white girl says, “Great,” and then they turn to each other and start to chatter about some movie while staying put right where they are.
And in case you missed it, “right where they are” is in line. To get my autograph.
It’s so many bananas that they’re all going brown because they can’t get used up fast enough.
And then before Z can even return from explaining to the guy a few tables down that he needs to borrow their chairs, the people start coming out of the woodwork. A small pack of young teen boys gets in line behind the women. And then the girl in a hetero couple that’s passing by stops short, looks at me, then at the sign above my head, then at her oversize watch, and then grabs her boyfriend’s arm and drags him over. Well, drags for the first few steps. Once he figures out where she’s pulling him, he says, “Oh! Cool!” loud enough that I can hear him, and hurries toward me with her.
They make it into line just ahead of the red-haired girl, who has finally made her way over.
I kneel down and do an inventory of everything in my purse, for no reason except that I have nothing else to do and I don’t want to start the signing early, because then we’d get through the line and it would all be done.
The clattering of chair legs against the concrete floor announces Z’s return. I stand and he grins at me, shooting his gaze meaningfully in the direction of the growing line.
“Hey, could we get your autograph, too?” the girls in front ask Z, and for one long moment, I worry that the whole line is confused and everyone saw Z and thought that’s whose autograph they were lined up for.
But after Z happily signs a few autographs “while we wait,” not a single person leaves the line as if they’ve already gotten what they came for. And then I overhear someone say, “Is this the line for ShadowWillow?” and someone else says, “It sure is,” and my heart grows too big for my chest.
“I have to pee,” I spit at Z. “Can you—?” I shove the postcards I’m arranging in piles into his hands and then rush across the hall into the bathroom, where I hurry to a corner and turn to face the concrete brick wall. And I know, I know, it’s weird and 100 percent awkward skunk that I’m staring at a brick wall, but I can’t think of any better way to stop time than to stare at the ridges and lumps of a painted cream wall, and I want this moment to last forever.
This moment, when I was an invited guest at a convention for the very first time, when I had my very first autographing session and people actually showed up. This moment, when it felt like an entire lifetime of potential stretched ahead of me, and an entire mountain of work lay not behind me, because I know the work will never end, but under my feet. Something to build on, higher and higher.
Even staring at motionless, patternless walls isn’t enough to stop time, though. The seconds tick past, and as they do, the hunger creeps into my stomach. This is the start, but I still want more. I want the lineups that the Meisters get, the money coming in from my channel. I want to not be surprised that people have shown up to see me.
Before the hunger fills my whole gut, I shove it away. These are dreams to dwell on another time. They’re the stars, twinkling and enticing, but for now, I have the sun, and it’s bright and blazing.
“People actually showed up!” I whisper at the wall. And then, with a grin, I head back out to join Z—thoughtful, huggable Z—at the table where my fans wait to meet me.
Of course, the first people in line aren’t really my fans at all, but Code fans. “So, are you and Code dating?” the blond-haired girl asks as she leans in to hand me one of my own postcards to sign. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”
“What’s he like?” the other girl asks. Her naturally tan skin is enviably smooth, and I’d ask her what type of moisturizer she uses on it if I wasn’t so busy trying to keep my nose from crinkling at the thought of Code.
I want to tell them that he’s actually sort of obnoxious in person and probably racist and that they should lust over someone else—someone like Z, maybe, though he’s probably too young for them—but considering how starry-eyed they’ve gone, saying something like that would do me zero percent good. In fact, it might even do me harm. Maybe these are the girls who threatened to lynch me if I break Code’s heart.
I take a deep breath and do what I have to do. “Well, there’re some videos coming out this week that’ll tell you more about both of us,” I say with what I hope is a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. Wolf sent the bug video off to his team to edit and break into segments for each of us to upload to our own channels. “Be sure to check out the one on my channel if you want to see more of Code.” I had been thinking the clip with Z making me eat that big beetle would be best, but maybe one with Code in it would be better.
“Oh, we will,” perfect skin says, which is good, I guess.
As I finish signing their postcards, Z taps me on the shoulder. “I’m grabbing a water bottle. You want one?”
I hadn’t been thinking about the fact that he’s still sticking it out here with me when he probably has a million other things he could be doing. “Z, you don’t have to stay here. You probably have people to meet and stuff.”
His eyebrows knit together. “What, you don’t want me here?”
“No, I—”
“I’m kidding.” He smacks my arm. “Of course I’m going to stay. I’ll grab us waters. Be right back.”
And with that, he’s off to grab water bottles. And then come back, because of course he’s going to stay. Of course. My heart goes the tiniest bit melty in my chest.
The pack of young teen guys next in line says very little other than giving me their names so I can personalize their postcards, and I have no idea whether they’re ShadowWillow fans or Codemeister fans or kids who saw a not-terrible-looking girl and thought they’d get in line for whatever she was giving out, until the final kid in their posse says, “Thanks, Shadow,” and I swear I could kiss him atop his greasy little head.
Then the couple, and then it’s the girl who was espionaging my signing space from the nearby vendor’s booth. She hovers for a moment, twining a strand of her red hair around her finger like she’s nervous, then steps up to the table and launches in. “Hi, ShadowWillow. I’m Caitie. I’m such a big fan. I love your channel. I saw you in that tournament with Code, and you were so badass in that, taking everyone down, and I’ve been watching your channel ever since. I love all your silly sayings and how talented you are.”
I blink rapidly, because I’m not sure this girl—Caitie—would still think I was badass if I gushed tears of gratitude all over her. “Thank you. That’s really amazing to hear.”
“I was wondering”—she pauses as her cheeks flush pink—“if you could by any chance give me some advice. I started my own channel recently—like, really recently—because I loved what you do with yours, and I was wondering how to make my channel successful and stuff.”
“Do you want me to look at it?” I ask. I wouldn’t offer that
to just anyone, but this girl is making my heart seriously squishy.
Caitie turns even redder—almost as red as her hair. “Oh, no. It’s so bad right now. I think my only subscribers are my friends and this boy at school. I’m still learning. But anything you could tell me . . .”
She trails off and I nod, considering her question.
I start with the advice I found most often online when I was first getting into YouTube. “For starters, invest in a good mic. It’s worth it. People aren’t going to bother to watch if the audio’s bad. And . . .” I think through the things that have gotten me here: the hours spent in my parents’ basement, recording and editing and rerecording and making thumbnails and connecting with people online and saying no to nights out with friends and romance and university (for now) because there’s so much to get done.
The tournament with Code gave me a boost, but not before I had built up connections and created a solid channel with a respectable number of subscribers. Code gave me the boost, but I made something worth boosting in the first place.
“Take advantage of any and all opportunities, though you know that already, since that’s what you’re doing right now.” I smile at her, and even her ears turn pink. “But also, work hard. Work really really really really hard. Work until your freakin’ butt falls off.”
She laughs. “I was worried you might say that.”
I grin and shrug. “I only say that if it’s what you want, though. I mean, maybe YouTube success isn’t what you most want, which would be okay. I worked hard to get here, and that meant sacrificing a lot, but I feel happy because it brought me here, to this place I want to be. If you’re not doing it for what you want, though, sacrifice is only going to feel like sacrifice.”
Just then, Z returns with the bottles of water, and as he hands mine to me, he smiles, and I smile back.
“Isn’t that right, Z?” I ask.
“Yep, definitely. She’s wise. Listen to whatever she says. Unless she’s telling you to sit on a porcupine. Maybe don’t do that.”
The girl laughs, then turns back to me. “You really are wise. That was super deep.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time in my parents’ basement; I’ve had a lot of time to think.” And with that, I finally sign her postcard.
The rest of the line goes fairly quickly. No one else wants any down-to-the-soul advice, though they do all want my autograph. In fact, not a single person seems to be in the wrong line, or calls me by the wrong name, thinking I’m someone who’s actually much more famous. They all know who I am and are there by choice. Which is banana splits with a dozen perfect maraschino cherries on top.
Afterward, Z—who, true to his word, is still there—helps me to tidy up, though there isn’t much to do. “You good to go?” he asks once we’ve thrown away some garbage someone left and I’ve taken down the ShadowWillow Autographs sign and slipped it into my bag for a souvenir.
I stride up next to Z. “I’m very good to go,” I say, and I am. Because I’ve decided what I’m going to do. I’ve decided what I want.
There’s just one problem, and her name is Lainey.
Twenty-Two
Lainey
THE FIRST THING I DO WHEN I CATCH UP WITH LEGS AGAIN IN THE FOOD COURT in the basement is show him the video I’ve shot. I wish I could report to him that I caught nothing, and that it’s because Cody has finally listened to me and fully reformed and I don’t need to cause any harm to anyone at all—and especially not my own brother—for the sake of what Willow called “the greater good.”
But I can’t say that.
I pull out the camera and search for the videos amid the more innocuous vlog clips, playing them quietly for Legs one after the other.
Cody pointing out a girl’s “excessively fat ass” to Noog.
Cody joking about how some girls are probably better at sex when they’re asleep.
Cody being confronted for being a jerk by that kid from yesterday, turning it around and ranting about it being a free country, then calling the kid fat.
It’s that last one that’s my favorite—if you can have a favorite video of someone being a dick. Seeing a fifteen-year-old nobody stand up to twenty-one-year-old somebody fires me up to tear down dungeons and build castles in their place.
I think that one’s how I’ll start the video—with a short clip of Cody shouting, “It’s a free country! I can say what I want!” Then moving on to show all the terrible things that Cody wants to say.
Come on, Cody. Be better.
“This guy’s going to get torn apart,” Legs says when the final video stops.
“Cody?”
“No, this guy that confronted him.”
“What, why? He’s brilliant!” We have a shared plate of fries between us; I pop one into my mouth.
“Don’t you think Cody calling him a fat dork or whatever is going to cause other people to call him a fat dork?”
“No way,” I say. “People are better than that.” Though if that were true, I wouldn’t need to make this video in the first place. “Maybe I can crop the kid out of it.” Though I know that’ll be hard to do. It’s not like I had time to set up the perfect shot. I had to start filming from where I was taking a picture of Cody signing autographs for those girls, and the camera’s pointed at Cody’s side and back, with the kid in the background, their bodies slightly overlapping.
It’s the perfect opening clip, though. So who cares—I’ll just use it.
Except Janessa calling herself collateral damage pops into my head.
I didn’t mean to hurt her. And I don’t mean to hurt this kid.
But Cody hurts people constantly, I remind myself. If one more person has to get hurt in order to create a world where Cody hurts fewer people every day, that has to be a worthwhile cost.
Doesn’t the end sometimes justify the means?
Except I suppose I didn’t need to message Janessa in the first place. I wasn’t thinking that maybe she’d be sitting there crying over Cody and over people calling her a slut and I’d only make things worse. I was only thinking about my anger and fear over Cody.
Is that all I’m thinking about now, too? I’m not, am I?
Janessa still hasn’t responded, and I guess I have to accept that maybe she won’t.
I steer my conversation with Legs toward other things—books, politics—as we finish our paper dish of fries, then clear the table and head toward the door. Cody and I don’t fly out until tomorrow, but Legs only has a couple more hours before he needs to catch a ride to the airport. We’re supposed to go upstairs so Legs can say goodbye to Z and some others. Then we thought we’d fit in one more walk by the water before Legs has to go. My heart skips a little at the thought. And then skips again when, as we step out of the food court into the busy hallway, Legs slips his hand into mine.
A group of middle-aged white guys with foam swords duels each other lazily as they pass. A three-generational family that I’ve seen a couple of times this weekend hangs out by the nearby bathroom, the women clearly waiting for the men to finish. The two thirty-year-old women in matching LotS shirts, who are obviously sisters even though one has curly hair and the other straight, lean over the LotSCON program as a young girl sits on the floor and another even younger boy runs circles around her and their grandmother.
I wonder if Cody would’ve turned out a better person if I’d been the older sibling. Maybe he’d have listened to my wisdom.
The grandmother scoops up the younger kid just as he makes a running jump toward his older sister, sweeping him away just before his boot connects with her head. “Avery! No jumping on your sister’s head! We’ve been over this!”
Then again, maybe not. I can’t help but laugh.
“Shall we go find Z and then go for that walk?” Legs asks.
“Yes, let’s—wait, there he is.”
“Who?”
“That kid from the video.” He’s in the opposite direction from the family, following his two friends toward a nea
rby room. “Come on! I have an idea! I’ll ask him!” I drop Legs’s hand and hurry after the kid, catching up to him and tapping his arm just as they reach the door. “Hey, can I talk to you?”
He turns to me, then back to his friends. One has already disappeared into the room, which is full of people—ninety percent guys—sitting at tables with some sort of playing cards spread out in front of them. I have no idea why there are cards at a convention about a video game. Nerd culture is so confusing sometimes.
The skinny friend looks at the kid and stops.
“I’ll be there in a minute, Leroy,” the kid says. “Start without me.” And Leroy shrugs and heads into the room. The kid turns to me. “How can I help you, Lainey?” Great, he remembers my name, while I’ve just been calling him “the kid.”
“Well, I, uh—what’s your name again?”
“Sam.”
“Right, Sam. I want to talk to you about something. I took this video . . .” I trail off as Sam’s gaze keeps slipping off me and onto Legs, who’s caught up with me and is standing just behind me and to the right, close enough that his shoulder is touching mine. “Oh, yes, sorry, this is Caleb. Caleb, Sam. Sam, Caleb.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam,” Legs says, and when he sticks out his hand, Sam grins broadly and shakes it.
“I know who you are. I’m a fan.” But then the joy disappears abruptly from his eyes, replaced by uncertainty and sadness—which, I realize, is Cody’s fault. Cody, who Sam fanboyed over. Cody, who called Sam names in public.
If Willow were here, I’d tell her that all I’m trying to do is stop Cody from causing more hurt like this.
“Hey, Sam, I wanted to ask you if I could use a video you’re in,” I say quickly, before Sam can run off in fear that Legs is going to do the same thing. Poor kid. “It’s video from before, from up in the vendors hall.” If I have his permission to use it, then he’s not collateral damage anymore.
Sam’s eyes narrow as his fingers pick at a pimple on his face that’s already red and inflamed. “Use it for what?”
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