by Nancy Werlin
The registration line was making efficient progress. Of course I was still excited about the Bleeders midnight season premiere. Of course I was still really glad I was here and not at Tropical Foods feeling secretly futile. Only now I wondered, What was I going to do with myself, all alone in this crowd, between now and midnight?
I hung my official con membership badge around my neck. Outside the registration hall, I picked up a paper schedule. It was thick and packed with descriptions of thousands of programs organized by date, time, and track. Yes, thousands. There were also floor maps for the hotels. Lists of exhibitors and special guests. And. And. And. You’d have to study it for a week to figure everything out.
But all I wanted was something halfway interesting to do between now and midnight. And then something to do after the premiere . . . in the wee hours . . . by myself . . . because I really didn’t want to go hang out at the airport then. Aaargh!
“You’re better off downloading the app,” the guy behind the schedule table advised me. He was massive, elderly, and bald, sporting an Ultraviolet: Code 044 T-shirt and a handlebar mustache of which he was clearly proud. “The app keeps you on top of the programming, which you need because room assignments can change. And it’s just easier to find things in the app. But—you’re a first-timer, right? Thought so. You’ll want to rip the hotel maps out of your printed schedule.” He demonstrated enthusiastically. “Now, the Hyatt, Hilton, and Marriott are all connected. You never have to go outside!” He said this like it was a good thing. It probably was, given the heat.
“Thanks.” I paused as he looked at me encouragingly. “Where can I get something to eat? That’s not too expensive and is, you know, somewhat healthy?”
I came away armed with directions to two food courts and also to a place called the Con Suite inside one of the hotels where food was apparently available to everybody 24/7, completely free although not guaranteed to be healthy. I had also been encouraged to attend an orientation session for newbies, and my maps were now annotated with circles and arrows for food, the location of the Bleeders premiere, some gathering places for other “military science fiction and horror” sessions (the volunteer assumed this must be what I was into and I didn’t bother to explain that I wasn’t into anything except Bleeders), and several good spots to stand for a parade that was to happen tomorrow morning. (I also didn’t explain that I’d be on my way home by then.) He was great, and I felt a little bereft when he said dismissively, “Have fun now!”
Still uncertain, I threaded through the milling, talking, excited crowd until I found a wall to lean on. I downloaded the app and tried to understand it while watching more cosplayers swan past. Lots of Star Wars and elves and fairies and Spiderman and Fred and George Weasley and minions and dragons and Mary Poppins. Also, a surprisingly creepy group dressed in yellow with rubber duckie masks who yelled “Make way! Make way!” Then Abraham Lincoln and medieval and steampunk—and Lisa Simpson! I love Lisa!
And so very many costumes and references that I didn’t have a clue about.
Most people seemed willing to pose for pictures whenever you asked, so I texted a few photos to Maggie.
MAGGIE: *Speechless*
ME: Me too.
MAGGIE: Send more. I’m begging.
ME: OK, but promise me you won’t show them to anybody.
ME: Because it can’t leak out where I am and what I’m doing!
MAGGIE: I promise. Just send more.
ME: Right now? Aren’t you busy?
MAGGIE: Yes and no. Sitting in the back.
MAGGIE: My grandparents just renewed their vows.
MAGGIE: Everybody is cooing.
MAGGIE: I’m in danger of crystallizing into a pillar of sugar.
MAGGIE: You’re my only hope.
I sent her a giant guy dressed as a rooster.
MAGGIE: Haha. May I request another hot elf?
ME: Mission accepted.
I prowled the area and got more photos, feeling like I was on the sidelines of an enormous party that had been going on for years. People shrieked and hugged as they found one another. They picked up conversations that referenced last year, or five years ago. They were mostly adults—twenties, thirties, forties, fifties. There were smaller kids, with their parents, but I didn’t notice many teens who were on their own, like me.
Maggie had gone silent. Of course she had granddaughterly duties at the anniversary party. I thought about getting a nerdy T-shirt to change into. Even just a Dragon Con shirt. Only I’d never wear it again so it was a waste of money, and while Aunt Kath was probably good for another gift card at Chrismukkah, right now I’d have to dig into my college savings from my job with Mrs. Albee, and to this I say a firm no.
Well, at least I had my Dragon Con membership badge to show I belonged.
I ventured out onto the cosplayer-crammed streets of Atlanta in search of I didn’t know what. I tried to walk confidently, though, as if I knew where I was going and that I would meet many close personal friends there.
But then I saw my Tennah/Bellah cosplayer again, waiting in a line that wound at least halfway around the Hyatt hotel, between a steampunk Alice in Wonderland and a couple wearing Sailor Moon T-shirts. Tennah/Bellah was talking to someone who—my heart skipped a beat—was cosplaying Torrance!
Torrance is the only male on the crew of the ship Mae Jemison, and he is quiet. But toward the end of Season 1, he began displaying some interesting depths.
The fan cosplaying Torrance was a girl, a few inches taller than Tennah/Bellah, and she looked about my age, with dark hair cut close that was clearly real rather than a wig. The Torrance cosplay was basic, just a white lab coat with the Bleeders medical insignia (a gold snake wrapped around a surgeon’s laser) embroidered on the pocket. And the stethoscope-garrote, of course.
The best part: in one hand, she had a small cast-iron frying pan! And her white lab coat was stained on the front . . .
In Season 1, Episode 7, Torrance got cornered in the ship’s galley by a Sanitation Soldier and conked his attacker on the head with the pan. Then he vomited on the soldier whose head he’d just smashed in—and later, spent hours in surgery trying to save it. Which was futile because Sanitation Soldiers are half circuitry, and Torrance is a doctor but not an engineer, and Bellah, who’s both, flatly refused to help. Coghead can’t be dead enough for me. And don’t even mention rehab. You can’t handle the programming. So the soldier ended up in a closet until Celie quietly wired its head into the kitchen appliances two episodes later, but all it can do so far is insult Torrance, call Celie “most exalted and extreme genius,” and make toast. (By the way, fans ship Torrance and Celie all the time. There is something kind of innocent and sweet about that ship.)
Anyway, Torrance is a pacifist and this incident was the first time in his life he’d hurt anyone. Or anything, as Bellah kept insisting. Bellah and Torrance had a vicious quarrel about what it means to be alive, which ended with Torrance exploding that this was going to be the last time he’d touch any weapon whatsoever for any purpose whatsoever, whereupon Captain intervened by saying something about the frying pan.
So when I saw that frying pan, I felt my face break out into an enormous smile, and the girl who was cosplaying Torrance caught it and grinned back at me. It was a tractor beam drawing me in.
I went up to the two of them.
“Hi! Oh my God, hi! Torrance! Hi, Tennah! Hi, Bellah!” I couldn’t stop smiling.
Tennah/Bellah bowed, a little awkwardly. He had very thick eyebrows that almost met above his pink glasses. “Bloodygit?” he asked me.
“Bloodygit!” I confirmed excitedly. “Zoe Rosenthal.”
Torrance smiled and said, “I’m Liv Decker.” A brief pause, as if she was hesitating, and then she held up her badge. There was a little ribbon on the badge that said THEY/ THEM.
Because of Simon, at least I didn’t hesitate to respond. “Oh, I should have said. I’m she/her.” I smiled at her—them.
Simon had a
whole speech about including pronouns in introductions, especially when meeting new people, pointing out that the onus otherwise was always and unfairly on the nonbinary or trans person. Here he was being proven right yet again.
Liv smiled back and added, “Just so you know, I don’t take offense at she/her. It’s just that I identify personally as nonbinary.”
I nodded. “But just so you know, I try but I mess up on pronouns sometimes.”
“No worries. I happen also to be imperfect.”
Tennah/Bellah said, “I’m Cameron Decker. Cam. He/him. I am perfect.”
Liv snorted.
Cam said, “We’re from here. Atlanta.”
“You’re siblings?” I asked.
“Twins,” said Cam. “But not identical. Just in case that’s not totally obvious.”
Liv snorted again.
“Wow, I have to tell you, I’m regretting this,” Liv said, raising the pan. “I totally should’ve gone with aluminum.”
I said, “But it makes the costume. You know, authenticity.” I gestured at their lab coat’s vomit stain. “Also, nice touch.”
“I had to try at least somewhat, given the competition,” Liv said, with a glance at Cam’s Tennah/Bellah costume.
“You look spectacular,” I said to him.
“I don’t see the point of doing things halfway,” said Cam airily, and then paused before adding, “when it comes to cosplay.”
I said to him, “I love your split face.”
“Thanks! Originally, I was going to paint as Bellah in front and use a mask for Tennah in the back, but then I decided to go this way instead. I didn’t like the idea of, you know, silencing Tennah by reducing her to a mask. It would be like she’s permanently dormant.”
I nodded. “I see what you mean.”
“I don’t,” said Liv.
I truly did, though. Tennah/Bellah shape-shifts from one person to the other, and even though this is body-sharing, sort of, Tennah doesn’t have any access whatsoever to what Bellah knows and vice versa. When one is up, the other is—sort of—dead. Or asleep. They leave each other meticulous voice logs. Also, and this is extremely important, Tennah and Bellah are not friends. They cooperate only because they have to and they do not particularly like it, or each other. Oh, and they have quite different tastes in sexual partners, which led to an interesting scene in Episode 5 and, as you may imagine, many more interesting scenes in fanfic. Not that I read Bleeders fanfic. Not much at all.
The line that the Deckers were standing in started to move. I walked alongside. “What are you going to?”
“Frank Oz,” said Liv. “You know, you could maybe come with us. One person won’t make any difference, right?” This was directed to the Sailor Moon couple behind them. “We’ve been waiting,” the man said uncertainly.
“It’s not like you wouldn’t get in,” Liv wheedled.
“Oh, no, no,” I said quickly. “I could never cut in line.”
Even though I wasn’t sure who Frank Oz was, I would have gone with them if I could have. Only I really didn’t want to cause any unpleasantness. I said, “Actually, I’m on my way to get something to eat.” Then I was brave. “Are you two going to the premiere at midnight?”
“Of course!” said Cam. “You?”
“Yes!”
“Meet you there?” said Cam. “We can all sit together.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “That would be great.”
“Pro tip? Come an hour early. At least. We want good seats.”
We.
“Yes,” I said. “I will.”
Their line was moving, so Cam said, “See you at eleven, Zoe!”
“Eleven,” I agreed happily.
“Doors don’t open until eleven thirty,” said the volunteer at the Piedmont Room door, sternly, as he blocked my way. I had arrived on the Conference Center level at the Hyatt even earlier than eleven o’clock.
“Can I just, you know, go in and sit? Save a couple seats?”
He eyed me. “You have a ticket for the Bleeders premiere?” When I nodded, he added, “Then you just wait out here with everyone else.”
I retreated with my metaphorical tail between my legs. Only a few hours before I’d claimed that I would never cut in line! Apparently I’d just never been really tempted.
I was far from the only one who’d come early. People sat on the floor or leaned against the walls, including a T. rex wearing a Handmaid’s white bonnet and red robe. I gave them a thumbs-up, got permission to take a photo (for Maggie), and then looked around for Cam and Liv Decker. Who must have thought eleven meant eleven.
I went up to a skeletally thin, tall kid in cargo shorts and a Doctor Who T-shirt. His Dragon Con membership badge dangled from a purple-and-yellow lanyard around his neck as, sitting, he leaned forward over a book.
“You’re the end of the line?”
This guy looked about my age, maybe a little older, with a scruffy chin that he had tried to shave. He closed his book when I spoke. The book had a picture of an elk on the cover and was titled Modern Java Recipes.
“Yes, I think so.” His voice was loud and subtly atonal.
I said, “Okay if I sit here too? I won’t bother you.”
“You won’t, I mean, I’m not bothered, I mean, yes. Sit down. Fine. That’s fine. You can sit. Sit.” He scrambled to make more room, although there was already plenty. I had that sinking feeling about him, not the bad one, just the “he likes girls and I’m a girl and I’m here so he’s going to try” one. But this was where I had to be, so I sat. I pulled out my phone and ducked my head so my hair sort of curtained my face. “I have to text my boyfriend,” I said pointedly, even though in actual fact the only person I needed to text was my employer, Mrs. Albee. Which I should have done earlier, only I’d forgotten. “He’s expecting it.”
The boy looked interested. “Is he coming too? We can save him a place.”
“Uh. No. He—he’s not. Two other friends of mine are coming, though.”
“We’ll save spots for them, then.”
I lowered my phone. “That’s allowed? Or would it be as if they were cutting other people in line?”
The guy shook his head solemnly. “We just need to tell whoever gets in line after you that we’re saving the spots. Someone told me that today when I got in line for Frank Oz. Also, Bloodygits won’t mind. We’re all fans together! You said two?”
I nodded. “Yes, two. But I’m going to text my boyfriend now, okay?”
“Fine,” he said, but just kept on talking. “My name is Sebastian Sweet. He/him.”
There was something cheerful about him. It didn’t feel like he was hitting on me, after all. And he was a Bloodygit. I smiled. “Hi, Sebastian. I’m Zoe Rosenthal. She/her.”
“Hello.” Sebastian pressed his hands together and bowed his head. “Namaste, Zoe.” He added solemnly, “The light in me salutes the light in you.”
I had never namaste’d anyone outside of a yoga class. “Namaste, Sebastian.” He kept looking at me expectantly, so even though I felt ridiculous, I added, “The light in me salutes the light in you.” It was worth it because then he looked so happy. He was weird, he was definitely weird, I thought. But . . . well, sweet. I added hastily, “So, I’m texting my boyfriend now, all right?”
“Yes, you said you would. Good. Don’t you wish he were here? He’ll miss the season premiere! Did you have to promise him you wouldn’t spoil it for him? Won’t it be hard? You won’t be able to talk about it with him until next week!”
I bit my lip. “Actually . . . uh, see, Simon’s not a fan.”
Sebastian Sweet’s eyes widened. “He’s not a Bloodygit?”
“He’s never watched it.”
“Well, you have to make him!”
“That won’t work. Trust me. He’s not even slightly interested. We don’t talk about it.”
Sebastian Sweet looked absolutely horrified. “Zoe, that must be awful! I don’t think I could be with someone who didn’t at least
have patience for my stuff!”
“We manage,” I said dryly. “It’s called compromise.” As soon as the word was out of my mouth, I realized that compromise wasn’t precisely what was happening in this particular case . . . but I stood by the principle.
Sebastian didn’t, apparently. “I really don’t know how you do that,” he said, looking worried. I smiled at him awkwardly and thought, Autism spectrum? If so, I was super-glad I hadn’t shut him down before. Still, I leaned over my phone decisively; I didn’t want to pursue the compromise discussion. Sebastian Sweet took the hint and went back to his book.
He was okay, I thought.
I texted my boss.
ME: Yes, I can confirm that I’m coming over tomorrow at 3 to take more video footage of Wentworth. No need to answer if that’s still OK! I’m sorry it’s so late. See you then!
My phone rang immediately. Mrs. Albee reads texts but says she can’t stand to talk that way. I picked up. “Hi, Mrs. Albee.”
“Zoe, I’m so glad you called—”
“Texted,” I said compulsively.
“Yes? So, tomorrow isn’t going to work? Wentworth needs more rest and relaxation between shoots? And maybe some special treats?”
I pressed my lips together. Wentworth’s entire life consisted of rest and relaxation and special treats. They did not help.
“I’m also not sure about your script?” Mrs. Albee went on. “I’m working on an idea that will be less stressful for him?”
“Send script edits my way,” I said. “We’re canceling tomorrow’s shoot, then?”
