by Nancy Werlin
“Yes? We can reschedule once Wentworth is ready?”
“Fine,” I said.
I hung up, banged my own head against my own phone, and looked into the interested, questioning eyes of Sebastian Sweet.
“I am the media marketing manager for my next-door neighbor’s business,” I explained. “Mrs. Albee’s Handmade Organic Kitty Soaps.”
“Really? What are your qualifications?”
I blinked. Nobody had ever asked me that before. Even Simon had assumed the answer was just that I lived next door and liked cats. I said, “So I used to make videos of our cat, Riley, and upload them. Just for fun. But then Riley had to go live with my Aunt Kath because my dad got too allergic. I missed him and I just thought . . . well, anyway, I asked Mrs. Albee if I could do a video of Wentworth.”
I shuddered, remembering that shoot. That horrible shoot. Only I said:
“Mrs. Albee liked it. And she asked me to do more. And I said yes, and now I manage her Twitter and Instagram and the Etsy store and most everything online.”
But it was making the videos I loved. And I had thought, surely, surely, with some more experience, and when he was more used to me, Wentworth would be cooperative. Would pick up some basic comfort level with the camera. Some professionalism!
“And so,” I concluded. “Here I am!”
“That’s great!”
“Not always,” I said frankly. “I mean, yes. In many ways, I love my job. It’s creative, and Mrs. Albee listens to me and lets me make decisions. But our spokescat, Wentworth . . .”
Sebastian was listening so intently. Suddenly it all burst out of me.
“Wentworth is maybe the most neurotic cat I have ever met, and believe me, I have met a lot of cats! He is simply not emotionally qualified to be a spokescat! And, you know what else? I know exactly why Wentworth is the way he is. Ask me my opinion about nature versus nurture. Go on. Ask me!”
I might have snarled the last bit.
“Uh. Nature or nurture?”
“Nurture,” I told Sebastian darkly. “The kitty does not fall far from the tree!”
Sebastian Sweet might have shifted ever so slightly away from me. “Um, Zoe? Didn’t you need to text your boyfriend?”
“Correct,” I said. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
Sebastian nodded and retreated rapidly behind Modern Java Recipes.
I leaned over my phone, pretending to text, and thought bitterly about my many, many hours of useless Wentworth footage. I wanted to give up on him. I longed to give up! I wanted to hire Ellen From Finance! (Her actual name. And a sweeter, more cooperative cat you will never find, plus she lived conveniently just down the street with the Costellos!)
But I didn’t know how to get Mrs. Albee to agree.
May I say how maddening it is when an intelligent person won’t recognize reality? Wentworth is not suited for stardom. He just plain doesn’t want it enough! #fact
I spent some soothing minutes with our college spreadsheet. We had thirty-two colleges, color-coded. I had spreadsheet indicators for the schools that had excellent scholarship and financial aid reputations, like Boston University has this cool Presidential Scholarship, and some (not many) schools promise to meet all your financial need so you don’t have to get loans at all. I had included other important factors as well, like location and cost and majors and urban versus suburban versus rural. If you clicked on various cells, you drilled down to helpful auxiliary information.
My parents thought thirty-two was too many. My mother added up the application costs and left the information for me on the kitchen table with a note: “We’ll pay application costs for ten. The rest is on you, honeybee. Quick question: Isn’t this a lot of money for Simon to throw away, too? He’s got to pay for all of his applications, right? His mom can’t help.”
I knew that! We’d discussed that! Simon said the application fees were an investment in our future together. We needed to try for some choice at the end, because both of us were not going to get in everywhere. And it was complicated! Simon needed more financial aid than me, and we wanted schools that had strong political science and economics departments for him. And, since I don’t know what I’ll major in, we needed schools with lots of options.
How could my parents think I’d forget for a moment that Simon’s mom couldn’t help him as much as my parents could help me? I’d actually offered to pay some of his fees from my savings, to even things out. ( Thanks to kitty soap, I have nearly three thousand dollars!) But Simon insisted he would manage; he had savings from his day-care job, although less than me.
I put away my phone and turned back to Sebastian Sweet.
“Did you say you went to Frank Oz this afternoon?”
Apparently I had not scared him too much; Sebastian eyed me cautiously but willingly. “Yes. Did you?”
“No, but my friends—the ones who are coming here—did. Only, I’m not sure who Frank Oz is? I mean, I think I’ve heard the name.”
At this, Sebastian’s native enthusiasm returned full force. “Of course you know Frank Oz! He’s Miss Piggy! He’s Yoda! He’s Bert, and he’s Cookie Monster. He was half the Muppets. And he’s a movie director!”
I felt my eyes get big. “Seriously? Miss Piggy? Oh, you’re right, of course I know him!”
Sebastian closed his book. He rummaged in his backpack and tenderly pulled out a manila envelope. He shook out a photo. I examined the face of the older bald man. He looked so ordinary, but . . . awe filled me.
“He signed it to me,” Sebastian said.
“I loved the Muppets,” I said. “Miss Piggy—she’s just so unabashedly selfish! I adore that, don’t you? And it’s hysterical.”
“I know, right?” said Sebastian.
“She just goes after what she wants!”
“It’s inspiring!”
“It’s piggy!” I punned badly, but Sebastian laughed. I grinned and stared more at Frank Oz, wondering what it would feel like to be doing good in the world—doing good by creating joy—by making and playing puppets. Puppets . . . but no, I shouldn’t dwell on my personal pathetic puppet-related memories. They didn’t matter. Frank Oz mattered. I couldn’t look away. Here was this old guy who I might pass on the street and probably not even notice, but he’d been incredibly important to me. And to how many others? No wonder there’d been a line all around the hotel waiting for him . . . wow. Wow!
I should have begged the Sailor Moon couple and tried harder to get into that line. Only I just hadn’t known I cared.
“So what did Frank Oz talk about? I mean, did he actually have Miss Piggy with him? Or what?”
“It was question and answer. He did voices, though. Like, when there was a question about Bert and Ernie, he answered as Bert, and when it was Yoda, he answered as Yoda.”
I leaned forward. “What did people ask?”
By the time Cam and Liv Decker arrived, Sebastian and I had moved on from the Muppets to the even more important questions about the end of Bleeders Season 1. The cliff-hanger: Captain had come up behind Lorelei sitting in the lab and said quietly, “Use that scalpel to cut both your wrists. Set it to SLICE. Do it now, Lorelei. Now, or I’ll kill you my way.”
The camera had moved from Captain’s unwavering gloved hand on the garrote at Lorelei’s throat to focus on Lorelei’s ice-pale, still eyes . . . then down to the pulsing laser knife with its settings SLICE and KNIT. Lorelei reached for it . . . SLICE—
Fade to black.
What in all bloodiness was AMT—that’s the showrunner, Anna Maria Turner—up to? And what would happen next?
We sat together in the twelfth row: my new pal Sebastian Sweet, my only-slightly-less-new pals Liv Decker and Cam Decker, and me. Around us sat other fans, everybody buzzing with theories. Most people thought Lorelei was up to no good—was maybe an agent of the government and/or the Sanitation Force—and that Captain had caught her.
I was preoccupied, though. There were many empty seats—and it wasn’t as if th
e room was an enormous auditorium. Maybe it wasn’t so amazing after all that I’d gotten a ticket in the lottery?
I said uneasily, “I sort of expected more people.”
Liv met my eyes, their forehead wrinkled. “I guess it’s because SlamDunk is a newish streaming service?”
Cam spoke up from Liv’s other side. “SlamDunk doesn’t advertise much. But I thought there’d be word of mouth. It’s worrying.”
“No, no, don’t worry!” said Sebastian.
“Well,” I said. “We should worry. Because here’s this fantastic show offering a sneak peek of its season premiere, right smack in the heart of the—” I hoped this wasn’t insulting “—of the kingdom of the geeks. Shouldn’t this room be standing room only? Even at midnight?”
“Midnight might or might not be prime time at Dragon Con,” said Cam. “Hard to say. There’s less to do, so maybe they hoped to attract new fans to try it? I don’t know.”
Liv said, “I see Zoe’s point. Something like Deep Space Nine offers just a Q and A with actors and that show ended years ago. But there’s thousands of fans lined up to revisit the past with them.”
“Nostalgia is powerful, that’s all,” said Sebastian. “And Star Trek’s always relevant, especially when there’s a new Star Trek show on. We can wait to build the Bleeders audience. It’ll happen. Every show has to start somewhere.”
“Shows do take time to build their audience,” Cam said. “Even good ones. Maybe especially good ones.”
“Yes,” I said. I wanted to believe it.
“We’re like pioneers,” said Sebastian comfortably. “More people will catch up and get on board this season. It’s a no-brainer.”
“I hope so,” I told him. “I can’t help wondering if Bleeders is having trouble because it’s majority female.”
“Don’t be paranoid,” said Cam. “Lots of guys here who like the show.” He gestured around.
“I mean behind the scenes at Bleeders. Women actors, woman showrunner. Does that mean less advertising revenue?” I asked. “Or other, I don’t know, problems with raising money?”
“Unfortunately, that’s plausible,” said Liv.
Cam shook his head. “Let’s not go down that road until there’s evidence.”
“History is evidence,” Liv said. “Why should Bleeders be magically exempt from the kind of prejudice women-led businesses have faced since, oh, the dawn of humanity? We should assume that prejudice is a factor unless we see evidence otherwise!”
“Liv, we’re just free-associating about some empty chairs—”
“Sure, yes, I’d love some. Thanks!” Sebastian was distracted by someone ahead of us who was passing out Swedish Fish. Probably he was right. I too wanted to be distracted from this particular discussion because it was making me twitchy.
I got some fish.
Then a volunteer up at the front told us to silence our cell phones and not to record.
“Oh my God,” said Liv. “It’s starting! I can’t stand it!”
I clutched my own arms in excitement, and as the lights dimmed, I looked around one last time. So maybe there weren’t so many of us, not yet anyway, but everybody who was here was grinning like crazy, leaning forward, eyes alight. And this was my show, our show! I was here, and meanwhile there were other passionate fans out in the world who weren’t able to be here (like Josie). I was so lucky! We Bloodygits were part of an elite group; we were in the know. This was where I belonged. Bleeders needed its fans!
I reached up to touch Cam’s stethoscope-garrote, which he’d generously loaned me. The screen lit up. Bloodygits went crazy applauding.
On the screen before us, the camera was on the laser scalpel in Lorelei’s strong bare right hand.
Lorelei flicked the scalpel to SLICE. It pulsed. She slanted a look up at Captain, seemingly unmindful—as she turned her head—of how the garrote in Captain’s gloved hands was already cutting into her neck so that a thin line of blood trickled down.
“Do you have a preference, Captain? Left or right wrist?”
“Lorelei’s ambidextrous, remember,” a voice whispered loudly from behind us.
“Shhhhhh!” dozens of others hissed.
“How about both,” said Captain calmly. “One after the other. On high.”
You couldn’t be a fan of Bleeders and go queasy at the sight of blood. Still, the wrist! I had to force myself to not shield my eyes—
The skin of Lorelei’s right wrist came apart in a long, clean vertical cut. Tiny blue and red crystals sparkled beneath the surface. Only crystals. No blood.
“Happy now, Captain?” asked Lorelei.
“Do the other.”
Lorelei cut her left wrist, just as deftly, just as deeply. This time, blood welled up, pulsed, pushed. It was red.
I heard Sebastian moan slightly.
Captain and Lorelei watched it gush.
“All right,” said Captain at last. She had not relaxed her hold on the garrote; blood still trickled from Lorelei’s neck. “You can close those up now.”
Lorelei reversed the setting on the scalpel. The skin of her bloody wrist zipped closed. Healed without even a scar. Then, without assistance, the skin over the crystal wrist knit itself back together as well.
Captain released the garrote, holding it easily in one red-gloved hand. Without another word, she sank down into a chair next to Lorelei.
“I’m so sorry,” said Lorelei courteously. “I imagine it’s a shock. May I make you a cup of tea?”
“With honey,” Captain said.
“We only have the Eglantine variety. Not your favorite.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Of course, I do apologize for not being entirely honest with you.”
Captain’s gloved fist lashed out and hit Lorelei squarely in the jaw, toppling her over in her chair. From the floor, unhurt, Lorelei looked back at Captain.
“Unless you find you don’t want tea after all?”
“I’ll get it myself.” Captain paused, her teeth worrying her lower lip. “Tell me. How long before you turn entirely?”
“Uncertain,” said Lorelei. She stayed on the floor, looking surprisingly comfortable there. “The rate has been rather slow so far.”
“On the bright side,” said Captain, “once the transformation is complete, you’ll have no flesh for the Bleeder virus to eat. What about your mind?”
“I have reason to believe,” Lorelei said, “that I will still be me. For . . . some years.”
“Huh.”
Lorelei shrugged. “I don’t recommend you make the Lucifer bargain, too. It’s not an avenue for everyone. And one of us will do, I believe.”
“Is it safe to look now?” Sebastian whispered.
“You didn’t watch?!” I was aghast.
“I’m afraid of blood. What’d I miss?”
My voice rose involuntarily. “How can you be a fan and afraid—”
“Shut up!” The woman in front of us whirled and hissed.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
Bellah entered the ship’s bridge, where Captain sat at the navigation console, sideways in the chair, with her short legs dangling. Captain was listening to someone whose static avatar—a purple amoeba—was visible on the communications console but whose voice wasn’t audible because Captain was using an earphone. She nodded acknowledgment at Bellah, rolled her eyes toward the console, and then spoke crisply.
“If you double our fee, I’ll consider it. We’d need half up front also. Yes, I hear you. Yes, we believe in humanitarian aid. But we also believe in making a good living.” She paused. “All right. We’re in business, Mayor. I’ll send our team down with supplies. Captain out.”
Captain detached her earphone and placed it on the console. “We’ve got a new job,” she told Bellah and Monica. “A town in the jungle. Vaccinations—pretty straightforward, I think, once we do the bloodwork. I’m sending you, Bellah, and Celie and me.”
“Not me?” said Monica.
�
��You have the con.”
Monica nodded. “What are they paying?”
“Hm. One thousand universals.”
“That’s all? Captain—”
“Plus fifteen minutes on a secured, untraceable communications channel.”
“Oh,” said Bellah. She added slowly, “And you don’t think it’s a trap?”
Captain straightened her shoulders. Then somehow, subtly, she transformed.
How does the actress—Jocelyn Upchurch—do that? There’s a shift of expression on her face, just for a second or two, and for a moment you sort of see into Captain’s soul—or think you do, which amounts to the same thing. Captain’s a burdened woman of forty with children she hasn’t seen in years, a husband who betrayed her, a doctor’s oath, 24/7 responsibility for her ship and the lives and well-being of its crew, twenty extra pounds that she claims a little too often to have made peace with, and—incidentally—a self-imposed mission to chase across the universe after a deadly rampaging virus that threatens to destroy humanity. You’re reminded of all that just by looking into her face. But that’s not all she is, and this too is suddenly plain. She’s a canny, charismatic leader you’d follow into hell . . . even when you’re not sure what will happen once you get there.
You see all of that.
Then you see her smile.
“Bellah, Bellah, Bellah,” Captain said. “My naive one. It’s definitely a trap.”
Bellah raised an eyebrow. “But you want me, not Tennah?”
“Yes. You and all your poisons.”
The Bloodygits (we call ourselves that in homage to the Bleeders showrunner, AMT, who is desi and British with the most adorable accent ever) came pouring out of the season premiere in a gossipy geyser, and our little knot of four was in the thick of it.
“What was that in Lorelei’s arm?”
“Lucifer? What’s that? A second virus?”
“Captain didn’t seem afraid of catching it, though.”
“It’s got to do with selling your soul to the devil, don’t you think?”
“No, really? Huh! . . . Listen, I loved that mayor creature, didn’t you?”
“It was hilarious! I hope we haven’t seen the last of it.”
