by Chris Colfer
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Christopher Colfer
Cover design by Karina Granda. Cover sunglasses photograph by Howard Huang.
Cover road scene photograph © Maciej Bledowski/Shutterstock.
Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
Visit us at lb-teens.com
First Edition: February 2017
Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
ISBNs: 978-0-316-38344-8 (hardcover), 978-0-316-38341-7 (ebook)
E3-20170119-JV-PC
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One: Convention Intervention
Chapter Two: A Summer to Remember
Chapter Three: What the Psychic Said
Chapter Four: Overactive Imagination Disorder
Chapter Five: Password-Protected
Chapter Six: The Fifth Passenger
Chapter Seven: Truth-Shaming
Chapter Eight: Madness at McCarthy’s
Chapter Nine: The World’s Biggest Rubber-Band Ball
Chapter Ten: Rosemary’s Abortion
Chapter Eleven: Streamside Streaming
Chapter Twelve: Sinners and Saints
Chapter Thirteen: High Times at High Tydes
Chapter Fourteen: Radio Hosts and Racists
Chapter Fifteen: The Driver’s Seat
Chapter Sixteen: The Jailhouse
Chapter Seventeen: The Truth Is Out There
Chapter Eighteen: Carnivores
Chapter Nineteen: Impact
Chapter Twenty: Heroes and Happiness
Chapter Twenty-One: California Dreaming
Chapter Twenty-Two: Promises
Chapter Twenty-Three: Trusts
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
To Ashley,
for being the best friend a guy could ask for. Since your memory is much better than mine, you’ll have to remind me which parts of this book actually happened.
Chapter One
CONVENTION INTERVENTION
It wasn’t WizCon unless someone was trampled. At least that was how the employees of the Santa Clara Convention Center saw it. The success of the annual event was never measured by the number of attendees (sold-out crowds were always a given) but by the number of injuries the enthusiastic crowd inflicted on one another.
Thankfully, the WizCon incidents were never malicious; the patrons simply buzzed with so much excitement they became a danger to themselves and others around them. So, the more reported accidents, the more the event planners were confident they had done their job.
And as the early comers outside pressed their bodies against the glass doors, rabid with anticipation, the convention staff knew WizCon 2017 was about to break new records.
“It’s twelve-oh-one!” said a little boy dressed as a gray alien. “You were supposed to open at noon!”
“Come on, we’ve been waiting for hours!” said an old woman dressed as a headless Marie-Antoinette.
“Some of us have been here since yesterday!” said a very sleepy teenage girl from a group wearing dinosaur onesies.
The convention center was surrounded with a massive gathering of historical figures, extinct species, and extraterrestrial creatures. It was an alarming sight to every passing observer, but it was much more innocent than the psychedelic cult it appeared to be.
All these people were at WizCon because they were fans of the hit television series Wiz Kids. The show was an action/adventure series that followed a trio of young geniuses who travel through space and time in an invention they constructed out of a port-a-potty.
Naturally, when it first premiered the critics treated the show like a piñata. Each review of the “ridiculous premise” was more scathing than the last. Reviewers took great pleasure in ripping it to shreds and even became competitive with their convictions, each claiming to have “hated it the most.” However, with each fatal blow Wiz Kids only received more and more attention. People tuned in to see the “absurdity” for themselves, but they were not repulsed as promised. Audiences found the show’s campiness to be rather charming, its unique underdog spirit resonated with them, and a global phenomenon was born.
No, it wasn’t Shakespeare, but on the bright side, it wasn’t Shakespeare.
Seemingly overnight, the cast of young teens became household names. Their likenesses were plastered across T-shirts, lunch boxes, bedsheets, and various hygiene products, and their personal lives became the subjects of tabloid debates.
Nine seasons later, the Wiz Kids viewership was larger and more passionate than ever before. The self-proclaimed “Wizzers” dominated the Internet with more hashtags, trending topics, discussion forums, and fanfiction than any other show on air. And like a religious pilgrimage, every fourth weekend in June, Wizzers from around the world traveled to Santa Clara, California, for the sacred Wiz Kids convention to celebrate the show together.
“It’s five past twelve!” said the mother of triplets dressed as Roman Soldiers. “Open the doors already!”
“Let us in! It’s hot out here!” said a man dressed from head to toe as a Martian Slug.
“My mustache is melting off my face!” shouted a little girl dressed as Edgar Allan Poe (or so people hoped).
Finally, at ten past twelve, the doors opened and a stampede of alien creatures, deceased world influencers, and large reptiles stormed inside the convention center—WizCon 2017 had begun! Security guards cautiously ushered the excited crowd like they were herding a flock of explosive sheep. Medics stood by with their gurneys ready. The other convention center employees made bets on which guests were most likely to “snap.”
The first Wizzers through the door made a mad dash to the convention center theater, where the “Wiz Kids Cast & Creative Panel” was happening later that afternoon. Only the first six hundred people would have seats; the other poor saps would have to watch from a telecast in the Exhibit Hall.
Desperate to see their favorite actors in the flesh, the teenagers in the crowd charged through the halls, knocking over booths of overpriced merchandise and unsuspecting senior citizens in their path. They squeezed through the narrow doors of the theater and threw themselves into the first available seats they could find. Within minutes, all the seats were filled with giddy young people. Pitying looks were cast upon the unfortunate souls without seats, as if they were third-class passengers on the Titanic.
Not a single Wizzer could sit still as they waited for the panel to start. The entire theater jerked and twitched like everyone had to pee so badly it hurt. The anticipation was suffocating and some had to breathe
into paper bags to keep from passing out—but who could blame them? This was it! The panel they had been waiting for all year was just a few agonizing minutes away!
Their eyes darted back and forth across the stage, as they wondered which wing their heroes would enter from. A table was set on the stage with four chairs, four microphones, and four nameplates. The crowd squealed like hyenas as they read the names of the cast and creator of Wiz Kids, especially the nameplate of Cash Carter, the lead actor of the show.
Without a doubt, the Wizzers were more excited to see Cash Carter than anyone else on the panel. If they weren’t in costume, almost everyone in the theater wore a T-shirt with a picture of his character, Dr. Webster Bumfuzzle. The doctor was famous for his thick glasses, green bow tie, and blue laboratory coat. The Wizzers whispered among themselves as they speculated what Cash Carter was doing at that exact moment and if he was as excited about the panel as they were.…
From the greenroom backstage, the commotion in the theater sounded like the rumblings of a distant storm. Cash Carter found serenity in the bathroom, where the crowd was drowned out entirely by the hum of the fluorescent lights. He stood in front of the mirror with his eyes closed, enjoying the quiet while he still could.
Cash was not a jealous person, but he envied people with quiet. Only in absolute silence could he simply exist and not be reminded of who and what he was, or according to his critics, who and what he wasn’t. But finding a space that wasn’t dominated by the commotion of a television set, the rapid clicks of paparazzi cameras, or the murmuring of a hungry crowd was very rare. The bathroom may have had cracked tiled walls, peculiar stains on the ceiling, a terrible musky smell, and someone definitely had been murdered there in the past—but to Cash, it was a sanctuary.
His tranquillity was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Mr. Carter?” asked an underpaid stagehand. “Are you still in there? We’re hoping to start the panel in five minutes.”
“Five minutes? I thought we weren’t starting until two,” Cash replied.
“It is two,” the stagehand said.
Cash had been in the bathroom for over an hour without realizing it. He opened his baggy, bloodshot eyes and stared at his reflection. The twenty-two-year-old actor was thin, unshaven, and sported messy hair. He wore a black blazer over the T-shirt he’d fallen asleep in the night before and strong cologne to mask the fact that he hadn’t showered in two days.
“Is everything okay?” the stagehand asked. “You’ve been in there for a while.”
“I’m fine,” Cash mumbled. “I just lost track of time. They can start the intro to the panel—I’ll be out in five.”
“Actually, the producers wanted to have a word with the cast before the panel begins,” the stagehand said.
Cash grunted. “In that case, I’ll be out in ten.”
The stagehand let out a deep sigh. “Copy that,” he said, and clicked a button on his headset. “He says he’ll be out in ten—yes, I know we’re already running behind. Let the crowd know we’ll be starting closer to two thirty. Calm down, Gary—this is WizCon, not the Oscars.”
The stagehand walked down the hall in a huff, granting Cash a few more moments of peace.
A rush of nerves swept through Cash’s core like a flock of bats. Even after nine years of conventions, he always got anxious before appearing in front of an audience. Call him crazy, but there was something about walking into a room of screaming, applauding, and crying strangers that Cash just couldn’t get used to. Although he never took the Wizzers’ affection for granted, it was a lot of pressure being the source of so much happiness. With one slip of the tongue, he could emotionally scar a generation of young people for the rest of their lives and trigger a wave of resentment for the rest of his.
Being beloved was fucking tough.
Luckily for him, these days Cash had a little help to take the edge off. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three large pills and two marijuana gummy bears. He swallowed the pills, chewed up the gummies, and chased them with a sip from a flask tucked in his blazer. Sure, it wasn’t exactly the healthiest combination, but the goodies always worked faster when they were taken together.
Cash closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, and waited for his secret weapons to do their magic. A moment later, there was another knock at the door.
“Mr. Carter?” the stagehand said. “It’s been fifteen minutes. Are you ready?”
Poor time management was a side effect of Cash’s special treats, but his anxiety was completely gone. In fact, Cash could barely feel anything at all. Everything felt light and easy around him, as if he were drifting through the clouds in a hot-air balloon. Only when he opened his dilated eyes and looked around was he reminded he was in a bathroom at all. His preconvention cocktail had done the trick!
“Mr. Carter? Did you hear me?” the stagehand asked, growing more impatient by the millisecond.
Cash giggled. There was something so funny about being called Mr. Carter by someone almost twice his age.
“Yeah, I heard you,” he said. “Showtime!”
Cash begrudgingly left his porcelain sanctuary and followed the stagehand down the hall. The greenroom was more crowded than he thought it would be. Seven people were seated with their chairs facing him, and in Cash’s delayed state, it took him a couple moments to recognize them.
Damien Zimmer, the creator of Wiz Kids, was seated in the middle with the show’s executive producer, Jim Kaufman. To their right were Cash’s cast mates, the beautiful Amy Evans and the hunky Tobey Ramous. To Damien and Jim’s left were two middle-aged men and one woman, each wearing a designer suit. Cash knew they were executives from the network, but since executives were fired and hired so frequently, he didn’t know their names.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Cash said.
“Would you give us a minute?” Jim asked the stagehand.
The overworked man was desperate to get things started, but he gave them some space.
“Sit down, Cash,” Damien said, and nodded to an empty chair.
“Um… okay,” Cash said, and took a seat.
All of them stared at him with stern expressions—except his costars; they were looking down at social media on their phones. Cash could tell they were all pissed off at him for something—something much worse than taking his time in the bathroom. Perhaps he had said something uncouth in an interview or forgot to live-tweet during a rerun.
“So…,” Cash said. “What’s up?”
“Before we begin, it’s important you know we’re all here because we care about you,” Jim said.
“Duh, it’s WizCon,” Cash said. “Everyone is here because they care about me.”
The remark inspired several eye rolls and exhalations, but Cash wasn’t trying to be a smart-ass. On the contrary, after three painkillers, two edibles, and a shot of whiskey, he was too numb to be anything but literal.
“This is serious, Cash,” the woman executive said. “This isn’t going to be a pleasant conversation, but it’s a necessary one before things get out of hand.”
“Out of hand?” Cash asked. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Everyone passed the responsibility of leading the conversation to the next person, until it landed in Damien’s lap like a heavy stack of books—books he did not want to read.
“Things have always been rocky between us, so I’m probably not the best messenger for this,” Damien said with a dramatic sigh. “Ever since we wrapped season nine and went on hiatus, you’ve gone totally out of control. At first we thought it was just a phase, but after two months of utter nonsense, we’re afraid it’s far worse. We’ve all cleared our schedules so we could be here today and address your recent behavior.”
Damien was right—he wasn’t the right messenger. In fact, he was the last person on earth Cash would listen to about behavior.
At just thirty-five years old, Damien Zimmer had the ego and the entitlement of all Hollywood’s worst clichés p
ut together. He began his career as a child actor on a cheesy sitcom called Who’s the Parent?—which was more memorable for its obnoxious laugh track than its writing. When Damien was in his midtwenties, he developed Wiz Kids as a starring vehicle for himself. The network purchased the show but thought Damien was too old and forced him to cast younger actors. Even though Wiz Kids became a huge hit and made him filthy rich, Damien had always despised Cash for “stealing” his part and the spotlight that came with it.
“Hold up,” Cash said. “Is this an intervention? Right before a convention?”
“Damn right it is,” Damien said. “And I believe it’s more than warranted. You’ve been seen getting wasted at clubs all over town, getting high in public places, speeding down Sunset Boulevard with hookers in the backseat of your Lamborghini, and the LAPD are at your house every other night to shut down a ridiculous party.”
“First off, those were strippers, and I drive a Maserati,” Cash clarified. “And it’s not like throwing parties and getting drunk is against the law.”
“No, but child endangerment is,” Damien went on. “You’re lucky you weren’t charged after taking the Boys and Girls Club of America skydiving or those poor kids from Make-A-Wish to the shooting range.”
“We’re also aware you were caught trespassing,” Jim added. “Someone filmed you climbing an elephant statue at the La Brea Tar Pits naked while screaming ‘I’m the king of the mammoths.’ You have no idea how much damage control the network publicists went into to keep it off the Internet.”
Cash giggled. “You’ve got to admit, that was pretty legendary,” he said. “By the way, could I get a copy of that? I lost my phone that night and it might show where I dropped it.”
His request was denied with passive-aggressive silence.
“I believe you’ve entered a downward spiral of selfishness, stupidity, and self-destruction,” Damien said. “You’re ruining your reputation and jeopardizing the viewership of the show in the process. Even though we’re not currently filming, you are still a representative of this network, this studio, and my production company—”
