by J. C. Lillis
I wind my mechanical heart and open his door.
***
“You ready, partner?” he says.
“We’re unveiling now?”
“We have to. The girls’ve been trolling us all morning. Wait’ll you see.”
Abel and I hunch in front of his laptop at the glass kitchen table, next to a stack of cruddy glasses and plates I very much want to scrub. He’s crunching Cookie Crisp from a china bowl that probably cost more than my car. His limited-edition Plastic Cadmus grips the pocket of Abel’s robe with his super-ripped hero arms and I side-eye him; even three inches tall, Cadmus is a smug bastard. No one’s home besides us, as usual. Abel’s dad’s at Mercy fitting someone with a new heart, his mom and little sister are in Boston on their book tour, and his brother Jacob’s at some school in New York for musical geniuses with bad attitudes.
“Don’t worry. You look lovely.” Abel slides on his shades with the red steel frames, an exact replica of Cadmus’s. “You’ve got that cute all-American khakis-and-flip-flops thing going on. You’re like Volleyball Ken.”
I sip my water. “Now with Eye-Rolling Action.”
“Do I have sex hair?”
“Ew.”
“Brandon, seriously. Wait’ll you meet Kade. Best five days of my life!”
“Please spare every detail.”
“Cynicism gives you blackheads. Studies show.”
I tip my chin at the laptop. “Let’s go.”
He grins and hits record.
“Bonjour, fellow Casties.” He musses his hair and turns on his best news-anchor purr. “It’s your two favorite recappers, coming at you live from my kitchen on May the twenty-ninth, a day that will forever live in infamy. Say hello to my distinguished fellow commentator, Brandon—”
“Hi guys.”
“—currently obscuring his cute little abs with the baggiest Castaway Planet t-shirt in recorded history.”
“It’s comfy.”
“What are you hiding under there?”
“Secrets. Many secrets.”
Abel rips off his shades and cocks an eyebrow. I let out a snort. I picture a handful of strangers watching this at home, thinking my secret is cool and mysterious like a jagged scar across my chest, and not dull and heavy like I gave up church but not the angst.
“Anyway, guys.” Abel pops one last Cookie Crisp. “Today we unveil that Super-Secret Summer Spectacular we’ve been teasing y’all about, ‘cause we know how our fifteen fans like, follow our every move and have shrines and shit.”
“My shrines are bigger,” I grin.
“Whatever. Here’s the deal. You real fans who come here and watch our episode recaps every week are A-plus, right, ‘cause you love Castaway Planet as much as we do and you’ve got more than ten brain cells to your name. But as we all know, there’s one faction of the fandom…”
“One very vocal faction.”
“…that is, and we say this with love, STONE COLD CRACKERS WITH A SIDE ORDER OF CRAZY FRIES. I am referring, of course, to—”
He plunks Plastic Cadmus in front of the camera. I do the same with Plastic Sim.
“—Cadsim shippers.”
I perform a cartoony shudder.
“Guys, I don’t know if you’re following our ginormous flamewar with Miss Maxima and her minions at the Cadsim fanjournal,” sighs Abel. “The slash fiction was bad enough, but these rejects have been calling it canon since the crystal-spider-cave episode, and that we cannot abide. Look, maybe it’s semi-tempting to think they had secret sexytimes when they’re stuck in the cave and there’s that ‘meaningful look’ and the fadeout, but people? Captain James P. Cadmus is a blazing hot male specimen who can kill a sixty-pound alien spider with his bare hands, and Sim is a freakin’-damn ANDROID—”
“Who’s way too good for Cadmus.”
“That statement is too ludicrous to acknowledge,” Abel huffs, petting Plastic Cadmus’s plastic head. “Anyway, our feud with the crazypants Cadsim girls? Officially ends this summer. We at the Screw Your Sensors vlog have made a wager. Hold up the CastieCon tickets, Bran.”
I fan them out. Abel explains the bet, which basically goes like this: we hit the five tour stops the Castaway Planet convention makes this summer, go to the Q&As with all five main cast members plus the showrunner, and ask them what they think Cadmus and Sim did in the cave scene after the fadeout. If a majority of them agree that no hookup happened, the Cadsim girls have to run an all-caps disclaimer on every one of their fanfics, forever.
“Brandon, tell them what it says.” Abel slides me a printout.
“PLEASE NOTE: A legitimate Cadsim hookup has been definitively disproven by the cast and creator of Castaway Planet, as well as professional Internet gods Brandon Page and Abel McNaughton. I freely admit I am a dingbat with zero respect for canon or for Cadmus or Sim as characters; I just want to see hot boys get it on. Read at your own risk.”
“That’s right. However, on the extreme off chance we lose? Miss Maxima, the Queen Bitch mod of the Cadsim community, will select a scene from one of their rotten little fanfics and we’ll act it out on camera—”
“—Within. Reason.” Why did I say yes to this?
“Right. Strictly first base, pervs. We’re gay but not for each other.” He scrolls through the Cadsim fic archive on his phone. “For instance, we won’t do the one where Dr. Lagarde plants a ‘sex chip’ in Sim’s brain and he and Cadmus do it in a hammock.”
“For crap’s sake.” I facepalm.
“Nor will we perform the futurefic where they’re back on Earth and get stuck in an elevator during a blackout.”
“Or any other elevator fic.”
“Or hurt/comfort fic.”
“Or alternate-universe steampunk fic.”
“So we better make damn sure we come out on top.”
“Sim likes the top.”
It just shoots out. I feel my ears redden; when I slip and say something flirty, it sounds like an elephant trying to bark.
Abel cracks up and stops the recording right there. He hits upload before I can object.
“On that note, Tin Man,” he says. “I have a little…surprise.”
He reaches in his robe and rummages. My left leg starts jittering. Last time Abel surprised me it was my birthday, and he slipped a special card under my windshield wiper: Sim’s head taped to a cutout of a gym rat in a leopard thong.
This time it’s just a small silver envelope.
“Open it,” he sings.
“What is it?”
“A lock of David Darras’s hair.”
“Wha—”
“Open it, doof.”
I unstick the flap. Inside are three more tickets on heavy silver paper. Two robots waltz in silhouette between an embossed P and F.
“What’s this?”
Abel bounces in his seat. “I totally splurged,” he squees. “You, me, and Bec have VIP tickets to the 4th Annual Castaway Ball! At the Long Beach con! With special guests David Darras and Ed Ransome!”
My stomach twists. The thing about Darras barely registers. Stories from the Castaway Ball pop up in fandom all the time. Dance-floor dramas, bathroom gropings, afterparty orgies in smoky hotel rooms.
“Why—” I force a Sim face. Indifferent, slightly amused. “Why would we do that?”
“Well, clearly we’re going to win the bet, so you won’t be making out with me anytime soon. However, I thought a whole ballroom of hot dorks in cosplay would be a lovely consolation prize.” He presses Plastic Sim to my lips, making a loud smoochy sound. “We’re going to find you a Sim, my dear. And get you over that Zander douchelord, like finally.”
“Oh.” Panic flushes through me. I knew he’d pull something like this; he’s tried to set me up with three different guys since January. “That’s…nice, but—”
“Nope! No more excuses.” Abel waves Plastic Sim like a magic wand. “Befoooorrre the stroke of mi
dnight at the nerd prom, yoooooou, Brandon Gregory Page, will meet a beautiful boy on the dance floor and break the sinister spell of celibacy with the Kiss of True Love. Or True Lust. Whatever.”
Put on the Brakes!, Chapter 4: Celibacy and happiness—can they go together? You bet! You can still have a full and fulfilling life while obeying a special call to abstinence…
“Thus it has been decreed,” Abel proclaims, “and therefore on this life-altering journey, you, Brandon, will be my project, and I shall help you—”
“—Stop dressing like a frat boy?”
Abel and I turn around. Bec’s grinning in the doorway with her suitcase and the bowling ball bag she keeps her camera equipment in. Just seeing her makes me exhale. She looks pretty and practical: cargo pants, blue tank top, no makeup on her round freckled face. Her curls are forced into two stumpy braids, and she’s got on the faded rainbow friendship bracelet I gave her when we were fourteen. Her Zara Lagarde action figure clutches her belt loop, little plastic machete tight in one fist.
“Mon petit pamplemousse! Love the braids.” Abel blows her a kiss. She blows one back on her way to me and we fold into a hug. It’s so easy. We look like brother and sister—some brown-haired blue-eyed Dick and Jane in a kids’ book from the fifties—and she feels soft and friendly as Mr. Quibbles, my old stuffed penguin I would die if she told Abel about.
She tosses an arm around my neck. “So what’s Abel decreed for you?”
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“Everything,” Abel says. “Life. Love. Sex. Rebirth.”
“Ooh. Can I have some?”
“We can all have some, Rebecca.” He raises Plastic Sim’s arm and traces a cross on her forehead with it. “We can all have some.”
She snorts. “Did you make special brownies again?”
That Kade guy’s shuffling around upstairs. I hear him at the railing now: Abe…seen my shoes?
“Hold please, Bec.” Abel tosses me Plastic Sim. “Brandon can fill you in on his renaissance while I dress my boy.”
He bounds upstairs, humming the Castaway Planet theme. Bec’s smile snaps off. She sticks her hands on her hips and looks me up and down.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“What? Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You ironed your t-shirt.”
“I did not.”
“Your shorts look ironed too.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Are you pussing out on this trip?”
“How mad would you be?”
“Um, furious?” She grabs the front of my shirt. “I cannot be in my house this month, Brandon.”
“Why not?”
“My mother and sister are hosting a book club. Eight choir ladies plus wine spritzers plus a stack of Amish romance novels.”
“Ugh.”
“What’s the problem?”
I slide her the tickets to the Castaway Ball and fill her in, the whole terrifying find-me-a-guy plan. Between the lines, I appeal to her time-honored status as my best friend. The one who knew I was gay a year before Nat talked me into coming out, the one who buoyed me up with sensitive grace and good humor through the parent talk and the Father Mike meeting and the dark nights of the soul when I lay awake at 1 a.m. pondering the existence of God and praying for a sign that he was real and sympathetic and still pretty much okay with me.
She cracks up laughing.
“You have to help!” I smack her arm.
“How?”
“Tell him I won’t be over Zander for another year. At least.”
“Oh, Fake Zander? I don’t—”
“Shhh!”
“Whatever.” She grabs a pear from the fruit bowl and takes a big messy bite. “You can’t stay fucked up forever, can you? You need to start putting yourself out there and getting humiliated like the rest of us. Only then will you be a Real Boy.”
I glower at her. “What kind of friend are you?”
“A heartless one.” She drops a sticky kiss on my cheek. “I love you, though.”
“Aww! Ken and Skipper.”
Abel’s grinning in the doorway. Two tanned hands knead his shoulders and he pulls in Greenshorts, who isn’t Greenshorts anymore because he’s got on frayed army pants and a white V-neck that’s a little damp and clingy. His light brown eyes and skin are fanfic-flawless and he’s all lean muscle. I imagine a conversation with him, a one-sided ode to 12-minute workouts and wheatgrass shakes.
“So Kade, this is Bec, our lovely and amazing cameraperson—she’s only a moderate Castaway Planet fangirl but she’s putting up with us anyway. And, uh, you’ve seen Brandon online.”
“Uh-huh.” Kade squints at me, stifling a yawn. “You hook up with this one?”
“Noooo. No no no. Tell him, Brandon.”
“Not my type,” I say.
“Obsessed with his ex,” Abel whispers to Kade.
“Right, right,” Kade grins. “You don’t do guys with baggage.”
“I merely assist them. He’s my summer project.”
Kade looks me over again and elbows Abel. “Babe,” he stage-whispers.
“Hm.”
“He looks like that dude from the movie.”
“Which one?”
“The one we watched at the party. That hit man with amnesia—”
“The main guy?”
“No no no…the little dude.” He drops his voice low. “With the…ears?”
“Oh my God,” Abel snorts, raining cute smacks on his shoulder. “Brandon, don’t listen. He’s awful!”
My ears burn like Kade’s thrown a hot spotlight on them, but he’s already jumped to the next thing: kissing Abel in a place I never thought about, the spot where the strong line of his jaw curves up to meet his earlobe. Abel kisses him back like no one else is in the room. When Kade turns his back, his thin t-shirt gives me glimpses of more tattoos I suspect are inversely proportional to intelligence, including a chicken with wings of fire and NO REGRETS spelled out in barbed wire. Bec traps me in this tractor beam of pity that’s deeply unnecessary since I couldn’t care less who Abel’s playing Perfect Boyfriends with, so I cross my eyes at her and grab the laptop again.
Abel’s got the Cadsim fanjournal bookmarked. I hop on to see if Miss Maxima and the rest of them are smacktalking us yet. Abel loves it when they do; he thinks it makes us famous. I still remember when Jimmy Gilver called me a dillhole in third grade, so I’m pretty weirded out when I read: cavegrrl94: DEATH TO BRANDON & ABEL!!!
murklurk: They will lose this bet. SO HARD.
mrs.j.cadmus: B & A are pathetic, srsly. love is alien to them.
murklurk: Yeah, really. Even Sim knows more about it than they do.
Miss Maxima: Don’t worry, girls. Pride goeth before a fall. In six short weeks their smug jaded mugs will be onscreen, acting out one of our very best Cadsim fics in exquisite detail. I can’t wait to see their stupid lips moving closer…closer…closer…
“I want a picture!” says Bec.
I fold down the screen. For a second I think she wants to snap one of Abel and his guy the way you’d photograph a pair of zoo otters who won’t stop doing adorable things, but then she tosses her camera to Kade and they’re pulling me in front of the huge silver fridge, nudging me between Bec and Abel. Kade directs us: action figures in fists, arms around each other. Abel makes big jokey kissy lips next to my face. I stiffen and curse the brain defect that made me say yes when he tempted me with those CastieCon tickets his parents bought and begged me to sign up for six weeks of his company. Personal space invasion. Toast crumbs in the butter. Nonstop matchmaking. Maybe I can ditch him at a rest stop, run off to some mountain village where the yurts are far apart and everyone stays inside whittling and no one cares if you just want to be alone.
Good idea, bud, says Father Mike. You can still stop this.
The camera stops flashing. I shut my eyes. White halos dance in the da
rk. Abel hooks Plastic Cadmus to the rim of my ear and leans close, whispering in his best space-captain rasp.
“Let’s get started, Tin Man,” he says. “I can’t wait to see how you drive that thing.”
CastieCon #1
Cleveland, Ohio
Chapter Three
“This RV,” Abel declares, “is like, nine months pregnant with awesome.”
I’m up in the cab of the Sunseeker, zoning out to Kings of Convenience and powering the RV down the last strip of highway before Cleveland. Behind me, Abel and Bec are recording our first on-the-road entry. I hope they leave me out of it. I spent three hours in a Pennsylvania truck stop today while Abel tried on stupid hats and fed five hundred quarters into a gumball machine to get a gold plastic medallion with a dollar sign on it, and now I just want to space. I’m Sim in the cockpit of the U.S.S. Starsetter, my default setting switched to NAVIGATE and the sensors in my collarbone blinking red, scanning the skies for hidden dangers.
“Check it out, Casties. There’s a rug shaped like a pinecone and a duck lamp that quacks and I don’t know what’s in these rustic moose-head pillows but they’re really super-comfortable…Hey, Bran!”
I knock my head against the backrest. “What?”
“Whatcha thinking about up there?”
“Eternal damnation.”
“Hot.” He’s in my face with Bec’s camera now, his white hair teased up and experimented on. He looks like Edward Scissorhands rolled in flour. “You’re so Cadmus when you drive an RV. Look guys, he’s got that nonchalant ‘I-only-need-one-hand-on-the-wheel’ thing—
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s true! All you need are six inches and a bomber jacket. Ooh, ooh, do the Cadmus line from the pilot, okay? C’mon, I’ll set you up.” He stiffens his back like Sim and puts on some phony robot voice. “Captain, we appear to be veering off course. My navigation sensors indicate—that’s you, Bran. Say it!”
