Geekerella

by Ashley Poston

  “Are you two dating?” a paparazzo barks at us.

  “What’s she like? How about your old costar?”

  “Jess! Hey, Jess! What about Carla? Cheating on her now?”

  Jess falters a step, but I think only I can tell. Carla?

  “How do you feel about the other girl he’s texting right under your nose?” someone else asks. I whirl around, but Jess yanks me by the arm to the end of the lobby, where they barrage us with questions at the elevator. After an eon, the doors open to reveal a strawberry blonde bouncing on her toes—Gail, because of course she can sniff out trouble like a bloodhound.

  I corral Jess into the elevator as Lonny catches up, pushing through the paparazzi like butter.

  “Dare!” Gail says, squeezing into the elevator with Lonny. He towers in the corner like a great imposing shadow. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. There’s messages at the front desk—”

  I ignore her and turn to Jess. “Carla?”

  Jess jabs the button to her floor, staring straight ahead into the shiny brass doors, her jaw set. “Please don’t ask. Please.”

  “Darien.” Gail touches my elbow. She looks agitated. “There’s this guy calling you. He keeps leaving messages with the front desk.”

  “A guy?” Jess asks. “What guy?”

  Lonny tenses. “Is he a security threat?”

  “An ex-boyfriend?” Jess adds.

  “No, no,” Gail says. “It’s just someone talking about the con—”

  The elevator doors ding open and I make a break down the hallway before Gail can answer. Jess and Lonny follow, but they don’t keep pace. Gail, however, does.

  I swipe open my door with the magnetic key and faceplant onto my bed.

  “Dare, I know you don’t want to handle this right now but—”

  “Isn’t handling things your job?” I say into my pillow.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I roll over, staring at the popcorn ceiling. “Okay. Messages. What did they say?”

  “Just that—” Gail falters, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Just that you should look out for him—whoever this guy is. At ExcelsiCon. And that you should want to talk to him.”

  “That’s it?” I sit up. “Gail, honestly, it’s probably just this angry blogger. They’ve been posting for weeks about how terrible I am as Carmindor.”

  “But how did he find the hotel?”

  “Well…dunno,” I admit. “I mean, how did the fangirls find the set? These internet people are crazy. They’re probably swapping location info on Tumblr right now. Here.” I pull up Rebelgunner on my phone. “This is what I’m talking about. These people are pretty ruthless—well, Jess thinks this girl has a crush on me but—”

  “Girl?” Gail looks up from the blog.

  “Or guy,” I amend. “I mean, I don’t know who writes it. But I bet you they’re just some bitter fan with an ax to grind. So he’ll come and tell me off. Big deal.”

  She hands back my phone. “So you don’t think it’s someone you know?”

  I give her a blank look, waiting for her to clarify.

  “You don’t think it’s Brian?”

  I blink. I haven’t heard that name in months, too busy with training and the shoot and all of the tabloid stuff and…Elle. Elle helped me forget. “Nah. He wouldn’t dare show his face around here. Besides, what would he be doing in Atlanta?”

  “You’re right,” she agrees quickly, and paces. “Well, maybe it’s best if you don’t do the contest. You’ll be right there with all those fans. Something can easily go wrong.””

  “Wrong?” I echo. “Like what?”

  “We don’t know who left those messages. It could be any crazy person. After what happened on the roof…we can beef up security. We can make sure you feel safe and—”

  “I’ll be fine, Gail,” I interrupt. “I don’t want to be some aloof star in this fandom.”

  “But this is your life, Darien.”

  “You really think I’m in danger?”

  She throws up her hands, turning on her heels to pace the other way—but then she stops and falls with a thunk onto the bed beside me. She heaves out a long sigh. “I don’t know. I should tell Mark—”

  “No.”

  Gail goes silent, and I study her. The way she fidgets with her hands, digging the dirt out from under her bitten fingernails. Her plaid shirt is half-untucked from the waistband of her washed-out boyfriend jeans, about as put together as she normally looks but she’s missing her earrings. Purple studs. She gets scatterbrained when she’s under pressure.

  “What if this guy really wants to hurt you, Dare?” she asks softly. “You can’t be just a fan anymore.”

  She’s right. I don’t know what these people are capable of. Jess’s joking about the blogger is all fun and games until one of those fans starts to use more than just words to hurt me. Who knows what the guy on the roof would do if he cornered me again. Take more than just a few bad photos?

  I can’t take that risk. But I can’t avoid the con, either.

  “Tell you what, Gee,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. “Just double-check that I’m not doing anything one-on-one—no signings or anything. Okay?”

  Gail nods. “Okay.”

  “Perfect. See? Problem solved.”

  Gail is silent for a moment and puts her head on my shoulder. “And if anyone does mess with you, they have to go through Lonny,” she says.

  “I pity the fool,” I reply, trying to pretend like I’m not scared. She laughs and rolls her forehead against my shoulder. Just act like everything is okay. It’s my job. I should be brilliant at it.

  WHEN I GET TO SAGE’S HOUSE the next night—the last night we’re working together—I kick off my shoes and dump my bag at the door, just like I would at home. Sage’s house is weird like that. It feels like home.

  “I want to be back at a reasonable hour tonight,” I tell her. “I don’t want Catherine to start getting any ideas.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re paranoid. We’ll get you home at the same time we have every night.”

  “But what if she begins to suspect something?”

  “Then I’ll call and say that you were here, dear!” Sage’s mom emerges from the living room, all sixties goddess supreme in a tie-dye sarong and bracelets that jingle like new-age maracas. “Don’t you worry.”

  I smile. “Sorry Ms., um, Wynona, but she won’t go for that. My stepmom just doesn’t…”

  “Have feelings,” Sage finishes for me. “Or, like, know how to mom.”

  “Oh, Elle.” Sage’s mom puts a hand to her chest. “You know you can always come here if you need some mothering. Just ask Sage. I’m a natural.” She winks.

  “Moooooom,” Sage groans and grabs me by the elbow. “C’mon, Elle, let’s watch that last episode and get you fitted. We don’t exactly have time to waste.”

  She’s right. The contest is tomorrow. In less than twelve hours we’ll be on a bus bound for Atlanta, costume in tow.

  But I still drag my heels. It’s because we’re about to watch the episode I can’t stand. It’s because I’m about to relive my nightmare: Princess Amara falling into the Black Nebula again and again, in an endless time paradox. That’s why episode 54 doesn’t exist to me. Because it’s the sticks of bad luck. It’s the worst send-off to a character. The worst goodbye. Because Carmindor never gets to say it. And I know better than anyone how that feels.

  “You know,” I say, as we descend to the basement, “I can just explain it to you. We don’t have to actually watch it.”

  “No, I want to see it! I slogged through all the rest!”

  “Slogged?”

  “Slogged enthusiastically,” she corrects.

  I hesitate. “But this one’s…”

  “The last one, so yeah yeah it’s sentimental, blah blah blah.” Sage holds out my jacket and trousers. “Whatever. Come stand here. We can watch it while I make the final adjustments.”

  Hesita
ntly, I press PLAY. The episode cues up as I wiggle into the trousers, no longer embarrassed for Sage seeing me in my three-year-old underwear with cartoon rabbits on it—we’re way past that. Pants on, I climb up onto the step stool as she hands me the jacket, and gingerly, I slip it on.

  The opening credits light up the TV—for the last time, the last episode, the last new experience—but it differs from the other intros. Instead of showing random scenes, it shows the best scenes. The climactic ones. Dad said that when it first aired, he knew it would be the last episode because of the opening credits.

  “It looked final,” he told me. “You could tell—it was a send-off.”

  Dad’s send-off was quieter. Only a handful of people gathered around a small hole in the cemetery. Black umbrellas. Rain. Catherine sobbing into her father’s shoulder. The twins crying into each other.

  I stood alone. Like an extra in one of those bad nineties punk music videos.

  Sage thinks I hate Princess Amara on the principle that she’s a lying double-crosser, but I hate her because I can relate to her. I’m the one tossed into the Black Nebula. I’m the one lost, in a life, a world, a universe that is no longer mine.

  The phone rings upstairs, and for a terrible moment I think it’s Catherine, having sniffed out my lies, ready to ground me for good. But then Sage’s mom calls down, “Sagey, it’s your father!”

  Sage makes a face and goes to the bottom of the stairwell. “Tell him I’ll call him later!”

  “He’ll be working with a client!”

  “Tell him I’m busy!”

  “Sagey, pleeeease!”

  She rolls her eyes and glances back at me. “Sorry, it’s my dad-person. He calls, like, once every thirty years and…oh Jesus, you can’t even talk to your father anymore and here I am complaining—”

  I put on a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll wait. Not like I’m going anywhere.”

  “Okay. Don’t move!” She climbs the stairs two at a time, her clunky boots thundering against the wooden steps. When she’s gone, I step off the podium and pat my clothes for my phone in a back pocket.

  7:38 PM

  —I have this theory, ah’blen

  Ah’blen—the masculine version of “my heart.” Car responds as soon as I send it, so quick it surprises me. Like he was waiting, or about to text me, or…just on his phone. Probably just on his phone.

  Carmindor 7:38 PM

  —Theory?

  7:39 PM

  —Don’t laugh. I’ve had it for a while.

  —I have a theory that there’s another universe beside ours.

  Carmindor 7:39 PM

  —Like those fan-theories on where the Black Nebula goes?

  Above me, Sage shakes the dust off the rafters as she stomps from one side of the room to the other. It must be the living room. She’s arguing with her dad, the kind of argument padded with years and years of well-worn “I love you”s squeezed between the syllables.

  Her voice carries down, muffled, through the air vents as I type out a text.

  7:40 PM

  —Yeah, where everything we thought was impossible happens and then there’s a world where everything impossible doesn’t.

  Carmindor 7:40 PM

  —So which universe are we in?

  7:40 PM

  —The first.

  Maybe in that other universe, I’m having those same arguments with Dad. Maybe we’re arguing about where I’ll go to college or what to eat for dinner or why Darien Freeman is the worst Carmindor known to humankind. But we’ll never have those arguments.

  We’ll never argue again.

  Carmindor 7:41 PM

  —Oh good, I was scared for a minute there, ah’blena.

  —I’m glad we’re in the impossible world.

  7:42 PM

  —Why?

  Carmindor 7:42 PM

  —Because otherwise I never would’ve found you.

  I hold the phone close to my chest, closing my eyes.

  Oh but isn’t that the problem? Which would I choose, if I had to choose between my father and Car? Which universe could I be happy in?

  The opening credits fade into the first scene. I know it too well. Amara and Carmindor stand across from each other on the bridge. His face is the picture of heartbreak as he stares at the phaser in his lover’s hand.

  “You were warned about me, ah’blen,” Princess Amara will reply to his shocked face, but just as her mouth opens, Sage returns from her phone conversation, grabs the remote, and turns off the TV.

  I blink, suddenly thrown out of the moment. “What was that for?”

  “Lift your arms,” she says, so I do. She pinches and tugs at the fabric, seemingly satisfied. “Good, good. I think we’re good.”

  “Good?” I ask, dumbfounded. I begin to turn toward the mirror. “Why’d you pause it? Are we done?”

  “No no! Not yet! No looking!” She darts off to her workbench, which is covered with a white sheet. When she flips it, a gasp escapes my throat.

  The crown. She found a crown for me.

  Gingerly, like it’s made of real gold, she picks it up and brings it over.

  “I couldn’t help myself,” she says. “It’s my flaw. I’m a completionist. The outfit wouldn’t have looked right without it.” When I don’t move, her smile begins to falter. “What, did I do something wrong? Is it the wrong crown?”

  “No,” I whisper, taking the crown. “It’s perfect.”

  She laughs awkwardly. “Seriously, no need to get all mushy. It was nothing.”

  To her it might be nothing, but to me it means the world—the universe. I want to say that, I want to thank her over and over, but my mouth isn’t working the way it’s supposed to because I’m trying not to cry. And I’m trying not to laugh. And I’m trying to find the right words to describe the light slowly filling me up.

  I can never repay her. Never in a hundred thousand light-years.

  She squirms. “Okay, okay, now quit hanging on me and put it on! I didn’t slave over it just to have you look dopey-eyed at it!”

  I pull away, laughing and crying and rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand as she places the crown on my head.

  A perfect fit.

  She grabs my hand and gently turns me to the mirror. “Your royal Federation Prince Carmindor, esteemed captain of the good ship Prospero. It is an honor!”

  Then she flourishes a Federation bow, promise-sworn salute and all. Her smile is brighter than any star in the sky. She looks proud, and when I finally shift my gaze to me, someone else stares back. A girl with dyed-red hair, dark roots showing, and thick black glasses, the highest graduate at Starfield, the heir to the throne of stars, the general’s daughter. Carmindor. I am Carmindor, a crown of stars over my brow.

  But something still feels off.

  Sage puts her hands on her hips, appraising me in the mirror. “Damn, I’m good.”

  “Damn,” I echo. What’s wrong with me? This is beautiful—this is exactly what I wanted. I am Carmindor.

  But how come I don’t feel like I am? I brush the feeling away. It’s just shock, that’s all. The shock of seeing myself so different.

  Sage walks around me, nodding. “Not bad for a wannabe fashion designer.”

  “You are a fashion designer.”

  We grin at each other, wide and unabashed, and for a moment I think she’s about to say something, but then she averts her gaze. “We even got done early. I think we can get you home by nine?”

  My heart sinks. “Oh. Yeah.”

  “What’s wrong? You just went from exuberant to depressed in the time it takes for Boromir to die in the first movie.”

  “Spoiler!”

  “Oh you’ve seen it. Aren’t you excited?”

  “I am. It’s not that.” I take off the crown. So much detail went into it. All of the small ridges, the handmade stars.

  “Well? I’m not a mind-reader,” Sage adds impatiently.

  “It’s just…” I can’t meet her gaze. “I’ve never
really had a friend before. I mean, I have. Online. But not in person. Not in a long time, at least. So…we’ll be friends after this, right? After the con?”

  She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head. “Now what kind of question is that? Of course we will.”

  I finally look at her and drink up the only friend I’ve ever really had. Her chlorine-green hair, her piercings, the way she stands, shoulders back, feet apart, how she can walk into every room and instantly be the coolest person in it. “Thank you.”

  “The costume was nothing. It was pretty easy, really—”

  I stretch out my arms and wrap them around her because she’s just too badass to start a hug first. But she returns it. She returns it like the rib-crushing fiend she is.

  —

  EVEN THOUGH THE COSTUME’S DONE, WE decide to finish Starfield. I think that maybe it won’t be that bad watching it with someone else. Spoiler: it totally still is. Sage dabs at her eyes as the final credits roll and passes the tissue box to me. I tell her my theory, that the Black Nebula doesn’t kill Princess Amara, but sends her away. Like the Time Dragon does to Elphaba in Wicked.

  “That’s a shitty consolation prize,” Sage moans.

  My cell phone buzzes. I dig it out of my pocket and swipe my thumb over the lock screen instinctively; I was wondering when he’d text me tonight.

  “The boy again?” she asks, dabbing at her mascara.

  “Yeah, the boy.”

  She sniffs and shakes off her tears, then turns to me with an eager look. “So what’s the deal with him? How did you meet? You just tricked me to the worst snot-fest in the history of me. I demand this as repayment.”

  She has a point. I fiddle with my phone. “It started out as a wrong number, actually. Like you know those Buzzfeed articles where people text the wrong number while going into labor and then these randos show up with diapers and baby formula and they become besties?”