Foolish Hearts

by Emma Mills

  “He has a great name, everyone says so.”

  I snort. “You two. Honestly.”

  We head inside, Gideon holding the door for us. I let Noah and Iris go ahead, and turn back to him as he enters.

  “You got Battle Quest,” I say.

  “I did.”

  “How come?”

  “Because you like it,” he replies, and then makes a face. “So, you know, it must be fun. I just … figured I’d try it.”

  “And Iris too?”

  “Iris was so on board.” He glances at her and Noah walking ahead of us, chatting. “I didn’t want to be the only one starting out. And she said you’ve been really supportive of those guys she likes? The This Is Where We Whatever?”

  “This Is Our Now.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have a little sister and you don’t know TION?”

  “Vic is weird, she only likes the Beatles and German techno and YouTubers who do acoustic covers of dubstep songs.”

  “Eclectic.”

  I part ways with them at the auditorium and head down the hall to the classroom where I’m supposed to work with Lena.

  She’s already in there, her script in front of her, but she closes it when I walk in.

  “I’m off book!” she declares.

  She is not off book.

  We’re going over some of her longer speeches in Act 3. I think her delivery has definitely improved, but she keeps mixing words up, dropping lines here and there.

  “I swear I had it last night,” she keeps saying. “I did it so good.”

  When I prompt her for the fourth or fifth time, she drops her head into her hands.

  “I’m never going to get this.”

  “You just … need some more time with the text,” I say, because it’s something I’ve heard Mr. Palmer say in rehearsal.

  “There are just so many words, and they’re so weird, and I’m not…” She shakes her head, frowns down at her script. Reaches for her phone, picks it up, puts it back down.

  “What?”

  “Helena’s supposed to be tall, and she’s supposed to be pretty,” Lena says. “And that’s why they picked me. That’s the only reason they picked me.” She looks … oddly upset. “I’m not, like, totally oblivious. I know that’s the only thing I’ve got going for me. God doesn’t give with both hands, that’s what my mom always says.” In a small voice: “I know I’m not good at this.”

  I shake my head. “You shouldn’t … that’s not true. You must’ve given a good audition. They must’ve seen that you have … raw talent.”

  “Do you think so?” she says, eyes shiny.

  “Yeah. Yes.” I nod. “Very raw.”

  She nods too, looking down at the script. “Yeah,” she says. “You’re right. I bet you’re right.” And when she looks up, it’s almost as if she’s seeing me for the first time. “Would you like to come to my commercial-viewing party?”

  “I—sorry?”

  “My commercial is premiering on TV, and we’re hosting a viewing party for family and close friends. Would you like to come?”

  “Um … sure. Yes.”

  “Great!” she says with a sunny smile. “Lots of cast members are invited, but not everyone, so don’t spread it around.”

  “I won’t,” I say when it seems like I’m supposed to respond.

  “Let’s try it again,” she says, picking up her script.

  thirty-four

  Iris, Gideon, and I go back to Aradana that night.

  After spending so much time with our guild—with Zoe and Alex and everyone—it’s odd to be hanging out with different people online. To see Viola Constantinople with, well … new friends.

  We set up a conference call online so we can talk while we play, and I lead them around and help them kill the monsters in their creature logs. It’s the quickest way to level up.

  “How come we have to zap them with shit for ages and you just shoot one spell and they keel over?” Iris says after our encounter with a pack of miniature wargs.

  “Because I’m level fifty, and you’re level three.”

  “Can I just pay to be a higher level?” Iris asks.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Gideon says, and on-screen, avatar Gideon Prewitt runs into a wall.

  We’re crossing through Blaze country—a sort of outback area to the west of the capital city—when we come upon the entrance to a cave that is glowing faintly. The sun has just gone down in Aradana.

  “Ooh, I read about this!” Gideon exclaims. “This is an instance, right? We’re about to go into one?”

  “Did you, like, read a book on gaming?” I say.

  “I read the Internet. It told me all about it.”

  “You read the entire Internet?”

  “Yup. I also learned a lot about Communism and sleight of hand magic.”

  “What’s an instance?” Iris says.

  “Yeah, Gideon, tell us all about it.”

  “Well,” he says, and even though I can’t see his face, I somehow know he’s smiling. “It’s essentially like … you know how when we’re in the market or somewhere, we can see all the other players? Like Joe Schmoe elf guy walking around with his lizard friend? An instance is a special area of the game—like a dungeon or something—that you go into, and when you do, it sort of duplicates itself, so you’re the only ones in there. You’re all alone, just you and your people. In theory, another group could enter the same dungeon, but you wouldn’t see them and they wouldn’t see you, because they’re in a different instance of the same place.”

  “Not bad,” I say.

  “Fifty bucks says you have the Wikipedia page open,” Iris says.

  “I don’t!” Gideon squawks. “I happen to have studied thoroughly.”

  “Trying to impress someone?” Iris says.

  “The glowing cave awaits!” Gideon says abruptly. On-screen, avatar Gideon moves forward, and we’re all sucked into the instance.

  * * *

  Later on I’m waiting for Gideon and Iris to each finish a one-on-one battle against a zombie captain—another instance that they each had to enter alone—and as I’m standing there on the Blaze, a group comes up the hill behind me. A couple elves, a troll, and a humanoid dragon carrying a large broadsword.

  His name floats above his head:

  Alphoneus Centurion.

  My stomach drops.

  “Jesus Christ,” Gideon mutters. “I keep punching this guy and he keeps zapping me. Why are his zaps so powerful?”

  “I think you have to kill the little skull guys first,” Iris says. “They’re, like, recharging him or something.”

  I am barely paying attention. Inexplicably, I’m waiting for my chat window to ding. For Will Sorenson to acknowledge me. But that’s absurd—he doesn’t know that this is my character. He doesn’t even know that I play Battle Quest.

  “Fucking yes!” Iris lets out a whoop. “Got him.”

  Trippola Lightyear materializes next to me.

  “How?” Gideon says. “God. He keeps—shit. Okay.”

  “Go for his lower half, that’s where the zaps are coming from. His dick is like a lightning rod.”

  “If his dick were like a lightning rod, it would be drawing in the zaps, not shooting them out.”

  “His dick is jizzing electricity, is that better?”

  “Iris Yiwei Huang, I am appalled.”

  “How do you know my full name?”

  “I’m all-knowing.”

  “No, really.”

  “My mom met your parents at a school thing and—fuck fuck fuck he just let out this giant burst—”

  “You’re almost finished then,” Iris says. “He did that right before he died.”

  Then the chat window does ding. Alphoneus Centurion is addressing Trippola Lightyear.

  >Alphoneus Centurion: Greetings, traveler!

  >Alphoneus Centurion: We are recruiting for our guild, the Legion of the Hunt. Are you currently affiliated with a guild? Would you l
ike to join our merry band?

  “Claudia, what is this guy talking about? Am I supposed to say something?”

  “Ahh, got it!” Gideon says, and then avatar Gideon Prewitt reappears on-screen as well.

  >Alphoneus Centurion: Greetings, traveler!

  He repeats the guild invite to Gideon as well.

  “What is this? Should we say no?” A pause. “Claudia? You still there?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “What should we do?”

  I clear my throat. “Just … say no.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Alphoneus Centurion is still standing there. Neither Iris nor Gideon respond, so after a moment, he and his group move on.

  “Yes,” I say, and try to shake myself out of it. “Yeah, I just … I know that guy.”

  “That troll guy?”

  “The dragon guy.” It sounds so stupid, and I have no idea why I’m telling them. “We dated.”

  “Like … in the game?” Gideon says.

  “Like in real life, asshat,” Iris replies, and then a pause. “Right? Or have you actually … dated people in this game…?”

  “In real life,” I say, though it is possible to marry someone in Battle Quest. It gets you some perks, the main one being that you can teleport together. Mark’s and Julia’s characters are married, and Alex has suggested it to Zoe more than once, but she always makes a face: “I refuse to be tied down.”

  (“It’ll be more efficient though!” Alex replied. “And it’s not like I can freaking marry Claudia.”

  “Maybe I’ll marry Claudia,” Zoe said.

  “Fine. Just someone marry someone in a non-incestuous manner so that we can transport places faster.”)

  “What happened?” Iris says.

  I change Viola Constantinople’s cloak for the sake of having something to do. “We broke up.” The truth, again, unbidden: “He broke up. With me.”

  “What?” Gideon says. “Why?”

  On-screen, Trippola Lightyear begins arming a flaming arrow.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  “I’m gonna shoot him,” Iris replies simply.

  “Iris! You can’t just shoot players indiscriminately!”

  “He dumped you; he deserves to die.”

  “That’s—”

  “In the context of the game,” she amends. “His stupid character deserves death in the game.”

  “You can’t do that. It’ll make you a player killer, we won’t be able to get into any of the towns, and—”

  “Don’t care, worth it,” Iris says as Trippola Lightyear levels her shot.

  “If Paige had a character, you wouldn’t want me to shoot her with a flaming arrow, would you?”

  Trippola’s hand stills on her bow. “No.”

  “So. Maybe it’s like that.”

  “Is it?”

  A pause. Iris and Paige obviously cared about each other. And they seem to care about each other still, even now. It wasn’t a one-way street. “No,” I say.

  “Arrows away,” she replies.

  “Iris, seriously—” But as Trippola goes to fire, Alphoneus and his group disappear in the distance.

  “Hold on, there’s a spell I could do,” Gideon says. “I could do … Sharp-shooter and enhance your aim, or I could do Summoner and bring him back—”

  “You can do neither, because you’re level three,” I say. “Look, I appreciate the thought, but it’s fine, okay?” It’s quiet. “I should probably go, it’s getting late.”

  “Are you sure you’re—” Gideon starts.

  “Yeah, okay,” Iris cuts him off. “See you at rehearsal.”

  “Night, Claude.” Avatar Gideon Prewitt vanishes, and Gideon’s name disappears from the call window as well. But Iris’s doesn’t.

  “Wait,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Tell me about the dragon guy.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Gideon’s gone so we’re … girl talking. This is girl talk.”

  “Is it?”

  “Jesus, Claudia, just tell me what happened.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  Silence. I check again to see if she’s hung up. She hasn’t.

  I sigh. “It’s nothing. He was my first boyfriend.” My only boyfriend.

  “And?”

  “And … what? I don’t know. He liked me. And then he didn’t.” I swallow. “Or maybe he never did, I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I have never told another person this, not even Zoe, but for some reason, inexplicably, it leaves my lips now: “When we broke up, he said he felt regular with me.”

  “What does that even mean?” Iris says.

  “I don’t know.” Except I know exactly what it meant. “I was … really sad about it though. I thought … like, for a while after, part of me thought that maybe he would change his mind. Like he would realize he made a mistake. Isn’t that stupid?”

  “No.”

  “It is.” I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “But it doesn’t seem right to me that you can feel so horrible and the other person doesn’t feel—anything. I hate that you can think that everything’s good, you can think they mean what they’re saying—even they can think they mean what they’re saying—but they don’t. And you give them whatever part of yourself and it doesn’t even mean anything to them in the end. And you can’t get it back.” I swallow. “It sucks. I hate it.”

  Silence.

  I take a breath. “Sorry. Rambling.”

  “You’re not.” A pause. “Do you want to play a little while longer?”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say, and it comes out almost normal.

  thirty-five

  It’s Alex who finally, finally gets through at 103.5. He has a brief on-air discussion with the deejay, who makes borderline offensive comments about how two tickets to see TION couldn’t possibly be for him.

  “Actually, they are,” Alex says defiantly, because that’s who he is. “I love TION.”

  “Really now. Who’s your favorite?” the deejay says with an air of derision.

  “Kenji,” I whisper.

  “Kenji,” Alex replies. “He’s my guy. I love him. I would trust Kenji with my life.”

  “Okay then,” the deejay says, his line of joking effectively squashed. “Right on, I guess.”

  Alex has to stay on the line to give his information, and he agrees to pick up the tickets for me at the station when they come in.

  “Thank you,” I say, for the tenth time.

  “Just keep it in mind in case I need something in the future,” he says with a grin. “We’re talking massive favor here.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I reply.

  * * *

  Iris is oddly stoic when I tell her about the concert tickets. I didn’t expect her to jump up and down, to … squeal or anything like that, but I thought she’d do more than just look at me solemnly for a moment and then nod. Although she does say thank you, so I consider that an achievement.

  I go to Iris’s house to pick her up in the afternoon, the day of the concert. A housekeeper lets me in, and I climb the stairs to Iris’s room. When I stick my head through the doorway, she’s standing in front of her full-length mirror, turning back and forth to admire both sides of the jacket she’s wearing.

  “Is that…”

  “Kenji’s jacket from the ‘Stop My Heart’ video?” she says without looking over. “Yes and no.”

  “Explain.”

  “It’s the jacket but not his exact jacket. I bought one just like it. It’s Valentino.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “Of course it is—Kenji chose it,” she says, adjusting it in the mirror, then running her fingers through her hair. “I have something for you to wear, too.”

  “Kai’s gym socks? Josh’s headgear?”

  “Ha,” Iris ducks into her closet and emerges a moment later with a long scrap of purple and gold paisley fabric. “Kenji has this scarf
,” she says. “He wore it in Japan.” She gestures to me. “Come here.”

  I step toward her. “You really don’t have to—”

  “You’re just borrowing it. For the night. So you don’t feel left out.”

  I wouldn’t have felt left out otherwise. I’m not sure many other girls at the concert will be wearing Kenji’s Japan scarves. Or maybe they will, who knows?

  “Lean down,” Iris says, and I do. I expect her to wind the scarf around my neck, but instead she ties it around my head like a headband. A crease between her brows appears as she tugs it back and forth a little, settling it, and then adjusting my hair just so. “There,” she says, stepping back. “Just like Kenji.”

  I look in the mirror. It’s not just like Kenji. But coming from Iris, I think that’s an incredible compliment.

  I realize she’s waiting for me to say something.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I feel like … like Japan Kenji.”

  She grins. “It’s one of the best Kenjis to feel like.”

  * * *

  I swing back home to get my dad, since “I don’t know about you and Iris driving alone downtown” was my mom’s only protest to tonight’s activities. So Dad drives us into the city and lets us listen to TION the whole way. He even bops his head a few times and destroys the chorus to “Without You,” their first big radio hit that even people’s dads know.

  He insists we go to his favorite Korean barbecue restaurant for an early dinner—the kind of place where you get to cook your own food on a little grill sunken into the center of the table. I’m kind of unsure what the me/my dad/Iris dynamic will be like, but it’s surprisingly okay. She asks him about what it’s like to teach at PLSG. He asks her about her dad’s company. They both make fun of me perpetually overcooking the meat.

  “Beef à la Claudia,” Dad says with a grin. “Charred to perfection.”

  After dinner he drops us off a few blocks away from the stadium—the streets are clogged with traffic—and we walk the rest of the way.

  We join a huge crowd when we arrive. I glance at our tickets as we slowly filter into the stadium.

  We go up. And up. And up, looking for our section number.

  And when we finally find our section and step out into the stadium, the stage could not be farther away. The boys of TION will be approximately the size of ants to us. They’ll be boy band–shaped specks in the distance. Even the jumbotrons look like postage stamps from up here.