Geekerella (Starfield #1)(13)

I purse my lips. “James.”

The back of my neck prickles with sweat, and a little panic. James Collins is one of the twins’ country club cronies. Relatedly, he’s the reason I’m sworn off trusting boys—ever. Maybe it was my fault for assuming that someone like James would ever be interested in me, but I’m not the one who filmed our ill-fated country club rendezvous and sent the YouTube link to the entire school. No, that would be my charming twin step-vloggers. You know, because they weren’t already making my life miserable enough. And James was all just part of their plan.

He’s in dark blue swim trunks and a T-shirt that reads I’D RATHER BE ON PROSPERO with the silhouette of the starship Prospero whirling around the last word, warping into light speed.

I clear my throat, pointing to his shirt. “I hear the observation deck is nice this time of year.”

“Huh?” He glances from me to Sage, but she isn’t even paying attention. Then he looks down to his shirt. “Oh, this? It’s my brother’s old shirt. He’s into that dumb nerd stuff.”

“Dumb,” I echo, and for a moment I want to shove a cold and soulless vegan fritter down his throat. Dumb. He’s totally lying. He didn’t call it dumb last summer. “What’s so dumb about—”

Sage kicks me beneath the counter.

I shoot her a glare. She returns it under glittery fake eyelashes. I turn back to him.

“What would you like?” I say between a tight-lipped smile.

“He wants the chimichangas,” Sage says, putting down her sketchbook. “Don’t you?”

“Uh…” James looks like what he wants, even more than vegan food, is just to get away from the crazy Starfield girl and her colorful, piercing-covered companion. “Sure.”

He pays—with his own credit card, of course—takes some chimichangas from Sage, and leaves at warp speed. I sit down on a cooler and open my notebook again, still angry at James, and use that vehemence to draft another scalding blog post about other uses for Darien Freeman’s deceptively perfect body.

Number one: A washboard.

Number two: A skin suit for criminals.

Number three: The mold for real-life Ken dolls.

Number four: Not being Carmindor.

Across the truck, Sage’s pencil makes quick tic-tic-tics across the paper. A leaf of green hair falls into her face and she scoops it back absently.

“That guy seemed like a douche-bro.”

It’s one of the longest sentences she’s ever said to me. I don’t even know how to answer.

“You two have some history?”

When I don’t answer, she shrugs and juts her chin in the direction James left.

“Don’t you go to high school with me? I’m sure you saw the video.”

She just frowns, and from the way she scrunches her pink mouth against the orange ring pierced into her lower lip, I can’t tell if she did see it or not. But if she wants to press the issue, she doesn’t—and I’m glad. Last summer’s better left tossed into the Black Nebula. It’s better off gone.

Thankfully, my phone chooses that exact moment to vibrate on the counter. But when I pick it up, I don’t recognize the number—which doesn’t surprise me. Since I inherited Dad’s phone number, I’ve gotten calls and texts from random people, usually about ExcelsiCon. And usually—actually, every time—I ignore them. They’ll get through to the right person eventually, and it’s best to ignore things you don’t want to remember. It’s not because I don’t want to be reminded of Dad, but because every time I think of ExcelsiCon—of not going—it feels like I’m letting him down.

But as soon as I let it go to voicemail, I feel bad. It’s not this person’s fault ExcelsiCon left Dad’s bio up on the site for so long. They miss him as much as I do. And a part of me, so small I can normally squash it out, thinks that it could be Dad, phoning in from another universe.

So when my phone buzzes again—a text, this time—I pick it up.


Unknown 11:36 AM

—Hi there. Could you take the Federation Prince off your schedule?

—He sincerely apologizes, but something came up.

My annoyance quickly turns to curiosity. It must be one of the dudes on the cosplay panels. After the announcement today, everybody and their mothers will probably be playing Carmindor, so professional cosplays will probably want to cosplay as someone else.

Before I can even answer, the phone buzzes again.


Unknown 11:39 AM

—Please? He will be very tired. He has a lot of work to do.

Today just wants to give me a face full of Starfield, doesn’t it. I type back a reply before even really thinking about it.


11:40 AM

—Work? Like what? Last I heard, Carmindor doesn’t give excuses.

The number pings me back almost immediately.


Unknown 11:41 AM

—Oh I beg to differ.

—Do I have the right number? For ExcelsiCon?


11:42 AM

—Nope.

—But hey, I can offer you an out-of-this-world deal on vegan chimichangas.


Unknown 11:42 AM

—Sounds galactic. Maybe some other time.

—Do you know who I should contact?

Yes. Maybe.

I could point him in the right direction. I haven’t been in touch with Dad’s colleagues at ExcelsiCon since…well, not in a really long time. But I could probably get in touch with someone. I’ve never offered to before. I never wanted to.