Geekerella (Starfield #1)(19)
Dad always liked thunderstorms. The way it rattled the house, like a heart rattling in a ribcage.
Unknown 9:59 PM
—Can I ask you a weird question?
10:00 PM
—Uh…I guess??
Unknown 10:00 PM
—What do you think of the new Carmindor?
Uh-oh. I think back to my blog post. My viral blog post. I’d lie to him if I said anything other than what was absolutely true.
10:00 PM
—You mean Darien Freeman?
Unknown 10:00 PM
—Yeah.
I tilt my head back to watch the storm roll in out the window. I could link him to my blog post, but chances are if he’s a Stargunner he already knows my feelings. Or the author’s feelings. That no matter the universe, Darien Freeman will never be Carmindor. Instead, I decide to stall.
10:01 PM
—Why, are you a Seaside Cove fan?
Unknown 10:01 PM
—Please, give me Gilmore Girls. Coffee. Quick wit.
—So you don’t think he can pull it off?
—Darien, I mean.
I don’t know why I say what I do next. I guess because if he’s asking, he genuinely likes the casting.
10:01 PM
—I…think if he tries, maybe he could do it.
—I mean, that’s what Carmindor would do. Try. Even when the odds seem hopeless.
—But who knows if Darien Freeman cares enough to try.
Unknown 10:01 PM
—So you DO think he’ll be good? As a fan?
10:01 PM
—Can I take a rain check on that answer?
Unknown 10:01 PM
—Depends. How long’s the rainstorm?
I look out the window, at the water whipping through the night sky. Never ending, I want to say. But instead I reply:
10:02 PM
—Until he does something to change my mind, I guess.
—Show he’s going to try.
MARK’S STILL SITTING WHERE I LEFT HIM, sipping on his beer. He lifts an eyebrow as soon as I slip back through the door.
“So the prodigal son returns,” he says in greeting. “Cooled your jets?”
“Yeah, they’re cool.” I sit down opposite him in the room’s sitting area. His thumbs fly across his antique Blackberry, the clicks on the keyboard eating up the silence between us. I tap my half-empty water bottle against my thigh, thumping out the Starfield theme.
If Stargunners want me to prove that I’m their Carmindor, that I’m one of them—even after missing the ah’blena question on Hello, America, which I’m sure will come back to haunt me—then I have to be a fan. And there’s only one way I know how to be a fan.
There will be people like Fishmouth and that guy from the cafeteria and whoever blogs at Rebelgunner who scream so loud it’s hard to hear anything else. But then there’ll be people like the person on the other end of those texts, whispering in a steady cadence. Those are the people I signed the contract for. Because I know what that’s like. Starfield was there for me when my shitty parents and my shitty friends weren’t. That’s why I took this job. Because I’m a fan.
“I’ll do the con,” I say.
He glances up from his Blackberry. “You will?”
“I just said so.”
He begins to stand up. “Great! I’m glad to hear it—”
I put up a hand. “On one condition.”
He sits back. “Of course. Are you sure it’s not two? Three?” He flicks his eyes to the ceiling—almost rolling them, but not quite. “Well, what is it?”
Here goes. Aim. Ignite. “I want to help judge the cosplay contest. I don’t just want to be some aloof movie star posing for photos. I want to be part of this fandom.”
“Part of the…what? Fandom?” Dad’s too-smooth forehead gets the tiniest crease—his expression at its most emotional. “It’s not on brand, Darien.”
“Please, just this once. To show I’m one of them.”
“But you’re not.”
I purse my lips. “I’ll be there already. We could make it on brand.”
Mark shifts in his chair and I can tell he’s doing some mental calculus. Would Chris Pine condescend to judge a costume contest? Would Chris Evans? Chris Hemsworth?
“It would be hard,” he says at last.
“But if you’ll just let me—”
“But.” He holds up a finger to stop me. “I think we can make it work. And ExcelsiCon will be more than happy to agree to that.” He takes another sip of beer. “Yeah…yeah I think we can make it on brand. Keep you front and center. You’re a genius.”
I don’t like the look that slowly slides across his face, half smug, half scheming. What is he thinking up? I’m not sure I want to know. Still—he didn’t say no. For once I got through.
“Thanks,” I say.
And for a moment, I almost add Dad.
I dON’T KNOW WHEN I FINALLY FALL ASLEEP after the last text message, but I know exactly when I wake up.
“Danielle!” my stepmother snaps as she yanks the covers off me. “Danielle, get up!”