Geekerella (Starfield #1)(35)

6:15 AM

—I guess it depends on how short you are.


Elle 6:16 AM

—I’m like super short. 5′3″

—The worst height. Always get lost in crowds.

—Great height for proms though. No one sees you’re alone.

Dawn’s just beginning to break across the cityscape. Orange light spreads across the night sky like an inferno, stretching pink and yellow fingers across the stars. The sun’s so bright I have to squint, but it’s rising all the same. I wonder what the sunrise looks like from Elle’s side of the world.


6:16 AM

—I’m 6′1″ but I’d be able to see you.

—Even in a crowd, I’d know.


Elle 6:17 AM

—Know what?


6:18 AM

—That I’d want to dance with you.

It’s the delirium from a lack of sleep. I don’t really say that, do I? Do I really think that? I remember the moment when I was kissing Jess, and her secretive smile, and asking me who I had thought about.

The truth is, it wasn’t just when we kissed that I’d thought about Elle. I’d thought about her during every step of that dance.

I’d meant those words. Every one of them.

I turn around and take a photo of myself against the sunrise. You can’t see my face—the sunrise is so bright I’m just a silhouette. Protecting my image, like Mark has taught me to do for years. But you can see my hair.


6:18 AM

—To prove I’m not bald.

—[1 attachment]

—Good morning.

Then I notice him—the guy standing in the doorway, holding up a camera and obscuring his face. I almost drop my phone.

“Hey—hey you!” I shout, lurching forward.

The stranger whirls around, kicks out my shoe, and slams the door before I get halfway across the roof. I bang my fist into the door, cursing. There’s no handle. I’m locked out, on a rooftop, basically about to reenact The Hangover.

And what’s worse, I’m not hallucinating. There really is a rat on the set of Starfield.





THE JUNE SUN BURNS AGAINST my neck like an iron brand as I sit outside and slowly, painfully, make stitches in the blue material. It’s miserable, but after the fight with Catherine, there’s no way I’m working on the costume at home, and I am not bringing my dad’s coat into the grease-bomb Pumpkin. Besides, I’m way too embarrassed to sew in front of Sage.

My phone hums, startling me. The needle slides into the thick shoulder—and also my finger. “Ow!” I yank out my hand and shove my bleeding finger into my mouth. It stings. And tastes like copper and the Magic Pumpkin’s special for the day, a spicy Asian pumpkin fritter.

Sage pops her head around the back of the truck. “Yo. Everything okay?”

My heart leaps into my throat. I shove the coat beside the crate I’m sitting on. “Fine! I’m fine! Just, uh, dropped my phone—”

She comes around, wiping her hands on her WHAT’S EATING YOU, PUMPKIN? apron. Someone’s supposed to handle the grill at all times, but Sage doesn’t care about protocol. And since there’s a fried grits balls vendor across the street, no one’s even blinking at us.

I try and scoot the jacket as far behind me as I can, but her eyes fall on a sleeve snaking out beside my foot.

“You’re going to get it dirty.”

Ashamed, I take the jacket up in my arms, remembering that the Magic Pumpkin bleeds oil like it’s in a food-truck version of a Tarantino movie.

“It’s nothing. Just…just something I’m working on. Is my lunch break over yet? I should probably—” I try to dodge around Sage, but she steps in front of me. I try the other way, but she blocks me there, too. I frown. “What’re you doing?”

“I know what you’re up to, you know.” Her glittery eyes dart to the wimpy sewing kit I bought at the drugstore. I gather the needles and thread into the plastic case, clamp it closed, and stick it under my arm, but Sage won’t let me off that easily. “That’s really nice material,” she says. “You can’t just tack up the hem. You’ll ruin the trim.”

“I won’t,” I reply defensively, clutching the jacket tighter. “I know what I’m doing.”

She blinks.

My shoulders sag. “Well…sorta.”

“Mm-hmmm.” She reaches out to take the jacket. I hesitate for a moment, like Frodo with his Ring, but then I remember how much crap Frodo walked into and I’d rather not end up like Frodo. So I give it to Sage.

She takes it by the collar and flips it around, studying the hems inside the back and sleeves. Her magenta lips fold downward, slowly but surely, into a serious frown.

“And how exactly are you planning to take this in? Yourself?”

I pull out my cell phone with the YouTube video still on the screen.

“Oh no! My eyes! It burns!” Sage cries. “No. Put that away.”

I pocket my phone as a blush rushes into my cheeks. She turns the jacket inside out, showing me the seams.

“See, you need to take the shoulders apart, cut it, and then sew it back together if you want to resize it properly. The shoulder pads will be a beast because this is hella fine work.” Is that awe in her voice? And not even bored awe. This is a first. “Is this handmade? Who drafted the pattern?”