Geekerella (Starfield #1)(39)

I shift on my feet for a moment, hesitant.

“Elle?” Sage glances back at me.

The thing is, I’ve never introduced anyone to Starfield before. It’s only ever been Dad and me, and then the internet people I sort of know from Rebelgunner, but never someone in person. A thrill begins to creep up my spine, like the Prospero warming up to light speed, heading for destinations unknown. I grab the remote off the floor.

“Actually, we’ll do the crash course starting at episode 3. Then we’ll jump back to 1, and then go forward to 12 and then hit 22 and—”

“Um, why?”

I slowly blink. Right. I’m not talking to a fan but a soon-to-be fan. I need to lay out the rules of Starfield. “The TV series was made for syndication. It didn’t follow a linear storyline, so things just happened whenever the writers decided to include them. We’re watching them in order of the history of Starfield.”

She laughs. “Right! I’ll pretend I understand that.” She goes to the little workstation in the corner—where, I note with happiness, there is a sewing machine—and gets out a bin of tools. I flick through the various streaming networks until I find one with Starfield, select the episode, and then crawl back to sit on my squishy green throne to wait for the opening credits. I can’t help but look over at Sage as she handles Dad’s jacket.

She touches it so gently, like each thread is made of pure silk, tracing her fingers across the seams as though she knows the coat as well as I do. The starched tails are no longer stiff and the collar’s kind of fraying, but she smooths it out anyway to take stock of the cut.

“Okay.” She waves me to standing. “Up.”

I hit PAUSE and get out of the beanbag. Sage nods and whips around me, lifting one arm and then another, measuring everything from my waist to my neck. When she’s done, she turns one of the jacket arms inside out, marking with chalk and pinning things into little tents. When she’s done with that, she lays the jacket flat on the ground and fishes into her tool bin for scissors. Then she lines up the scissors with the chalk, her face composed and relaxed—probably how a serial killer looks, devoid of all humanity as they begin to ruin something beautiful—

“Stop!” I yelp. “What are you doing?”

She gives me a side-eye. “Alterations, Elle.”

“But you’re cutting it!”

“For alterations.”

“But…”

She sighs. “Look, do you want this to fit or don’t you? I told you. You can’t just hem it up, you have to get into the seams and stuff. Either stop me and try to win with nostalgia, or let me do this and help you clinch your victory.”

I hesitate, glancing between her and the jacket. Maybe she’s right. Pursing my lips, I nod and let her cut the fine seams that Mom sewed years ago. I watch as, thread by thread, Sage unravels the history of my parents and the opening credits of Starfield begin.

In the middle of the third episode, a raspy voice calls from the top of the basement, “Sage! You down there?”

“Yeah, Mom!” she replies as footsteps come down the stairs. I don’t say anything, seeing as I’m trapped inside the coat with a forest of pins preventing my moving even an inch.

A graying-haired woman reaches the bottom step. She looks as surprised as I am to see her, but then her smile turns warm. “Ah—well! Elle, right?”

“Hi, Miss Graven.”

“Please, call me Wynona.” She extends her hand to shake. “Sage’s mom.”

“I think she figured that out,” Sage states, crossing her arms over her chest. “Seeing as you hired her?”

“She could’ve thought I was your sister.” Sage’s mom leans toward me with a mock-whisper. “I still get carded at bars, you know.”

Sage rolls her eyes.

“Don’t let her give you any mouth,” Sage’s mom goes on. “She’s really a sentimental brat under all that hair and makeup.”

“Mom,” Sage whines. “Stop it. We’re kinda busy right now.”

“All right, all right. Well, Elle, you staying for dinner?” she says with a lopsided smile. “It’s wheat-meat night!”

I glance at the clock—and then curse. How’d it get to be eight-thirty already? Jerking to my feet, I quickly begin to gather up the costume. “I have to get home—I’m sorry. It’s almost my curfew.”

Sage waves her hand. “Leave the costume here. And be careful, there’s still pins in the shoulder!” she adds when I pick up the jacket and yelp. I drop it, sticking my poked finger in my mouth. She looks at me patiently. “Told you.”

I hesitate, glancing down at the jacket.

“It’ll be fine here, daisy,” Sage’s mom says with a laugh. “It’s in the best hands.”

I nod, gathering my empty duffel bag. “All right.”

We climb the stairs out of the basement. A sweet aroma wafts from the kitchen, making my stomach grumble. Nothing at the Wittimer household ever smells half as good as wheat-meat night does. Probably because I season our dinners with tears for the carbs we’ll never eat.

Sage sees me to the door as her mom calls out from the kitchen, “Was a pleasure, Elle! Come back anytime!”

“You’ll see her tomorrow!” Sage yells back. She sees me out the door. “Sorry. My mom can get up in everyone’s business sometimes.”