Geekerella (Starfield #1)(48)

“It’s okay.” I tilt my head up, staring at the dimming orange lights on the set. “When I was younger, I never fit in anywhere. I always felt like that puzzle piece no one knew where to fit it. And then I found Starfield and its fandom”—and Brian—“and I thought for the first time hey, Carmindor’s like me. And now I get to be Carmindor. But what if I’m not cut out to be him after all? What if it does bomb? What if it bombs because of me? You might not have anything to worry about.”

“Seriously? If the screaming banshees outside the lot every day don’t tell you anything—”

“Not them,” I interrupt quickly, frustrated. “The true fans. Like you said, they’re coming out of the woodwork and I don’t think they like me much.”

Jess cocks her head. “You like Batman, right?”

I shrug. “I’m a fan.”

She eats a small bit of barbecue, chewing slowly. That’s how she eats, I’ve realized. She savors little pieces, eating bit by bit, like a bird. “So who do you like better, Val Kilmer or Christian Bale?”

I scoff. “No one in their right mind likes Val Kil—”

She makes a buzzer sound with her mouth. “Does that mean you aren’t a true fan?”

“What?”

“If you like one Batman over another? Which Batman does a true fan like?”

“I—” I realize what she means. “I guess it depends on the fan.”

Jess nods. “As actors, all we can do is put ourselves in another person for a while and play them the best we can. We’re instruments. We read the notes on the page and interpret them.” She fashions a violin out of thin air and begins to play a slow, moving song, her eyes closed so delicately, I wonder if in another life she once played the instrument.

“I thought you didn’t care,” I tease. “Since it’s not an ‘Oscar movie.’”

She pauses midnote and drops her invisible violin. “I don’t. But like I said, we’re an orchestra, and if you’re out of tune you’ll make me look bad too.” But she can’t meet my gaze.

“Admit it, you like being Amara.”

She mock gasps. “Never!”

“Jessica!” An assistant calls from the exit, her voice echoing in the now-empty warehouse. “Phone call!”

Jess hops off the set so quickly; she must’ve been expecting the call. “For the fans, right?” she says, and hurries out of the lot, grabbing the cell phone from her assistant’s hand as she goes.

I flip out my own phone, remembering blog posts on Rebelgunner. All the scathing comments online. Jess paints a pretty picture of an orchestra, but if we are one, then I’m the first chair violinist…who’s been doused in gasoline and handed a match by the fans to watch me play while going up in flames.

I have a bunch of new messages, all from Elle.


Elle 7:47 PM

—Oh no! Did I get you in trouble??

—I’m sorry!

—I won’t text you as much anymore, promise-sworn!

But then there are fans like Elle—people like Elle. Even if she ends up not liking my version of Carmindor, I’m going to give it my all. Because somehow she makes me want to be better. She makes me want to play my heart out while I’m on fire, play and play until I burn up like a dying red giant.


7:49 PM

—Pshhh, let them riot.

—I’d rather you promise-swear that you’ll never stop.


Elle 7:50 PM

—Really?


7:50 PM

—Really. I like talking to you.


Elle 7:51 PM

—Why?

“Ten minutes!” someone calls, and I jump. My hands are actually shaking a little on my phone, dying to type all the things I’m thinking. Before I can stop myself, I start to type.


7:52 PM

—Because I can’t stop thinking about you.

—But that’s crazy right, because we don’t know each other? But I feel like I want to know you.

—…I’m just making a fool out of myself, aren’t I?

“Darien?” It’s Amon. “Where is that kid?”

“Here!” I jump to my feet. “Coming.”

But before I go, I sneak one last look at my phone.


Elle 7:53 PM

—I want to know you too, Car.

—I wish you were here.

—For real.

A knot swells in my throat. Because I wish I was there too, for real, but there are a hundred thousand reasons why it would never work. Why it could never work.

“Hey, hero!” my stunt coordinator hollers from the other end of the soundstage, holding up a harness. I put my phone into a pocket inside Carmindor’s jacket, trying to figure out how to tell Elle that if she ever met me, she wouldn’t like who she saw.

—

IT’S ANOTHER TWO HOURS BEFORE I’M free. And by free, I mean out in Olympic Park, running laps. Because apparently when you’re a movie star, even when you’re not working, you’re working.

Lonny grunts behind me. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Besides the fact that my heart won’t stop pounding, and it’s got nothing to do with exercise.