Geekerella (Starfield #1)(54)
7:38 PM
—I have this theory, ah’blen
Ah’blen—the masculine version of “my heart.” Car responds as soon as I send it, so quick it surprises me. Like he was waiting, or about to text me, or…just on his phone. Probably just on his phone.
Carmindor 7:38 PM
—Theory?
7:39 PM
—Don’t laugh. I’ve had it for a while.
—I have a theory that there’s another universe beside ours.
Carmindor 7:39 PM
—Like those fan-theories on where the Black Nebula goes?
Above me, Sage shakes the dust off the rafters as she stomps from one side of the room to the other. It must be the living room. She’s arguing with her dad, the kind of argument padded with years and years of well-worn “I love you”s squeezed between the syllables.
Her voice carries down, muffled, through the air vents as I type out a text.
7:40 PM
—Yeah, where everything we thought was impossible happens and then there’s a world where everything impossible doesn’t.
Carmindor 7:40 PM
—So which universe are we in?
7:40 PM
—The first.
Maybe in that other universe, I’m having those same arguments with Dad. Maybe we’re arguing about where I’ll go to college or what to eat for dinner or why Darien Freeman is the worst Carmindor known to humankind. But we’ll never have those arguments.
We’ll never argue again.
Carmindor 7:41 PM
—Oh good, I was scared for a minute there, ah’blena.
—I’m glad we’re in the impossible world.
7:42 PM
—Why?
Carmindor 7:42 PM
—Because otherwise I never would’ve found you.
I hold the phone close to my chest, closing my eyes.
Oh but isn’t that the problem? Which would I choose, if I had to choose between my father and Car? Which universe could I be happy in?
The opening credits fade into the first scene. I know it too well. Amara and Carmindor stand across from each other on the bridge. His face is the picture of heartbreak as he stares at the phaser in his lover’s hand.
“You were warned about me, ah’blen,” Princess Amara will reply to his shocked face, but just as her mouth opens, Sage returns from her phone conversation, grabs the remote, and turns off the TV.
I blink, suddenly thrown out of the moment. “What was that for?”
“Lift your arms,” she says, so I do. She pinches and tugs at the fabric, seemingly satisfied. “Good, good. I think we’re good.”
“Good?” I ask, dumbfounded. I begin to turn toward the mirror. “Why’d you pause it? Are we done?”
“No no! Not yet! No looking!” She darts off to her workbench, which is covered with a white sheet. When she flips it, a gasp escapes my throat.
The crown. She found a crown for me.
Gingerly, like it’s made of real gold, she picks it up and brings it over.
“I couldn’t help myself,” she says. “It’s my flaw. I’m a completionist. The outfit wouldn’t have looked right without it.” When I don’t move, her smile begins to falter. “What, did I do something wrong? Is it the wrong crown?”
“No,” I whisper, taking the crown. “It’s perfect.”
She laughs awkwardly. “Seriously, no need to get all mushy. It was nothing.”
To her it might be nothing, but to me it means the world—the universe. I want to say that, I want to thank her over and over, but my mouth isn’t working the way it’s supposed to because I’m trying not to cry. And I’m trying not to laugh. And I’m trying to find the right words to describe the light slowly filling me up.
I can never repay her. Never in a hundred thousand light-years.
She squirms. “Okay, okay, now quit hanging on me and put it on! I didn’t slave over it just to have you look dopey-eyed at it!”
I pull away, laughing and crying and rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand as she places the crown on my head.
A perfect fit.
She grabs my hand and gently turns me to the mirror. “Your royal Federation Prince Carmindor, esteemed captain of the good ship Prospero. It is an honor!”
Then she flourishes a Federation bow, promise-sworn salute and all. Her smile is brighter than any star in the sky. She looks proud, and when I finally shift my gaze to me, someone else stares back. A girl with dyed-red hair, dark roots showing, and thick black glasses, the highest graduate at Starfield, the heir to the throne of stars, the general’s daughter. Carmindor. I am Carmindor, a crown of stars over my brow.
But something still feels off.
Sage puts her hands on her hips, appraising me in the mirror. “Damn, I’m good.”
“Damn,” I echo. What’s wrong with me? This is beautiful—this is exactly what I wanted. I am Carmindor.
But how come I don’t feel like I am? I brush the feeling away. It’s just shock, that’s all. The shock of seeing myself so different.
Sage walks around me, nodding. “Not bad for a wannabe fashion designer.”
“You are a fashion designer.”
We grin at each other, wide and unabashed, and for a moment I think she’s about to say something, but then she averts her gaze. “We even got done early. I think we can get you home by nine?”