Ship It(24)

Forest shakes my hand. I don’t really want to talk to him, but he gives me a bright smile that may or may not be fake, and says, “It’s nice to officially meet you, Claire.” It’s not wildly enthusiastic, but whatever, it’s fine.

Then Rico takes my hand and raises it up, and we turn toward the crowd and they’re cheering for us and Blazer Girl, who I swear is like this omnipresent angel of photography, takes my picture. I spot my mom, who is grinning. Rico is grinning. I am grinning.

I’m literally holding Heart’s hand and he’s looking into my eyes with excitement and I’ve just won something and I never win anything. What even is my life right now?


“You’ll come along with us for the remainder of the convention tour,” the woman says. She’s tall and her black bob is tucked behind her ears like an evil Taylor Swift, but she doesn’t look evil, she just looks in charge. Her name is Paula Greenhill. I like the way she stands very straight. I pull my shoulders up and back and try to mimic her posture. Maybe if I feel as powerful as she looks, I won’t be shaking so much about what the hell I just won. I glance down at my hands and, nope, still trembling, so I stuff them in my pockets.

Ms. Greenhill hands my mom a manila folder full of papers. We’re standing in a back room, just off the stage where I won the contest. It’s blank, with no furniture or anything on the walls. Empty.

“This is our itinerary, including where we’ll stay, when we’ll travel, and all the events and media interactions over the next few days. Take a look and make sure you can agree to all of this. If it looks good to you, we have some releases for you to sign regarding using Claire’s photos and likeness in our media campaigns.”

Mom flips through the papers, her brow furrowed. Oh no, I can tell already she’s taking this way too seriously. “And what are we talking in terms of financial compensation?”

“Mom!” I hiss at her.

“Honey, I’m only asking. Haven’t I taught you it’s always important to ask for things?”

Ms. Greenhill smiles patiently. “We don’t have anything in the way of that. This is a contest your daughter won. The compensation comes in the form of meals, lodging, and, frankly, a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

My mom puts a pair of reading glasses on. I know she can’t see anything farther than about two feet away with them on, but they do make her look Smart and Sophisticated.

“But isn’t it true, Ms. Greenhill, that my daughter was ‘selected’ for this contest”—she puts fake quotes with her fingers around selected—“after asking a particularly pointed question at a Q&A?”

My eyes bug out of my head. I can’t believe my mother is playing hardball with the woman offering me the Trip of a Lifetime. But also… it is weird that I won this trip, out of everyone at the panel today. Why me? Was this more than just a coincidence?

Ms. Greenhill shakes her head. “I assure you, Mrs. Strupke, your daughter is merely very lucky.”

My mother stares Ms. Greenhill down, and for a moment I’m terrified Mom is going to make this into a big deal and they’ll take it away from me and I won’t get to go. And I really, really want to go. No matter how I feel about Forest and what they said to me earlier. If I don’t go I’ll always wonder. I have to go.

As subtly as possible, I stick my elbow into Mom’s side, and she breaks her deadlock eye battle. “Hon, this is something you want, right?”

“One hundred per-freaking-cent,” I say.

She nods, turning back to Ms. Greenhill. “Okay. Let’s talk specifics. What’s the situation with the hotel rooms?”

And Ms. Greenhill starts to get into it. Mom has a lot of questions about how many school days I’ll miss, and what’s the deal with the saunas in each city, and how close the Vietnamese food is, and how much downtime she’ll have, because she’s beginning a series of oil paintings of vulvas disguised as hotel-painting-style landscapes, and she’s hoping to be able to do some research while she’s there, so long as she’s not needed 24/7. And I know she’s only half kidding about the saunas and the Vietnamese food, but she’s also half serious and Ms. Greenhill is treating every question like it’s a nuclear disarmament negotiation, promising to get answers back immediately.

Forest disappeared directly after we left the stage. I’m starting to get the impression that he, well, hates me. And I have to take a beat to remind myself that Smokey is not Forest and Forest is not Smokey and everything is going to be okay and, oh my god, I just won this and how is this actually happening to me?

I look over Ms. Greenhill’s shoulder and see the Bowl of Holding sitting on a table behind her. Since she and Mom are deep in it right now, I’m able to easily duck away and check it out. It’s large, about the size of a mixing bowl. In the show, it’s an ancient artifact, first uncovered by old-timey archaeologists, then stolen by conniving demons looking to use it to open the demon portal to help usher in the apocalypse, then chased down and ultimately recovered by Smokey. Now the bowl is empty, and I wonder where all the people’s names went from inside it. Slowly, I reach out and pick it up. It’s lighter than I thought it would be, and I find that instead of stone, it’s made of plaster and painted to look like stone. It’s fake. But of course it is. The Bowl of Holding never existed, it was just dreamed up by Jamie and his writing staff for the show.