Ship It(34)

No, I know it’s none of these things. It’s merely this: “real writing” is done by serious people, whereas fanfiction is written by weirdos, teenagers, degenerates, and women.

I want to say all of this to Tess, my “fanart is real art” speech, but it’s almost five p.m., and I have to get going. Plus, I have a tendency to come on a little strong with people, and I’m not ready to run her off quite yet.

“Hey, you wanna go get something to eat?” Tess asks, packing up her things.

“I can’t, I have to go to this dumb livestream thing.”

“Tomorrow, then. Dinner? After the panel?”

Something in me twitches. She wants to make plans like we’re real people, like we’re friends.

“I mean,” she says, “it doesn’t have to be a date thing….”

“What?” My stomach drops.

“Just ’cause, like, I’m queer. Pansexual, actually. Which I didn’t know if you knew, and I don’t know if you are….”

“Oh, no…” I feel my palms begin to sweat.

Dang it, Claire, pull yourself together.

“No?” She looks disappointed.

“I mean, yeah, let’s do it,” I say.

“Only if you want to….”

“Yeah, no…”

“It doesn’t have to be…”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

A beat passes. Where was I?

“I better go,” I say, and spin to leave, then realize I’m still holding her sketchbook and I turn back around and hand it to her, then I practically run away.

“See you tomorrow!” she calls after me, and I’m certain I hear her laughing, because who wouldn’t laugh at me? I’m acting like a three-year-old.

What just happened? Did I just agree to a date? Does she think I’m gay? Everyone else seems to, so why not her, too? And maybe I am. Or maybe I’m not. How does anyone know?

But if I’m not, why can’t I stop thinking about the way she smiled when she saw me?


“When I say five p.m., it’s not a gentle suggestion.” Ms. Greenhill is reaming out Forest as I approach. It’s 5:05. I wince, knowing I’m next, but she just gives me a smile and a “Hi, Claire, good to see you.” Which, to be honest, is almost worse. Forest looks miserable.

We’re at the Demon Heart booth, and there’s a throng of fans wrapping around the outside of it, trying to get a glimpse of Forest. They all have their phones up, taking photos. I stare at them a moment, amazed that I’m on this side of the ropes, inside the booth instead of crowded on the other side. How did this happen to me?

The booth is shared with Witchcraft, Ice Queens, Time Swipers, Darkness Falls, and all the other shows at the same studio. There are screens above our heads showing a loop of nonstop promos, and two false walls surrounding a carpeted area with tall chairs set up in front of a camera. The walls are covered in enormous images of the cast members of all the shows. It’s disorienting to see Smokey standing next to a medieval knight, who’s next to a spunky young doctor, who’s next to Heart. I’m so used to seeing Smokey and Heart alone, but here in this environment, it’s hard not to view them as cogs in a much bigger network machine.

Ms. Greenhill is bustling around, making sure everyone’s on task. I wonder if she watches Demon Heart. She must, to do her job properly. I wonder if she likes it.

Since no one’s watching me for the moment, I wander over to the area of the booth selling officially licensed swag for the shows, and I see a wall full of T-shirts, tote bags, prints, and toys. My breath catches in my throat when I see a numbered Demon Heart print from a graphic designer featuring the quote: ’Til the dirt hits my chest. It’s large and hand screen-printed and gorgeous. It would look amazing in my room.

“What can I get you, miss?” the vendor asks, coming over to help me.

“Yeah, how much are those prints?” I point to the one I like.

“Two hundred,” he says. Then, seeing the blood leave my face, he adds, “Limited edition.”

I don’t have nearly enough money for something like that. I gaze at the print a bit longer, then start to move away.

“It’s fine, Eduardo,” Paula says, coming up behind me. “Go ahead and give it to her.”

I turn around to look at her. “Really?”

“I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than you,” she says.

Eduardo rolls the print into a tube for me, and I can’t believe it. I take the tube from him. How can I put this print up in my room with my cheapo $14.99 posters, knowing how much this costs? How could Paula just give it to me without a second thought? How is this my life?

“Okay, now,” Paula says, “let’s go over a few things about this interview. I just want you to be super positive, which shouldn’t be too hard, right? Just keep smiling, you’re happy to be here, you’re excited, this is a dream come true. Sound good?”

She looks at me to make sure I understand, and I realize the print she just gave me is more than just a kind gesture. She’s trying to keep me happy. I remember that nothing here is free, not really. They’re buying my loyalty—or trying to, at least.