Ship It(36)

Haircut with a battle-ax.

After the interview, a large-necked security man leads us through the crowd as fans snap photos, calling out my name… and Claire’s. He leads the two of us to the service corridors, where Claire is shuffled in one direction and I’m put into the back of a black town car to be taken to my hotel. I’m shuttled everywhere these days. My schedule planned for me, my days no longer my own. I’m surprised they let me pick what I want to eat.

Haircut with a battle-ax.

I could have this driver take me through the Dairy Queen drive-thru right now. I could get a double cheeseburger and a Blizzard, and no one could stop me. I could rip off this NASA T-shirt, I could shave my head, I could tell Paula and Jamie and Claire to go fuck themselves.

But I won’t.

I’ll go home and get whatever high-protein, low-fat option I can find from room service and I’ll work out in the hotel gym and I’ll say all the things I’m supposed to. My career depends on it.

People don’t realize just how much work it takes to be a haircut with a battle-ax.


“Hey, it’s me again.” It’s a new day and I’m back at the Red Zone booth. Red Zone appears to be on the same convention circuit tour that we are, and I’m grateful for it. Tattoo Guy looks unsurprised to see me, but I’ve never actually seen him show any emotion beyond waiting for all this to be over.

“That last panel back in Boise,” I say, “I just wanted to apologize. Things got a little out of hand.”

“All right.”

“Do you think there’s a chance he’ll show up today? I have another panel in half an hour. It’s going to go smoother.” And it will. I have a plan. I stayed up half the night playing Red Zone 3 and figuring it out. Who’s the haircut now?

“He’s very busy.”

“Can you just… can you tell Mr. Reynolds that I play Red Zone every single day, and I love it—as much or more than these fans he’s meeting—and I’m… I’m just very interested in this role.”

He nods distantly. “I’ll let him know.”

I manage to make it to the greenroom with a few minutes to spare. Paula shoots me a look for being late but doesn’t say anything, just waves her assistant Donna over to me. Donna wordlessly hands me a Batman T-shirt, and I put it on. Then she tuts over my hair before walking away, and I have just enough time to steel myself before Hurricane Claire touches down on my coastline.

“Hey, Forest,” she says, and before I can greet her back, she dives into it. “Look, we have to talk about this afternoon’s Q and A, because the questions aren’t going to be written by your publicity team today. You have to have a good answer to the SmokeHeart question. Someone out there will ask about it.”

Looking down at her now, it strikes me just how much authority Claire tries to pack into her small frame. She must only be about 5′3″ or so, her blond hair tied up in a messy bun on the top of her head that gives her the illusion of a few more inches. Some women might wear heels or boots to accomplish this, but she seems pretty attached to her scuffed-up high-top Vans. I take a minute to wonder how this stubborn, obnoxious high schooler became such a real and unignorable part of my life. At least it won’t last much longer.

“I took care of it,” I tell her. Across the room, I see they’ve set out little bottles of Perrier. I start to head toward the craft table to grab one. Claire follows me.

“What do you mean you took care of it?” she demands.

“I mean don’t worry about it, it’ll be fine.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says. “Tell me specifically.”

I take a mini Perrier. Ahhh, it’s in a glass bottle and still cold. I crack it open and take a sip.

“Forest, are you listening?” she says. “You have to reach down somewhere deep and find a way to not be a dick out there.”

I finish the whole thing in one drink and burp. Refreshing. Claire flinches.

I look her in the eye. “I said I took care of it.”

From the door, Paula waves at us. She’s waiting with Rico and Jamie to head toward the panel. I take the opportunity to squeeze Claire into a hug.

“What are you doing?” she asks, looking confused.

I glance over her head to make sure Paula is watching, and she is. She gives me an appreciative nod.

“I’m just glad you’re here, Claire. Keeping us on track.” I pull away.

Claire frowns at me. “Okay, I guess.”

“See you after.”

I suppress any instinct I have to feel bad or protect her. Just because she’s small doesn’t mean she’s helpless. She’s done enough damage. It’s time I take back control.


WATCHING A PANEL from the side of the stage instead of the audience is weird and suboptimal. There aren’t chairs to sit in, people are whispering and not really paying attention. No one here is a fan, they’re all just working. Ms. Greenhill has gone to stand in the back of the hall so she can “read the crowd,” which means the only people left here are me and that chick Caty, who is typing madly on her phone as usual, and a few of Ms. Greenhill’s minions—who, in the absence of their strong parent figure, are horsing around and laughing.

But as the panel starts, Caty leans over to me and whispers, “It’s a good view from here because you can see everybody, the panelists and the attendees.” And I find that she’s right. There’s something powerful about being able to watch over the sea of faces looking up at the stage. There’s a girl in the middle of the front row shaking with excitement, her friend holding on to her hand to keep her calm. I recognize her joy because I feel it, too. I see thumbs racing over phones as they live-tweet for the folks back home who can’t be here. I see Tess, happily perched in the third row. She notices me and winks, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from breaking out in a grin. I wish she were here watching the panel with me. And then there’s Rico and Forest, right there on the stage. I’m so much closer to them than any of the audience members. Close enough to see the gray hairs among Rico’s thick black curls. Close enough to see the worry lines in Forest’s forehead as he waits for his first question. And I’m struck again by how amazing it is that I’m here, that they know my name, that this is happening.