Ship It(37)

“You know,” Caty whispers to me, taking a break from typing, “I’ve been following your blog basically since we premiered. You were always one of the tastemakers in the fandom.”

I tear my eyes away from the stage to look at her. She knew who I was from the beginning?

“You might not have the most followers out of everyone, but you’re smart, Claire. You don’t wade into every petty little fandom debate, but the ones you do comment on, well, you have a good voice. People trust you.”

Something’s nagging at me, and I recognize my chance to get confirmation. “Caty, did you guys… did you fix the contest so that I would win? Because of everything that happened at that panel in Boise, and because I have a lot of followers?” I’m not sure what I want the answer to be. Do I want to believe that I was selected because of the quality of my writing and my ideas? Or do I want to believe that the world is fair and any fan could have had the same chance I’m getting?

Caty smirks. “Just a crazy lucky happenstance,” she says. But the way she says it, I know.

I was chosen.

“Hey, if you wanted to liveblog this panel, nobody here would stop you,” she adds, nodding at the phone sticking out of my front pocket. “Use the hashtag #demonheartpdx.”

I take my phone out and do as I’m told, liveblogging mindlessly through the moderator-led section of the panel, waiting for the Q&A to start. I’m itching to know what Forest has planned for any potential SmokeHeart questions.

When they finally turn it over to the audience, there’s a scramble as people move to the microphone in the aisle. As the first fan steps up to the mic, a convention staff member intercepts her, speaking to her low, off-microphone. As they exchange words, the fan starts to tear up, then heads back to her seat, but I can’t tell why.

Another fan steps up to the mic, but again the staff member exchanges words with her before she can ask her question.

I look at Caty. “What’s going on?”

She shakes her head slowly, frowning. “I’m not sure.”

The second fan starts to get angry with the staff member, and I can tell her tone is rising, even though I can’t make out what she’s saying. Another staff member guides her away from the microphone.

The third fan in line steps forward and speaks to the staff member. This is honestly getting ridiculous. Are we ever going to get a question? This time, the fan is permitted to step up to the mic.

“My question is for Forest.” I lean forward. Could this be it? Could this be the question? “How are you liking Twitter?” she asks.

I groan. Like a full third of the audience groans. I think people in other panels in other rooms in other buildings groan. This is not what we came here for.

And I realize then what’s happening. Somehow, he got the convention staff to step in and weed out any questions he didn’t like. Forest is flat-out refusing to engage on the topic of shipping.

Fans are talking about something he doesn’t like?

Ignore, block, mute, reject.

I look down at my phone, open to a new text post. Blinking cursor. He might be able to moderate what people say in a Q&A, but he can’t moderate this.

“Claire…” Caty looks down at my phone with concern. It’s like she can read my mind.

“No,” I say. “You guys chose me for this because you liked what I post online, right? Well, now you’re stuck with me.” Yesterday I was afraid to make waves in my interview because I didn’t want them to kick me off the trip. Now I know that this wasn’t random, I don’t feel quite so careful. They picked me for my voice, and I’m gonna let them hear it.

I start typing.

Forest Reed doesn’t care about fans. I tag it #demonheart pdx and publish it. Then I open a new post and keep typing.

Let them silence this.


I didn’t know how long I’d have to sit here until he showed up, but I was ready to wait all night. At every ding of the elevator, I raise my head to see if it’s him. I’ve twice had to assure the cleaning crew that I’m fine, I’m not locked out, I’m just waiting for my “dad.”

After two and a half hours, my phone is nearly dead from me incessantly checking Tumblr to watch my text posts spread at ridiculous speed like demon blood through the veins of the infected. Fans in other fandoms are piling on in support, recognizing the battle call of a fandom in need, and reaching out to help however they can. Until now, my Tumblr had been mostly fic, fic recs, reblogs of gifsets and fanart, and the occasional meta. But now, my angry text posts fill the first several pages of my blog. I’m sure I’ve lost followers over this, but I’ve also gained several more thousand. The mentions are pouring in faster than I can read them, which is fine, because I don’t need to read them to know that some people agree with me, some people hate me, and some people can’t decide.

But it’s time to take this conversation offline. It’s time to talk to the guy who can do something about all this. I’m sitting in front of Jamie’s hotel room door, and I know he has to show up sometime. The elevator dings again, and this time it’s him. He doesn’t notice me at first, but as I scramble to my feet, he flinches, then turns on his heel and heads back toward the elevators.

“Jamie!”

He hits the elevator button over and over again. “Oh, hey, yeah, sorry, I just realized I left something downstairs.”