Ship It(78)

Smokey grasps his arm, eyes fluttering, and it’s their last chance. “I’ll be with you…” he tries again.

“’Til the dirt hits my chest,” Heart gasps, and Smokey dies in his arms.

And Heart lets out a primal howl that echoes down the alleyway, through the neighborhood, across the city, as the camera cranes up, up, up.

And the screen goes black.

And the credits begin.

And everyone stares, wondering what the fuck just happened.

Okay, okay, I tell myself. It’s okay, they can’t kill Smokey. They’ll bring him back in season two. Heart will go down to hell and get him back himself if he has to. It’s not over. Forest would have said something if he were leaving the show.

I look around the park, and the same conversation is taking place all around me. The volume in the park reaches a frenzied pitch as everyone wonders what just happened. Smokey’s not really dead, no one believes it. It’s just a cliffhanger, is all. Happens all the time on these shows. It doesn’t mean anything.

I see the girl who offered me pizza gesturing with her phone to her friends with a furrowed brow. They pull out their phones, too, and I can see they’re all looking at Twitter. I see another group with Twitter open on their phones, too.

I fumble as I pull my phone out of my pocket, and I have to squeeze my fingers into a fist a few times to stop my hands from shaking.

I manage to unlock my phone. Open the Twitter app.

And there it is, gathering retweets by the second.

Forest tweeted: This wasn’t supposed to happen, but it’s over now. Smokey is dead. Forever. There’s a knot forming in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I take shallow breaths and focus on the grass below me.

Smokey is dead. Smokey is dead.

Heads crane around. The girls to my left are staring at me. Other people nearby take notice. Their whispers fill my ears, it’s all I can hear.

Smokey is dead.

My screen slides down as View 1 new Tweet appears at the top.

I tap it. Another tweet from Forest:

Blame heart-of-lightness.


THE POUNDING IS incessant.

I don’t think it’s the pizza guy.

“Forest!” she practically screams through the door.

Nope, not the pizza guy.

I roll off my bed and straighten myself up.

“Go away,” I tell her. There’s literally no one I want to see right now. Especially not her.

“Forest, open up!” she hollers, banging away. She’s going to cause structural damage if she keeps going like this.

I cross to the door, but I don’t open it. “Claire, go home. It’s over. You’ve done enough.” I say it sharply. Maybe if I can convey just how much I am not fucking around she might listen to me.

Silence.

Maybe it worked? Maybe she left?

“What did they say to you?” she asks, sounding almost defeated—a new attitude for her.

“Jamie said I’m fired because people like you won’t shut up about SmokeHeart unless Smokey’s literally dead.”

I hear her let out a long breath. “He actually said that?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s true. He’s dead.”

“Dead, dead.”

“Well, what the fuck was this all for, then?” She sounds almost primal.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Claire, I’m not coming out, just go home.”

“Pizza,” a guy says.

I sigh, and lean my forehead against the door. Okay. Let’s do it. I whip the door open, grab the slip from the guy, and start signing it.

I don’t even look at Claire, but she’s right there, wound tight like she’s going to pop. She comes up right behind the pizza guy, making him very uncomfortable, and speaks at me over his shoulder.

“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t been such a monumental asshole,” she says with a scary fierce-

ness.

“Hey, this is my job, okay, Claire? It’s a lot more to me than it was to you.” I look at her for the first time, and she’s standing there like a wet dishrag that someone wrung out and left in the sink. Tear-streaked and rumpled, she glares at me.

I shove the receipt at the poor pizza guy and grab the pizza box from him.

“It’s just a show,” I say. “And not even a particularly good one. Move on. Go get a job or something. Have a life. Read a newspaper. Care about something in the real world.”

The pizza guy slips out from between us and makes his escape.

“This is important,” she says, wiping her cheeks, steeling herself. The old Claire coming back out. “That’s why this never worked out.” She waggles her finger between us. “Because you still don’t think that representation matters at all. That it’s not important for gay teenagers to see someone like them on TV.”

“Who?” I demand, the irritation at her endless soapboxing finally boiling over into anger. “Who are these gay teenagers who care so freaking much about Demon Heart? Do you know any?”

She sputters, then spits out, “There’s Tess.”

“Then why are you here, and not her?”

I watch her fumble for an answer. Yeah, that’s what I thought. “Why are you really doing this?”

“I told you.”