Ship It(82)

I exchange a look with Rico and bite my cheek not to laugh. “Thank you.”

“Anyway,” he says, “lucky running into you. I was just telling casting to bring you in to read for Tension.”

No way.

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, great.” Be cool, Reed. BE COOL. I want to ask why the hell he’s bringing me in after watching that dumpster-fire panel. Did he not witness my complete meltdown? Was he not present as a room full of people who ostensibly loved me turned against me? I start to open my mouth but think better of it.

“Yeah, I know, that whole mess up in Seattle,” he says, reading my mind. “Look, I have a teenager, I know how manic these things can get. Frankly, I thought you were great up there. I liked how you shut the whole thing down.”

“Yes, sir,” I say. Though I don’t really know if that’s an accurate description.

“This is just some fantasy for them,” he says. “But for you, it’s your whole life. You indulge these people once, and these little gay rumors will plague you your whole career. Not that there’s a problem with the gays, but let’s face it, we’re never gonna cast that kid from Glee as Jack Tension, you know what I’m saying? There’s a certain expectation.”

I want to say, So, what? Gay people can’t play Jack Tension? But I don’t. I just need to get the audition, that’s all. Just land the role.

“Anyway, we’ll be in touch.” He raps on the table before striding away.

I feel a little dirty. I don’t want to look at Rico, but he just says, “Congratulations, dude!” and smiles hopefully. But I don’t feel quite as jubilant as I should.


IT’S THE THIRD week of summer vacation when the call comes. I’m deep into my sixth read of the Citybreakers books, lying on my back on the trampoline behind our house just as I’d planned, and enjoying the feeling of sunshine on my face, the overgrown vines blowing in the breeze. I haven’t opened my laptop in weeks, haven’t touched Tumblr, haven’t looked at my email, haven’t watched a frame of Demon Heart. Most days, I’ve been leaving my phone by my nightstand and not even looking at it except to plug it in when it needs a charge, keeping it on the pile of my things from the trip, my bags still unpacked, my expensive screen-printed poster still rolled up in its tube, never hung.

I am disconnected. I am outdoors. I am not looking at screens. This is what I needed. I’m also not talking to anyone. Not Tess, not my internet mutuals. My entire world right now is in Pine Bluff, in this house, this backyard. I keep hoping this will cure me, but I don’t feel better.

I still ruined Demon Heart. I still ruined our ship. I still ruined everything with Tess.

I still failed.

I keep wondering what would have happened if I had gone to that first convention and never said anything, never asked a question. Just showed up, enjoyed the panel, and went home. Would I still love the show? Would I still have my fandom intact? Would Forest still have a job? Or was Demon Heart a powder keg that was waiting to explode, and I just happened to be the first spark that came along?

Mom and Dad have stopped asking me if there’s anything they can do. We’ve found a way to work around each other, Mom moving me out of the way when she needs the dining-room table for her LARPing projects, Dad asking me if I like this word choice or that one when he wanders out of his office in the back shed, his pencil tucked behind his ear, his glasses up on the top of his head, reading a half-finished poem to me.

“Claire, telephone!” Mom hollers from the kitchen door. I stick my bookmark in my page and clamber off the trampoline to come grab the cordless from her, frowning because no one ever calls our landline for me.

“Hello?” I say.

“Claire.” Rico’s voice is light and smiling.

“Rico?” My heart lifts at the sound of his voice.

“Heyyy, it’s good to talk again! How you been?”

How’ve I been? Alone, mostly.

“Good, good. How are you?”

“Well, it’s pretty weird here,” he says. “No one quite knows what to expect, so we’re just sitting around, twiddling our thumbs, waiting for the decision to come down from on high. I’ve been learning to knit.”

“You’re knitting?” I laugh, because it’s surprising and yet so perfectly Rico. I lean against the edge of the trampoline as I realize how much I missed him.

Weird to think I, a mere fan, missed hanging around Rico Quiroz, fandom icon, but it’s true.

“Hey, Claire, I’d love to keep chatting, but I have to put you on speaker because there’s some people here who want to chat with you.”

And like that my good vibes evaporate. Of course this isn’t just a social call. They want something from me. They always do.

“Yeah, okay,” I say.

“Claire, it really is good hearing your voice,” Rico says, low and genuinely. Then he resumes his normal voice. “Okay, putting you on speaker now. You’re on with the fabulous Caty Goodstein and the very wise Paula Greenhill.”

“Hi!” Caty chimes.

“Hello, Claire,” Ms. Greenhill says.

Hearing their voices brings everything right back. The nervousness that I wasn’t doing a good enough job, the excitement that I might make a difference. The crushing realization that I didn’t. I take a deep breath and tip my head back to let the sunshine hit my face.