Ship It(84)

“I suppose so,” Dad says. He’s already overwhelmed, I can tell.

“You betcha!” Mom says.

“Yes,” I say. And I am ready.

Ms. Greenhill nods at me warmly and holds out a manila envelope. When I tip it open, my badge slides out. Claire Strupke. VIP. This should all be old hat to me now, the fake-y, temporary glitz of conventions. But holding that VIP badge with my name on it in my hand, it still feels magical.

People travel from all over to come celebrate their favorite thing together in one place with other people who love that thing. Conventions are entirely based on mutual love of stories. I feel that love in the costumes of the people walking past, in the excited chatter of friends talking about what they want to go see first, in the eyes of the little kids gripping their parent’s hand, just hoping for a glimpse of their fave.

No matter what my feelings about Demon Heart are now, I still adore this. I put my badge around my neck and nod at Paula. “Let’s do it!”

“Great,” she says, handing envelopes to Mom and Dad as well. “I’ve put an itinerary in there for you, too. We’ll want to see you at the panel, but you’re free until then. I’ve also put your room keys in there. Chuck and Trudi, you’re together. Claire, you’ve got your own room. Thirteen forty-six. Go ahead and drop off your stuff, and I’ll see you at the panel!”


RED ZONE 4 is just so sick. The graphics look incredible, the story is immersive. I don’t even know how long I’ve been sitting here in my hotel room playing it, but it’s hours at least. This is my third time playing through the game since I bought it, and I know every stage. For the last month, I’ve done nothing but play Red Zone and work out. I’m calling it research.

In June, I auditioned for Jack Tension with the casting agent, who liked me, so I read for Reynolds, who liked me, so I read for the studio, who freaking liked me (holy shit!) but had concerns that I wasn’t known enough. They’re vetting you, my agent says. Live the role, my agent says. Don’t screw up at Comic-Con, my agent says. My whole life could change with one phone call, and unless I make some kind of spectacular mistake here in San Diego, it’s completely out of my hands. So I’ve decided if anyone asks about SmokeHeart, my answer is a simple “no comment,” and until it’s time to go onstage, I’m obsessively playing Red Zone 4 and trying not to think about it.

Now, I’m deep into enemy territory with three clips and a hand grenade left when I hear the door beep and then open. No one else should have a key to this room. I slip off my headphones and say, “Hello?”

“Oh,” I hear a voice say. I can’t see her yet around the wall, but I hear her fumbling with her bags. “I thought this was room thirteen forty-six.”

I know that voice. I pause the game and rise.

“It is,” I say as Claire rounds the corner and sees me, finally. She looks different from the last time I saw her. Her hair has lightened like she’s been spending a lot of time in the sun. She looks rounder, softer, less intense. She also looks surprised to see me as she glances around the room and notices my stuff everywhere.

“Oh…” she says. “Hi. I… thought this was my room.”

“Pretty sure it’s mine.”

“Ms. Greenhill gave me the key.”

“She gave me the key.”

“Ah,” she says knowingly as we both come to terms with the fact that we’ve been set up.

I take a seat on the bed again, but she continues to stand in the doorway. “So, you’re back for another round,” I say, trying for a playful jab, but it might have come out sounding too much like an accusation.

“Yeah, I guess so.” She leans into the wall and picks at her fingernails. “I, ah, I deleted that fic you read off my account,” she says. “I shouldn’t have brought that stuff about your dad into it. Or Jasper Graves. I betrayed your trust, posting that. I’m sorry.”

I nod. “Thank you.” Well, well, well. Claire Strupke is capable of humility after all.

“I thought about deleting all of my fics,” she says.

It makes me sad, thinking about the sum of her creative work just disappearing like that.

“Don’t do that,” I say.

“I’m just not sure I see the point anymore.”

“What’s Tess have to say about it?”

“Oh, ah…” Claire shrugs, meets my eyes fleetingly, then looks away again. “That wasn’t anything.”

“Kind of seemed like something,” I say.

Maybe our convention tour turned out to be a major clusterfuck of epic proportions, but at least it seemed like one good thing had come out of it. Those two deserved to find someone who would make them happy. I’m still kind of rooting for them.

“Yeah, um, you know, I should go find Ms. Greenhill and get the right key,” she says. “I’ll leave you alone with your…” She gestures to the TV as she picks up her bag to go.

“Hey, Claire,” I say, stopping her. I don’t know what to say, but I know we can’t leave it like this. With a few weeks of distance, some of the stuff I said to her in the heat of the moment makes me wince.

“I’m sorry I freaked out on you in Seattle. I lost my temper.” She nods. “And I’m sorry I tweeted about you. I should never have done that.”