Ship It(86)

I know that’s true, but I just don’t think I can do it.

Claire looks at the TV, where our characters are being told to infiltrate a whorehouse popular with army men and weed out the “authentic whores” from “those enemy spy bitches.” Her face changes. I’ve played through this level twice already, but it hadn’t occurred to me how sexist it was until I saw Claire see it. I scramble for the remote control, searching the bed until I find it on the TV stand. I click it off so we don’t have to hear it anymore. I feel sheepish and dumb, and I really don’t like the way she’s looking at me.

I expect her to say something about Red Zone, like Some game. But she doesn’t need to. I already hear it in my head.

Instead, she just gathers her things. “I’ll get going. See you at the panel.” She heads for the door.

“Claire—” I don’t know what to say, but I don’t want her to leave like this.

“If Red Zone is what you want, then I want you to have that,” she says. “I really do want you to be happy, Forest. I hope you get what you’re looking for.”

She slips out the door and leaves me alone.

What I’m looking for.

If anyone knows what I’m looking for, maybe they could give me a call and let me know? Because I have no idea. And every time I try to do something good, I end up screwing it up. I drop onto the bed, bury my face in the soft covers, and groan into them.


GETTING FROM THE hotel to the convention is more overwhelming than anything we’ve done so far. Making it harder are Mom and Dad, trailing behind me, distracted by literally any little thing.

“Who’s that?” Dad asks, pointing at a cosplayer.

I look. “That’s Poe. Remember? You like Poe.”

“Edgar Allan?”

“From Star Wars, Dad.” I’m trying to get them to safely cross this street without being hit by a pedicab or trampled by one of the literally gajillions of other people here.

“Who’s she supposed to be?” Mom asks.

“Oh, I know that one,” Dad says. “That’s Xena the Vampire Slayer!”

“Close enough,” I mutter as I take their hands and run them across the train tracks so they don’t get run over while mixing up their badass female characters.

As we crowd up against other fans and wait for the light to change to cross the final street, Mom leans over and points to the guy next to us as she whispers, “What’s he?” I look at him. It’s a Jack Tension. And he looks game-perfect, down to the dusty fatigues and the replica assault rifle slung over his shoulder. The light changes.

“I don’t know,” I say, and lead my parents across the street.

Inside the convention center, the crowds don’t lighten up. As we ride the escalator to the second floor, I can look down over the mob of fans and marvel at how many of us there are. It is simply awe-inspiring. I think the entirety of our little Boise convention could fit in one ballroom here. Looking out over the vast ocean of nerds, weirdos, and fans, I remember how far I’ve come from that first con in Boise. I wonder how far I’ll go from here.

As we get closer to the ballroom where the Demon Heart panel is, I see that same Jack Tension cosplayer again, and then realize, no it’s a different one. A little farther ahead, I see a guy in a Red Zone T-shirt, also walking the same direction as us. As we round a corner and the Demon Heart line comes into view, I see at least a dozen guys with Red Zone shirts, hats, or commemorative Comic-Con bags. Suddenly, the Demon Heart crowd looks much more like a Red Zone convention than anything else. I feel a knot of worry growing as we take our places in the line.

“Aren’t you thrilled to finally meet them?” Mom says excitedly to Dad. “Forest and Rico, they’re so dreamy, Chuck, you’re not gonna believe it.” Dad humphs like he’s not excited, but I can see he is. There’s so much energy in this line, it’s impossible not to feel it.

“Okay,” I tell them. “Once the line starts moving, just go inside and find a place to sit. And try not to yell anything too embarrassing at me, okay?”

“We would never!” Mom says, clasping her cheek in horror.

“Right. I’ll catch up with you after.”

I turn to go make my way backstage when I see her.

About a hundred people up, wearing an adorable yellow dress, talking animatedly to someone next to her.

Tess.

I feel the knot of worry clench even harder. Has she seen me? Does she know I’m here? How is she here? God, she looks good. Who is she with?

I haven’t talked to her since Seattle—since she texted to tell me she was going to a sleepover instead of watching the finale with me. She texted a few times after that, but when I didn’t answer, she stopped trying. She must have seen that I deleted my Tumblr. I hope she knows it wasn’t her fault. I hope she knows I don’t hate her. But how would she know if I didn’t tell her?

My hands are sweating at the very idea of talking to her. What if she’s mad at me for basically shutting her out for the last two months? What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if—my stomach drops at the thought—what if that girl she’s with is her new girlfriend?

“I’ll be right back,” I say to my parents, and, sweaty palms be damned, I start up the line.

My heart is racing like I’ve just run a 10K. My vision narrows so I can only see her. Everyone else here is irrelevant.