How to Repair a Mechanical Heart

Chapter Five


“Fellow Casties: We have arrived.”

We stand on the amazing technicolor carpet of the Fairlee Hotel in Cleveland, in front of a life-size cardboard cutout of Bree LaRue and a pull-down screen with a fanvid flickering on it. Abel’s costume of the day: Cadmus shades, skinny jeans with sky-blue hightops, a red puffy vest over a tight black shirt he stole from Kade.

Bec’s camera is rolling.

As more fans in costumes and logo shirts flood the Q&A room, Abel motormouths about some tragic new Cadsim fic called “The Passion of the Droid.” I’m only half listening. We’re here. And when you’re a weird and awkward and paranoid person at all times, CastieCon is the happiest place on the planet.

It’s like, a baseline level of freakiness is expected here, right? So unless you’re disemboweling goats in the vendor hall, no one gives a damn who you are or what you’re doing. You want to spray your hair blue like Sim’s? You’ll fit right in; ten others beat you to it. You want to dress like Xaarg at a biker bar? Girls will take photos with you, fondling your black studded jacket. You can talk to vendors about bad paint apps on action figures; you can openly geek out when two writers sign your second-season finale script; you can join a panel debating if Castaway Planet is a real place or all in their head. And when you’re waiting for a Q&A and you see a fanvid on the screen‌—‌set to “Hallelujah,” for crap’s sake‌—‌no one will judge you if you get a tiny bit choked up.

“Bran.” I jump. Abel’s poking me. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“We’re taking bets on why Bree LaRue’s late to her own Q&A.”

“She burned her hand on her curling iron,” says Bec.

“She couldn’t find the down button on the elevator,” says Abel.

“She’s pissed she got no screentime in this fanvid,” I grin.

Abel glances up at the pull-down screen and glares at the clip they’re showing. It’s from this season’s cliffhanger. Ed Ransome as Cadmus, bloodied and bitten, buckling beside the giant spider he’s just killed. Sim runs over in slo-mo, drops to his knees to check the fresh bite marks on Cadmus’s neck. The music fades slightly to lift up the line: If I die, Tin Man, you’re the new me. Promise. Abel performs a shudder and screws one eye shut.

“I can’t look,” he groans. “This whole scene like, wounds me.”

“Whatever. Xaarg’ll save him‌—‌”

“DON’T EVEN.”

“‌—‌because he’s his daa-aad.”

Abel facepalms. “I hate that theory.”

“We know.”

“Super-lame. Super-derivative.” He vacuum-breathes like Vader. “Cadmussss‌…‌I am your fatherrrr‌…‌”

“It’s foreshadowed, though.”

“Don’t you dare bring up 2-17.”

“Xaarg’s been watching him his whole life?”

“Clearly a lie! Intimidation tactic.”

“I dunno.” I shrug, basking in the indignant-fanboy back-and-forth. “I’d be happy if my TV boyfriend was a possible demigod.”

“He’s already a demigod. FYI.”

Abel sticks out his tongue and we bust out laughing like a pair of fourth graders. Onscreen, Cadmus is using the spider corpse as a grim translucent footrest, telling Sim knock-knock jokes about Xaarg and his henchmen to prove he’s totally fine and definitely not at all almost-dead. Ed Ransome’s great in this episode, so great I almost get why Abel loves him.

“Brandon?”

“Yeah.”

Abel blinks at the vid. He leans in and whispers, “I don’t really love cinnamon jellybeans. I just eat them to, ah‌…‌feel like him.”

“You do stuff like that?”

“Kinda sorta constantly.” Abel peers down at the smiley face doodled on his left shoe. “Sometimes when I do something brave I feel like I’m cheating because I was being him in my head the whole time. I get so into it that I’ll catch my reflection in a window and for a second I’m surprised I look like me instead of him.” He side-eyes me. “Did I say that out loud? God, I swear I’m not a nutbar!”

I nod with quiet reverence. It’s like when I was five and found out Danny Zurick liked peeling glue off his hands, too. “S’okay.”

“You won’t tell?”

“I’ve got four Sim playlists on my phone.”

“Dork.” He smacks me, laughing. “You know, I had this horrible dream the rumors were true and they killed off Cadmus.”

“Don’t even worry.”

“But just the idea.”

“I’m the same. Like in 3-11, when the Henchmen took Sim apart‌—‌”

“‌—‌and he kept saying Status: All systems destabilized in that creepo Exorcist voice? Oh babe. I know.”

“I needed counseling. Ask Bec.” I turn to her, but some jerk in a Cookie Monster t-shirt is chatting her up. He has these super-sincere liquidy blue eyes and his dark hair is flat and shaggy at the same time, like the plastic hair on those Lego people. I want to step in and save her but then Abel’s hand is squeezing mine and I have to keep my face Sim-still and pretend I’m a regular human who has tons and tons of casual palm-to-palm contact with guys who share my specific fanboy neuroses.

“Bran.” Abel smiles sideways like Cadmus.

Smile back. Don’t be a freak.

“Yeah‌…‌?”

“Dude in the TEAM ANDROID shirt is eyeing you up.” He leans close and cups my ear. “Glance to the left and be subtle!”

“I‌—‌”

Some guy in a dark suit saves me, shoving through the crowd with headset clutched to ear. People start whispering. The weird Hell Bells thing makes a sinister ting in the back of my mind. I try to breathe myself calm. We’re not assassination candidates. No one takes shipping that seriously.

Right?

Father Mike, tossing me marshmallows at the youth group campfire. Okay, poll time, guys: If you died today, do you think you’d go to heaven?

The worried guy’s onstage now, hands locked behind him, introducing Bree LaRue with a film of sweat on his forehead. Everyone’s chattering, grumbling, pulling out cameras. Abel grabs Bec’s cam from her and hits record.

“Okay, people! This is it.” He holds the camera too close. “Cadsim ladies, hold your gloating till the end, mmkay? I know Bree-Bree’s on record as a shipper, but it’s not over till we get her on video, and plus she’s all moony-eyed over that Cash Howard guy from Husband Hunt so she’s not exactly the brightest bulb on the‌—‌”

“People!” Worried Guy makes a time-out gesture. “Here she comes, okay? Let’s be a little quiet for her.”

The pull-down screen rolls up, and someone female comes stalking out from behind the black curtain when the audience cheers and hoots for Bree LaRue, but for a good ten, fifteen seconds my brain thinks there has to be a mixup.

Because the person onstage? That can’t be her.

***


Bree LaRue plays Defense Officer Leandra Nigh, and if you’ve ever seen an episode of Castaway Planet, the thing you remember about her is her hair. It’s shiny and blond in a synthetic, display-only kind of way, like the loose curls presented for worship in shampoo commercials. The person onstage has something entirely different on her head. I’m not sure how to describe it. Did they ever make black shag carpeting back in the seventies? It’s like someone cut a circle out of that and made themselves a skull cap.

Abel pokes me, his mouth an O.

“I think it looks kind of good,” whispers Bec.

Bree LaRue is wearing wrinkly jeans and tall black boots and a St. Tropez t-shirt with an orange stain on it. Her eyes are bloodshot. She steps up to the lip of the stage, yanks the mike off the stand, and starts twisting the cord around her wrist.

“Heyyy, kids,” she mutters.

No one breathes.

“So what’s new?”

Silence.

“I got a haircut. Like, obviously.” She ruffles it with one hand. “Certain people aren’t gonna be happy with me, but I say f*ck it. You know? Wigs exist.”

Worried Guy edges closer to Bree, rubs his thick hands together. “Okay, guys, let’s start with some questions. Who’s got a good one for Miss LaRue?” He turns to her. “Is that okay? If they ask?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

A whisper runs through the audience. Then a red question paddle goes up, slowly, to the left of the stage.

“What’s your favorite color?” some girl says.

Bree LaRue stares at the base of the mike stand. She screws up her mouth and hocks a wad of spit at it.

“Blue,” she says. “That’s as good a color as any, right?”

“Yeah. Definitely‌…‌” The girl’s wearing an electric blue jacket like Leandra Nigh’s. She looks like she wants to disappear. I want to hug her, even though Nigh is like my eighth favorite character on Castaway Planet and the person onstage bears zero resemblance to her. I glance at Bec and we shake our heads.

Question paddles pop up faster.

Fiftyish guy in Xaarg hat: “If they killed you off, how would you want your character to die?”

Bree LaRue swigs from her steel sport bottle. “Spontaneous combustion sounds good.”

Pink-haired girl in black halter top: “How are you different from Nigh?”

“Uh, I guess because she’s always an optimist. Even when it’s incredibly, unbelievably stupid to be.”

“Who does Nigh belong with: Cadmus or Dutch Jones?”

“Whoever doesn’t dick her over.”

“What’s your favorite episode?”

“Eh. What’s the one where Xaarg sends that swamp monster after us and I almost die?”

Someone yells out, “3-16!”

“Yeah, that one. I got to scream a lot.” She throws back her head and releases an unholy screech, loud enough to chill the collective blood of the Social Media conference two ballrooms over.

Everyone freezes. The guy chatting up Bec breathes holy shit.

Abel leans close. “Omigod,” he hisses.

“I know.”

“We were there, Bran. We were there when Bree LaRue melted down in Cleveland. Historic.” He puts his hot hand on my back and my body goes stiff, like metal bolts are tightening all my joints.

Onstage, Worried Guy’s talking to Bree in the low soothing tone that cops use when someone’s about to jump off a ledge. His hand reaches out for her mike. She snatches it back, squints into the crowd: “More questions! Cough ‘em up, come on! How much did you guys shell out for this?”

“Should I ask?” Abel mutters.

“Just wait.”

“Come on, pry me open, people!” Bree LaRue crows. “I know stuff, okay? Tom Shandley has a third nipple! David Darras f*cking hates Lenny Bray! The writers stole the whole plot of the season finale from a fanfic writer and didn’t give her credit!”

Someone behind us whispers career suicide. I just stare. I can’t close my mouth.

Abel grabs the question paddle.

“Not yet!” I tug his sleeve.

“They might shut her down, Bran.”

Worried Guy points. “Guy in the vest. Go!”

Abel touches his chest. “Me?”

“Yes. Come on.”

“He’s cu-ute.” Bree LaRue stumbles sideways, shielding her eyes with one hand. “Aww, look at his hair. And the chin! He’s like Laurence Olivier, and a cockatoo. Like if they had a baby?”

“Hurry it up,” Worried Guy tells Abel.

Abel clears his throat a million times. Bec leans closer with the camera. His hands quiver, just a little. Stage fright? Unexpected.

Sort of cute.

“Hi Miss LaRue I’m Abel and this is Brandon and we’re here representing the Screw Your Sensors fan vlog at screwyoursensors.blognow.com?”

“Super, honey. Ask the question.”

“Okay, so we’re having this debate with some other fans‌—‌”

“Oh. Perfect.”

“‌—‌and we wanted to ask you.” He takes a deep breath. “That scene in the season finale where they’re trapped in the crystal spider cave and Cadmus is like ‘it’s so quiet in here it could swallow up all your secrets’ and Sim is like ‘yes Captain‌…‌quite’ and then Cadmus puts his hand on his arm and they look at each other and it fades out, do you think they did anything in the cave for real or is it all just fanwank?”

I have this sudden sick vision of losing the bet with the Cadsim girls; Abel’s lips coming at me with a camera pointed at us. I cross my fingers tight.

Bree LaRue cocks her head. “Cadmus and Sim.”

“Yes.”

“Were they‌…‌” She claps her hand to her heart and bats her eyes. “‌…‌together.”

A female voice in the crowd goes, “So cute it hurts!”

“I said that once, didn’t I?” Bree LaRue shoots the girl a rueful smile.

“Yeah.”

I scan the crowd. The girl’s wearing a fake sunflower in her hair and a homemade Cadsim shirt, a manip of them holding hands above the words YES, CAPTAIN‌…‌QUITE. Bree LaRue rolls her eyes and makes a jacking-off motion. Abel jabs my ribs.

“You think it would work? Like for real?” Bree scratches the back of her head like she’s trying to make it bleed. “’Cause here’s what I’m thinking would happen, like, it looks good on paper ‘cause they’re both beautiful and everyone loves to see pretty with pretty, but then Sim wouldn’t know what to do like, mechanically or anything, and Cadmus would get bored in five seconds because that’s who he is and guys like that never ever change and one day Sim would be at some stupid convention at some stupid hotel and Cadmus would call him up at six a.m. and say hey, you know that girl I said was just a friend? Yeah, well, we’re in Barbados right now drinking rum-frickin’-swizzles in a hammock, and when we get back can I come by and pick up my things? Sorry baby. You knew this would happen.”

I see this is all about Cash Howard dumping Bree LaRue and I should be sad for her, but I picture him shirtless in a hammock and oh God. Once I was watching his Husband Hunt season with Mom, tuning out his dumb words and staring at his abs. They were almost obscenely gorgeous in a soft and classical kind of way, like he’d just touched fingers with God and waltzed off the Sistine ceiling. Mom was knitting pink and blue blankets for the Genesis Pregnancy Center. Her needles stopped clacking and I caught her watching me watch him, and then her ears turned pink and she said Sweetie, why don’t we watch Cooking with Carlene instead?

“I’m really sorry,” Abel says.

“Aren’t you sweet,” Bree says.

“It sucks. Happened to me once, too.”

She leaps off the stage when he says that. Like literally leaps, the way a jungle cat would, and lands hard on her feet right in front of us. The crowd hushes. She steps closer and brushes her hand across Abel’s cheek. Cameras flash and I start to absorb it: Bree LaRue is twelve inches away from me. She’s a real person, with farm-girl freckles peeping through her face powder and a Band-Aid on one finger.

“Why can’t I just be with a guy like you?” she whispers.

“I’m gay,” says Abel.

“Exactly.”

She smiles sadly. More camera flashes. Then Worried Guy steps down, helps her back onstage. She wobbles when she stands. The spindly heel of her left boot has snapped right off. We glance around and Abel spots the heel on the floor, a few feet in front of us. I grab it and hold it up, but she just gives a shrug and a vague wave: What’s the point? Hopelessly broken.

“Miss LaRue?” Abel calls.

“Yeah.”

“That was a no‌…‌right? To the Cadsim question?”

“Step back,” Worried Guy says. “She has to go to her room.”

“Yes it was a no, honey. God. Sim is completely asexual.” She’s being escorted out now, limping with dignity like crazy Blanche DuBois in that Streetcar play our school did last spring.

Over her shoulder, she adds: “And he’s frickin’ lucky!”