It has over a thousand retweets. Hundreds of comments. Great.
I copy the link to the post and begin to text it to Gail, ready to point out that this is why I shouldn’t go to a con. The fans will eat me alive. But then I pause. Mark’s with Gail, and if he hears that there’s bad press—even if it’s just a blogger—he’ll probably put me under 24–7 surveillance. And force me to go to the con. And if that con is full of people like Mr. True Fan here and whoever writes this Rebelgunner blog, well, then, I’m screwed. It’ll be humiliating. Worse than any dunk tank. But if Gail can’t get me out of it, and Mark won’t…
What would Carmindor do?
I thump my phone against the table, annoyed. He wouldn’t blame others for his problems, that’s for sure. He’d take things into his own hands. Maybe I can call ExcelsiCon instead. Pose as my own assistant. I’m an actor, aren’t I? I can speak with the con director and get this whole ordeal sorted out. Googling ExcelsiCon, I start scrolling through their website again. I try the number for the corporate event management company, but I get lost in a phone tree. I need a human being. After even more scrolling, I find the con’s About Us page, which doesn’t have phone numbers but does have the name of the guy who founded it. One quick white pages search later and I’ve got his info.
Score.
I clear my throat, punch in the number, and listen to it ring. Maybe the fans don’t think I’m anything more than “a brainless soap actor with more hair gel than talent,” as that blog post so eloquently put it, but I am an actor—so I’d better get to acting.
SAGE PARKED US IN THE VERY CORNER of the public parking lot, the one surefire way around Isle of Palm’s “no food truck” ordinance. Despite the crowd at the beach, it’s a pretty slow day. June in Charleston is sticky and heavy, like the syrup at Waffle House. Not even the beach breeze dents the humidity, so no one wants to move. Tourists just lie on the sand like slabs of meat, grilling in the sun.
I chew on the end of my pen, staring down at my journal. Beside me, Sage is doodling something in her notebook, her pencil making soft tch-tch-tches across the page.
I peek over. It’s an illustration of a girl—no, she’s faceless; it’s an illustration of a dress.
“Wow, that’s a nice drawing,” I say. Sage looks up, her dark-stenciled eyebrows drawn tight. “Not that I’m surprised,” I quickly add, feeling my ears burn red. “What I mean is that I didn’t know you could draw that well—no, I mean, just, I can’t draw, so…”
Another brilliant conversation between coworkers. I swear, I try to be friendly to everyone—except the twins and their country club friends—but I suck at being social. I think one thing and my mouth says something completely different, like I’m possessed. By a whole lot of stupid.
After a long moment, Sage goes back to her sketchbook, etching a long line down the curve of the dress.
“Who do you think did the pumpkin on the side of the truck?” she asks without looking up. I begin to answer when she cuts me off. “Spoiler: it was me.” Then she nudges her head toward a customer coming up to the truck. “Your turn.”
I sigh, closing my journal, and turn to the order window. The guy’s young and tall, his shaggy hair in such bad need of a trim that it’s begun to curl around his ears.
He recognizes me at the same time. “Oh. Hey. Elle.”
I purse my lips. “James.”
The back of my neck prickles with sweat, and a little panic. James Collins is one of the twins’ country club cronies. Relatedly, he’s the reason I’m sworn off trusting boys—ever. Maybe it was my fault for assuming that someone like James would ever be interested in me, but I’m not the one who filmed our ill-fated country club rendezvous and sent the YouTube link to the entire school. No, that would be my charming twin step-vloggers. You know, because they weren’t already making my life miserable enough. And James was all just part of their plan.
He’s in dark blue swim trunks and a T-shirt that reads I’D RATHER BE ON PROSPERO with the silhouette of the starship Prospero whirling around the last word, warping into light speed.
I clear my throat, pointing to his shirt. “I hear the observation deck is nice this time of year.”
“Huh?” He glances from me to Sage, but she isn’t even paying attention. Then he looks down to his shirt. “Oh, this? It’s my brother’s old shirt. He’s into that dumb nerd stuff.”
“Dumb,” I echo, and for a moment I want to shove a cold and soulless vegan fritter down his throat. Dumb. He’s totally lying. He didn’t call it dumb last summer. “What’s so dumb about—”
Sage kicks me beneath the counter.
I shoot her a glare. She returns it under glittery fake eyelashes. I turn back to him.
“What would you like?” I say between a tight-lipped smile.
“He wants the chimichangas,” Sage says, putting down her sketchbook. “Don’t you?”
“Uh…” James looks like what he wants, even more than vegan food, is just to get away from the crazy Starfield girl and her colorful, piercing-covered companion. “Sure.”
He pays—with his own credit card, of course—takes some chimichangas from Sage, and leaves at warp speed. I sit down on a cooler and open my notebook again, still angry at James, and use that vehemence to draft another scalding blog post about other uses for Darien Freeman’s deceptively perfect body.
Number one: A washboard.
Number two: A skin suit for criminals.
Number three: The mold for real-life Ken dolls.
Number four: Not being Carmindor.
Across the truck, Sage’s pencil makes quick tic-tic-tics across the paper. A leaf of green hair falls into her face and she scoops it back absently.
“That guy seemed like a douche-bro.”
It’s one of the longest sentences she’s ever said to me. I don’t even know how to answer.
“You two have some history?”
When I don’t answer, she shrugs and juts her chin in the direction James left.
“Don’t you go to high school with me? I’m sure you saw the video.”
She just frowns, and from the way she scrunches her pink mouth against the orange ring pierced into her lower lip, I can’t tell if she did see it or not. But if she wants to press the issue, she doesn’t—and I’m glad. Last summer’s better left tossed into the Black Nebula. It’s better off gone.