“Um, why?”
I slowly blink. Right. I’m not talking to a fan but a soon-to-be fan. I need to lay out the rules of Starfield. “The TV series was made for syndication. It didn’t follow a linear storyline, so things just happened whenever the writers decided to include them. We’re watching them in order of the history of Starfield.”
She laughs. “Right! I’ll pretend I understand that.” She goes to the little workstation in the corner—where, I note with happiness, there is a sewing machine—and gets out a bin of tools. I flick through the various streaming networks until I find one with Starfield, select the episode, and then crawl back to sit on my squishy green throne to wait for the opening credits. I can’t help but look over at Sage as she handles Dad’s jacket.
She touches it so gently, like each thread is made of pure silk, tracing her fingers across the seams as though she knows the coat as well as I do. The starched tails are no longer stiff and the collar’s kind of fraying, but she smooths it out anyway to take stock of the cut.
“Okay.” She waves me to standing. “Up.”
I hit PAUSE and get out of the beanbag. Sage nods and whips around me, lifting one arm and then another, measuring everything from my waist to my neck. When she’s done, she turns one of the jacket arms inside out, marking with chalk and pinning things into little tents. When she’s done with that, she lays the jacket flat on the ground and fishes into her tool bin for scissors. Then she lines up the scissors with the chalk, her face composed and relaxed—probably how a serial killer looks, devoid of all humanity as they begin to ruin something beautiful—
“Stop!” I yelp. “What are you doing?”
She gives me a side-eye. “Alterations, Elle.”
“But you’re cutting it!”
“For alterations.”
“But…”
She sighs. “Look, do you want this to fit or don’t you? I told you. You can’t just hem it up, you have to get into the seams and stuff. Either stop me and try to win with nostalgia, or let me do this and help you clinch your victory.”
I hesitate, glancing between her and the jacket. Maybe she’s right. Pursing my lips, I nod and let her cut the fine seams that Mom sewed years ago. I watch as, thread by thread, Sage unravels the history of my parents and the opening credits of Starfield begin.
In the middle of the third episode, a raspy voice calls from the top of the basement, “Sage! You down there?”
“Yeah, Mom!” she replies as footsteps come down the stairs. I don’t say anything, seeing as I’m trapped inside the coat with a forest of pins preventing my moving even an inch.
A graying-haired woman reaches the bottom step. She looks as surprised as I am to see her, but then her smile turns warm. “Ah—well! Elle, right?”
“Hi, Miss Graven.”
“Please, call me Wynona.” She extends her hand to shake. “Sage’s mom.”
“I think she figured that out,” Sage states, crossing her arms over her chest. “Seeing as you hired her?”
“She could’ve thought I was your sister.” Sage’s mom leans toward me with a mock-whisper. “I still get carded at bars, you know.”
Sage rolls her eyes.
“Don’t let her give you any mouth,” Sage’s mom goes on. “She’s really a sentimental brat under all that hair and makeup.”
“Mom,” Sage whines. “Stop it. We’re kinda busy right now.”
“All right, all right. Well, Elle, you staying for dinner?” she says with a lopsided smile. “It’s wheat-meat night!”
I glance at the clock—and then curse. How’d it get to be eight-thirty already? Jerking to my feet, I quickly begin to gather up the costume. “I have to get home—I’m sorry. It’s almost my curfew.”
Sage waves her hand. “Leave the costume here. And be careful, there’s still pins in the shoulder!” she adds when I pick up the jacket and yelp. I drop it, sticking my poked finger in my mouth. She looks at me patiently. “Told you.”
I hesitate, glancing down at the jacket.
“It’ll be fine here, daisy,” Sage’s mom says with a laugh. “It’s in the best hands.”
I nod, gathering my empty duffel bag. “All right.”
We climb the stairs out of the basement. A sweet aroma wafts from the kitchen, making my stomach grumble. Nothing at the Wittimer household ever smells half as good as wheat-meat night does. Probably because I season our dinners with tears for the carbs we’ll never eat.
Sage sees me to the door as her mom calls out from the kitchen, “Was a pleasure, Elle! Come back anytime!”
“You’ll see her tomorrow!” Sage yells back. She sees me out the door. “Sorry. My mom can get up in everyone’s business sometimes.”
“I like her,” I reply. “She’s cool.”
“Yeah, try living with her. You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”
I shake my head, thinking of Catherine and Giorgio and their hatred of the Pumpkin’s faulty muffler. “Nah, it’s nice out tonight. I’d like to walk. But, um, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” She gives me a salute, and I head down the porch stairs and toward the end of the block. After a few steps, I realize I’m grinning. For the first time, I’m looking forward to tomorrow—and I can’t remember looking forward to anything since the twenty-fifth anniversary of Starfield two years ago. And even then I looked forward to watching the recording while Catherine and the twins were on a ski retreat two weeks after it aired.
This feels different. Like something I can control. Happiness I can control. Happiness that is solely mine. I didn’t realize there was such a thing anymore. I didn’t think it existed in this universe. I thought that when Dad died, it moved to the other universe, the one where he’s still alive.
“Hey!” It’s Sage, yelling all the way from her porch. “Elle! When’s your contest again?”
“Two weeks from Friday. Is that…” I clear my throat. “Enough time?”
“Fifteen days?”
There’s a long pause. But then she gives me a thumbs-up.
“Are you kidding? Nothing’s impossible with me.”
WE FILM FOR TEN HOURS STRAIGHT, not to mention the two hours in the makeup chair and the time spent waiting on Calvin to get his freaking lines right (maybe they’re a little harder between Euci’s shark teeth, but no one forced him to sign on as Euci, so I don’t feel the least bit bad).
When the director finally calls it a wrap for the day, Calvin shrugs out of his coat so fast that his assistant doesn’t have time to catch it before it hits the dusty ground. He jumps off the soundstage, pulling his pointy teeth out of his mouth. He couldn’t at least wait to disrobe before reaching the costume trailer? Jeez.
Gail rushes up instantly, digging into her jacket pocket. “It’s been going off like crazy,” she says. “Who’s wanting to contact you so badly?”
“Dunno.” I take the phone and slide open the lock screen, a cascade of blue messages filling the screen.
Elle 6:42 PM