“And the pictures from the shoot? Was that you too? Or did Brian leak those on his own?”
“Don’t be naive. All leaks are fake,” Mark scoffs. I can practically see him drawing the air quotes as he says the word leaks. “Brian was hard up for cash, so I found him a PA gig on set. Told him to keep his head down and maybe snap a few things. Spy on your phone, if he could get it.”
“You lied to me. You let me get slandered. Again. For what? A few minutes of fame?”
“To keep you relevant,” my father says.
“Congrats,” I reply bitterly, “it worked.”
There’s a long pause. “I know you probably hate me,” Mark says. “You have every right to. But I’m not the bad guy here, I swear. I never wanted to be. The leaks, the attention, you and Jess—we’re better because of it, yeah? It worked out perfectly. We survived.”
“I guess,” I say. He’s right: I did survive. The film’s in the can. I’m going to be a star. But Elle, losing Elle. That’s the aftermath.
“Now,” Mark continues, “I’m going to book you another flight. You’ve got a photo shoot in the morning, then a sit-down with a few press junkets and—”
“No.”
“No?”
I take a deep breath, screwing my courage to the sticking place. “Rebook the shoot. Tell them something came up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve got contracts to uphold for this movie. There’s money on the line—”
“Dad, I don’t want to be Carmindor for the money.”
“Darien, this is a job.”
I clench my jaw. “It’s not about the money. Or the contracts. Or the photo shoots. Or the headlines. Or the notoriety. Or my insured abs—why the hell insure my abs, anyway? It’s like Taylor Swift insuring her legs. It’s ridiculous.”
“Every precaution,” he says. “It’s just—”
But I cut him off. “Headlines or no headlines, I took the gig because of Carmindor. Because of Starfield. Because we used to sit down and watch the reruns together. Remember?”
“That was a long time ago, Darien.”
Maybe. But sometimes it still feels like yesterday, when he was still my dad. “To me it’s about the characters. It’s about the story. The fans. It’s about—” The words catch in my throat as I remember the conversations Elle and I had, about the Black Nebula, about the world, about the what-ifs.
“—it’s about the impossible universe,” I finish.
“What are you talking about?”
For once I manage to swallow my anger. “I want to be part of my own story again, and I—”
I realize that I can’t stay in this limbo anymore. Between not having a father and having one. Unlike Elle, who would do anything to get her father back, I still have one.
“I want a new manager,” I say at last. “I want my dad back.”
“Are you…firing me?”
“Yeah. I am. I love you, Dad, but I am.”
His voice turns hard. “Darien, listen to yourself. Your career. You can’t just—”
“I am,” I reply, and then I hang up.
Gail begins to collect her things from around the room. From the look on her face, she thinks she’s fired too. “I’ll be out of here soon. Mark said I’m supposed to—”
“Forget Mark,” I tell her. “You are officially promoted, effective immediately.” Her eyebrows shoot up. I toss her my phone, and she fumbles to catch it.
Gail’s jaw goes slack. “You mean…”
“I mean I’m probably going to need you to go to L.A. and make some apologies at that photo shoot tomorrow,” I say. “You can still catch a flight if you—”
“But I’m horrible at apologies!” She could not turn any paler. In fact, I think she’s actually turning green. “What happened to Mark? Why can’t—”
I grab her by the shoulders and turn her to face me. We lock eyes. “Gee, you’re my number one. Always have been. You’re the only person I trust. Now, if you don’t want to, I understand, but I want to ask you anyway. We’re a team, and always will be. Will you be my manager?”
“I…” Her mouth works silently, and then she closes her eyes and breathes deep. Some of the color returns to her cheeks. Finally, she opens her eyes and nods curtly. “You bet, Dare.”
I grin, squeezing her shoulders. “You’re the best.”
“Miss the Best to you,” she replies, returning my grin—but just as suddenly she drops it. “Oh, the flight—I have to catch that flight!” Spinning out of my grip, she grabs her purse from the floor and darts for the door. She pauses and turns back to me. “I promise I won’t let you down.”
And then she’s gone, the door slamming behind her.
Lonny finishes his drink and stands. “So what’s our plan?”
“You don’t have to go,” I tell him, shrugging out of Carmindor’s jacket. “I’m sort of going AWOL, so it’s not in your contract.”
“Then as far as I’m concerned, I’m off the clock,” he says, straightening his suit. “I can do whatever I want with my time, and I want to help you out. So what’s the plan?”
“First,” I say, “to the vending machines. With all this good luck, they gotta have an Orange Crush.”
And holy gods of soda, Batman, by the glowing light of the great vending machines on the third floor, I spot a beautiful Orange Crush button, and when I push it an orange bottle rolls out. I crack the seal and drink to the sweet, sweet taste of victory.
“That’s your plan?” Lonny says. “To drink a soda?”
I cap the bottle and shake my head, a half-crazy idea now fully formed in my head.
“I’m going to do what Carmindor should’ve done in the last episode of Starfield,” I tell him. “I’m going after the girl.”
THERE HAVE BEEN ONLY THREE INSTANCES in my life that I thought I’d never get through. The first was when Mom died. I was too young to remember much, except the memory of Dad hugging me on a cold September morning and the smell of sterilized hospital rooms.
The second was that moment before Catherine came outside, while I sat on the porch waiting for Dad to come home. The air was humid and sticky, and I couldn’t wait to show him the story I’d written about Carmindor and the Nox King. It was the best one yet. I was so happy.
And then my stepmother came outside, with the phone pressed to her shoulder, and said, “Come inside, Danielle. Robin isn’t coming home.”
I can’t remember where I put that story. I stopped writing after that. I guess the blog came out of that hole—a little good in the impossible. And those two moments, I made it past eventually. But the third…
I’m not sure I’m going to make it through this one.
Because I lost my mother’s shoe, I’m late for curfew, and as Sage turns onto my street I see my house, my parents’ house, with the ugly FOR SALE BY OWNER sign that Catherine put up. All the lights are on and Catherine’s Miata is in the driveway. On the porch, my stepmother stands with her arms crossed, hands cupping elbows, her face a stony unreadable expression. And on the Pumpkin’s dashboard, the clock reads 2:05 a.m.