“Well, if that happens, the ‘eff your clubs’ club is here.”
“Make sure you hold my spot,” you tell her before heading up on stage to say, “You know, I’d much rather be Brutus this year.”
“Is that right?” Hastings asks.
“Absolutely.” You poke him dead center of the chest with your pointer finger, hard enough that he takes a step back. “It would be my pleasure to be the one who takes you down.”
The others divide up the rest of the parts. They took so long making decisions that there’s no time to get the scripts today. You have the entire thing memorized, though. So does Hastings. The two of you spit lines back and forth for a bit, things growing heated.
The girl remains seated in the back of the auditorium, no longer reading her comic book. She watches your every move, absorbing every syllable. You have an audience today, as you act your heart out, and she’s captivated.
When the day ends, people leave, but you’re in no hurry. You stroll down the aisle to where the girl still sits. She watches you approach and says, “If what I just witnessed is any indication, you might've been the best dead kid Law & Order has ever seen.”
You sit down with her, laughing. There’s no space between the two of you now. “It was a ‘parents are monsters behind closed doors’ storyline. I had a handful of lines. I was five.”
“Wow,” she says. “When I was five, I couldn’t even remember how to spell my own name, and you were already memorizing dialogue.”
“Ah, well, I have a good memory,” you say. “Besides, it’s easier when things are relatable.”
You don’t elaborate.
She doesn’t ask you what you mean by that.
She’s fidgeting with her comic book, thumbing through pages. Silence surrounds you but it isn’t awkward. She’s nervous, though—nervous sitting so close to you.
“So, you like comic books?” You pluck the one from her hand. “Breezeo.”
Breezeo: Ghosted
Issue #4 of 5
“Have you read it?” she asks.
“Never heard of it,” you say, flipping through the thing. “Looks shitty.”
She snatches the comic right back. “How dare you! Blasphemous.”
“Okay, fine, I retract that.” Laughing, you grab the comic book again. She reluctantly releases it. “So, what, he’s some kind of superhero?”
“Something like that,” she says. “He was a normal guy, but he caught an experimental virus that’s making him disappear.”
“Like a ghost,” you say, glancing at the pictures.
“Yeah, so he’s just doing what he can to save the girl he loves while he has the chance.”
“Huh, let me guess—they find a cure and live happily ever after?”
“It’s not over yet. There’s still one more issue left.”
“But you have the others?”
“Yes.”
“Bring them to me,” you say. “Let me read them.”
She gives you a horrified look. “Why in the world would I do that?”
“Because we’re in ‘fuck your clubs’ club together.”
“You didn’t join.”
“I still might.”
She rolls her eyes as she gets up to leave. You walk her to the front of the school. Nearly everyone is gone, just a handful of students remaining. A maroon-colored Honda is parked along the right-hand side of the circular driveway, a man approaching the building.
She tenses, feet stalling, when she notices him. “Dad! You’re early.”
“Figured you’d appreciate not having to hang out here on a Friday,” the man says, smiling until his gaze shifts to you, standing awfully close to his daughter. His eyes narrow as he holds his hand out to introduce himself. “Michael Garfield.”
“Jonathan,” you say, shaking his hand, leaving it at that, but it’s a pointless omission.
“Cunningham,” her dad says. “I know who you are. I work for your father. Wasn’t aware you knew my daughter, though. She hasn’t mentioned it.”
Disapproval is evident in every syllable of those words. You have a reputation with the people who work for your father, and it’s not a good one.
“You knew he went here, Dad,” she grumbles, face reddening with embarrassment that he’s making this a thing. “It’s a small school.”
You don’t say anything as she drags her father away. She’s about to climb into the passenger seat of his car when you step forward, calling out to her. “Hey, Garfield…”
She stalls, turning to you.
Her father glares from behind the wheel.
“You forgot this,” you say, holding up her comic book.
She grabs it, but you don’t let go right away, hesitating as she says, “Please, don't call me that. Call me anything but that.”
You release your hold, and she gives you a smile before climbing into the car and leaving, taking her comic book.
You don’t know this, but that girl? She gathers up her Breezeo comics as soon as she gets home. All fourteen issues in all three storylines—Transparent, Shadow Dancer, and Ghosted. She spends the weekend re-reading them, just so they’re still fresh in her mind, so when she brings them to school for you to borrow, she remembers every single line.
Chapter 5
KENNEDY
“In entertainment news, Breezeo star Johnny Cunning was involved in an accident last night in Manhattan…”
I’m halfway to the kitchen when those words strike me, my footsteps stopping. I turn around, looking at the television across the living room, thinking I must’ve heard them wrong, but no… there he is, stock footage playing from some red carpet, his smiling face on the screen, bloodshot eyes staring right through me.
“The twenty-eight-year-old actor was struck by a car near the set of his latest film. Eyewitnesses say Cunning stepped into traffic during an altercation with the paparazzi.”
I approach the TV as the image on the screen changes, a video of the aftermath playing. The first thing I see is blood streaming down his face. He’s alert, though. He’s alive. The relief that floods my body nearly buckles my knees.
“A spokesman for the actor says he’s currently stable and in good spirits. Filming for the movie has been temporarily suspended as Cunning heals from his injuries.”
“Mommy?”
The second that I hear Maddie’s voice, I press the button to turn off the TV, hoping she hadn’t seen it. I turn to her, my hopes dashed right away. Oh crap. She looks shocked. “Yes, sweetheart?”
“Is Breezeo okay?”
“Sure,” I say, giving her a smile. “He had a little accident, but he’ll be okay.”
“You mean like he’s sick?”
“Something like that,” I say.
Her expression shifts as she thinks about that, her face lighting up. “I can make him a card!”
“Uh, yeah, you can,” I say, not letting my smile falter. “I’m sure we can find an address to send it to.”
His agency accepts fan mail for him. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t personally open it, so there’s no harm sending something, if it’ll make her feel better.