Geekerella, Page 3

  “Fine, we’ll get a little tougher!” the big-chin cohost shouts. He reads the next question. “Who is Carmindor’s best friend?”

  “Euci! A little harder than that!” Darien eggs them on.

  “How about what Euci does on the ship? Or in which episode does he betray Carmindor to the Nox to save his colony? Or which episode does that colony blow up anyway?” I mutter. “How about that question, pretty boy?”

  The crowd chants louder. “Dunk tank, dunk tank, dunk tank!”

  “What’s the name of the ship?”

  “Prospero!”

  “What is the Federation salute called?”

  “The promise-sworn!”

  The female cohost grins and whips out the final card, clearly about to go in for the kill. I edge to the front of my seat.

  “What does Carmindor call his love interest in the final episode of the series?” she asks.

  Darien hesitates on that one. He looks around, out at the crowd.

  “No cheating!” the cohost cries. “Are you stumped? Ten, nine…”

  Up on the plank, Darien chews on his cheek, rocking back and forth. I snort. Of course he doesn’t know this one. He’s never watched an episode of Starfield in his life.

  “Five! Four! Three!” The crowd begins to count along. The cohost spreads her feet apart and aims with one hand—very dramatically, which is not at all a good way to aim a water gun—as Darien scrubs the back of his neck, looking puzzled.

  “Two…ONE!” The crowd cheers.

  The female cohost fires her shot and it hits the bull’s-eye directly. A siren wails and a flashing light spins above Darien Freeman’s perfectly groomed head, and the plank slips out from beneath him. He goes tumbling into the water, and the crowd goes wild. They’re loving it.

  Strangely, though, I’m not.

  “It’s ah’blena,” I mutter, even though he’s underwater. Even though I’m seeing him through a TV. Even though he definitely can’t hear me and I’m just talking to a plasma flat screen. Still. If he’s going to be Carmindor, it’s something he should know. Dunk tank or no dunk tank. “Ah’blena is what he calls her.”

  Onscreen, Darien emerges from the tank soaking wet and flips his wet hair out to the crowd, and they scream, reaching up their hands. He grins at them.

  I scowl. At this point, the only way the movie can salvage itself is by announcing the perfect villain. Obviously, it should be the Nox King, because how cool would that be? The Nox are the natural enemies of the Federation, but unfortunately the early-’90s SFX in the original series didn’t do so hot with their giant ears. A reboot could make them look way better. Plus—let’s be honest—think of the slash fiction potential. I glance at my phone, just to check the time, but I’ve still got a good twenty minutes before I’m on Pumpkin duty.

  Onscreen, Darien takes a towel handed to him by a PA and begins to dry off. But then someone yells at him to take his shirt off. He pauses, turning back to the crowd.

  “Really?” he asks them.

  They scream in reply.

  The screams get louder as he reaches for the bottom of his soaked shirt. I can already see the definition of his chest through the fabric. Everyone can. I groan. Why can’t life have a fast-forward button?

  Unlike the twins, I’m not a Darien Freeman fangirl. And I’m definitely not a fan of that teenage wet dream of a show Seaside Cove.

  But then Darien Freeman peels off his shirt, and my mouth falls open. His abs and chest beam across Catherine’s plasma TV, piercing through my sleepy brain like a ray of hope in this godless universe.

  “He…he’s certainly buffed up for the Federation Prince,” I mutter. “I’ll give him that.”

  I stare longer than I want to. Longer that I’ll ever—ever—admit. Darien, clearly loving every minute, spreads his arms and then, after a moment, flourishes a bow toward the audience.

  The woman cohost begins fanning herself with her water gun. “Well. That makes up for you losing! Can I touch them?”

  Outside, a rumble rips through the air so loud that it quakes the pictures on the mantel and I jump. Crap. I’d know that sound anywhere.

  The Magic Pumpkin is coming.

  Quickly, I turn back to the TV, clasping the remote like a prayer. “C’mon, just announce who the villain is!” I beg. “Please let it be the Nox King! Please! Please!”

  “So, as the hero of the galactic Federation”—big-chin guy gives his cohost a pitying little lady look as Darien pulls his T-shirt back on—“you need a nemesis…”

  “Think of the monologues! Think of the OT3s!” I cry out to no one. “Just give me something, universe!”

  Big Chin goes on as though I’m not making a very compelling case. “Now I hear the villain has been very hush-hush and there have been some…rumors…going around. About a certain…lady.”

  My mouth falls open wordlessly. If it’s a lady, it’s not the Nox King. But then it’ll have to be…

  I lean in closer to hear over the rumble of the Pumpkin, holding the candle on the coffee table to keep it from rattling in its jar. Darien Freeman says something snarky, fiddles with his blazer cuffs, and wait for it…wait for it…

  I squint to read his lips. They’re nice lips, at least. And I recognize the syllables that push around them. The way his mouth forms the villain’s name, the way his tongue curves around the sound.

  The Pumpkin honks from the driveway, and next door, Franco begins yapping. The horn blares again, but Sage is going to have to wait—she’s way early, anyway. I just sit back, stunned. I can’t believe it. They picked the one villain—the one character—I never want to think about again. In the original Starfield, Prince Carmindor shouts her name to the skies with fist-shaking agony, in an image you may recognize from the internet meme “Angry Shouting Soul-Crushing Angst.”

  Then again, she’s the only villain who makes sense for a movie reboot. The only one who could rip your weak human heart out of your chest and use your spine like floss against the teeth of agony and bitterness. Prince Carmindor’s one and only love interest.

  Princess Amara.

  Big Chin looks at the screen. “And if you want to be one of the lucky few to meet the Federation Prince himself, Midlight Entertainment is teaming up with ExcelsiCon this year to host a fan competition! Dress up as your favorite Starfield character and you could win once-in-a-life-time tickets to ExcelsiCon’s masquerade ball, where the winners will be treated to an exclusive meet-and-greet with our man Darien Freeman, plus tickets to the premiere of Starfield in L.A.!”

  I shake my head. The only part of that prize I’d want are the tickets to L.A. And maybe the chance to tell Darien Freeman what I think of his stupid, vapid Carmindor to his stupid, vapid face.

  Darien Freeman gives the host a weird look. “I…what?”

  The host just stares at him, open mouthed. There’s an awkward pause. Then Darien Freeman looks at the TV again. At me. An emotion crosses his face I can’t quite recognize—something he’s trying to hide—and millions of Americans are watching.

  “You know, Darien. ExcelsiCon!”

  Darien nods distractedly. “Right, right. Sorry. Of course.”

  The female cohost puts a hand on his knee. “Darien, it was so nice to have you on the show and we can’t wait for Starfield, coming to theaters next spring!”

  Suddenly, there’s a noise off-camera. Shouting. Someone climbs onto the stage and takes a running start for the actor. A girl in a homemade I’LL SEA YOU AT THE COVE T-shirt and bikini bottoms.

  Her mouth connects to his with such force that it sends them both tumbling over the sofa. Security swoops in. The camera cuts to a Huggies commercial.

  I sink even deeper into Catherine’s squishy chair. This is Starfield now? All of these SeaCos and Darienites flocking to my Starfield? Where they treasure abs and golden sunsets more than lifelong promise-sworns and celebrating your own weirdness?

  Fine. If the universe thinks they can dish it, then I can dish it right back. I shove
myself to my feet and thunder up the stairs, hurtling into my room. I wrench open my laptop just as Sage lays on the Magic Pumpkin’s horn in my driveway.

  I ignore it and pull up my blog. Honestly, Chloe and Cal weren’t wrong—when it comes to the internet, you do need to get your reaction up as soon as possible. And if I do anything in this life, it’s this: writing about the catastrophe that will become Starfield. Documenting it. After forty years this is how Hollywood repays us Stargunners? By giving us Darien Freeman?

  FAN-TASTIC OR FAN-SERVICE? I bang out into the “title” field. Perfect.

  My fingers shake as they fly across the keyboard. Words just pour out of me. I don’t know where they’re coming from. Maybe years of pent-up rage of not being appreciated. Of having to watch reruns on a secondhand TV for years just to see the HD face of some idiot heartthrob wreck my father’s favorite character.

  My favorite character.

  The horn blares again, and I know the neighbors are wondering what a food truck is doing in the driveway.

  “I’m coming!” I shout. With a click, I post the article, sending it out into the netherverse.

  Thirty seconds later, I’ve pulled my work shirt over my head, slung my satchel over my shoulder, and hopped in shotgun to the ostentatiously orange monstrosity that is my place of employment.

  “You’re late,” she says in a voice that matches her chlorine-green hair. Dull. Pretty weird. Not interested in talking to me. It was probably once a deep green, because she’s the type of person who would dye her hair the color of her name—Sage. “I’ve been waiting here for ever.”

  “Sorry,” I say quickly. A creepy laughing pumpkin hangs from the rearview mirror that my coworker adjusts as she backs out. “I had to…do something.” In a million years, or a million universes, I would never admit to Sage that I’m a Stargunner. I’m sure she’d just laugh. “Wait, isn’t the RiverDogs stadium the other way?” I add as she turns down one of Charleston’s notorious one-way streets.

  “Change of plans.”

  “I…” My voice trails off as I glance at a passing street sign. “I think this is one way the other way.”

  Sage says nothing, just grips the wheel tighter, a grin curving her hot-pink lips. On her otherwise expressionless face, it looks…out of place. Like a stuffed animal in the middle of a blood puddle. Demonic almost.

  “Tally-ho!” Sage shouts—so loud that I jump—and yanks around on the gearshift.

  I scramble for my seatbelt. I have my license, but since her mom is the owner—and thus our boss—Sage is the one who gets the driver’s seat. The downside is that she’s also a lunatic behind the wheel. And everywhere else, too. Honestly, if I could work anywhere else, I would. But since the only thing on my resume is my ill-fated stint at the country club—which I am not going to return to, no matter what Catherine says—I’m probably lucky the Pumpkin even wanted me at all.

  There are worse jobs, I guess. I could be getting attacked by fangirls like poor, pretty Darien Freeman.

  “I’M SO, SO, SO SORRY.” Gail hands me an ice pack as soon as I make it to the green room.

  “What just happened?” I take it and wince as I press the pack against the back of my neck.

  Gail shakes her head. “I thought security had her…”

  “I mean, they did,” I say. “Right after she had me. On the floor. I thought I’d choke on her tongue.” My damp hair—no longer perfectly curled—sticks to my neck like seaweed.

  The fangirl had come at me so fast, I barely knew what—or who—hit me until I was already flipping over the rock-hard sofa and onto my already bad back. Which is ridiculous, I know: I’m eighteen, I shouldn’t have a bad back. But after two years of carrying my costar around on Seaside Cove—it was supposed to be romantic, the fans loved it—my chiropractor told me to lay off the stunts for a while. I’m pretty sure that includes random girls lip-locking me in the middle of Hello, America.

  Gail rubs her hands together nervously. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. I’m sorry. Was my fault completely. I should’ve had more security. I should’ve said something.”

  “Hey,” I interrupt, gently touching her elbow. “I’m sure it’s not your fault, you know that. We both knew these abs were killer.”

  She gives me a pained look, but smiles. “Don’t make me laugh! I’m your handler; I should’ve handled this before they surprised you on live TV. Mark’s gonna shank me right up the middle this time.”

  I sink onto the green room couch. Mark. My manager, my number one cheerleader, my bailer-out-of-jail, and—somewhere far, far down that list in a galaxy far, far away—my father. Gail’s been on his bad side for quite a while now. To him, she’s a fumbling idiot and sometimes she does fray at the edges, but everyone does. And if he thinks she is a fumbling idiot, I don’t even want to know what he thinks of me.

  Besides, Gail’s the only person left from B.S.C.—Before Seaside Cove. Everyone else, my assistants and their assistants and Gail’s assistants, have all gone through Mark’s wringer, but Gail stayed. She’s a monument to where I came from. A piece of history from a time when I never thought a fan would tackle me on the stage of Hello, America.

  I also never thought I’d purposefully miss a Starfield question. I knew the answer too—it was so easy. But that was the script. I’d miss ah’blena, get dunked, and show my abs. All in a day’s work.

  Gail motions to my neck. “Hurt bad?”

  “I can feel it, so I think that’s a good sign.”

  Nodding, she sits down beside me. Once security pried off the fan, the producers ushered me into my dressing room to get checked out and go over the legal jargon I signed to go on the show. Mainly so I won’t sue them for injuries. Of course I wouldn’t sue, but the second Mark found out what happened, he ordered us to stay in the studio until he arrived. He’d sue Hello, America in a heartbeat.

  But that’s not even what I’m most worried about.

  “So…,” I say, turning to Gail, “who was supposed to tell me about that ExcelsiCon contest?”

  “I’m sorry. I just…” Gail usually meets my eyes when she talks, but now she takes out her phone. “There’s a lot going on and it slipped my mind.”

  “Gail?”

  She begins to check her email. Another good thing about working with her for so long—I can tell when she’s lying.

  “Is it hot in here?” She starts fanning herself. “It’s hot in here. I’ll go ask someone to turn on the air—”

  I put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from getting up, then offer her my ice pack. She takes it and presses it against her flushed cheeks.

  “I’m not cut out for this,” she says.

  “You kidding? I’d be lost without you, Gee. You know that.”

  “This is my fault.” She shakes her head, burying her face in the ice pack. “I mess everything up.”

  “You do not,” I reply. “No one could’ve predicted Fishmouth.”

  “Fishmouth? That’s a horrible nickname, Darien.”

  I shrug. “I mean, it’s not like she took the time to introduce herself. Usually when someone lands one on me I at least get her name first….Did you see the look on the one guy?”

  “Rick Daley?”

  “He covered his face so fast, you’d think he had his chin insured for half a mil.”

  That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Panicked, Gail drops the ice pack and begins to inspect me again, lifting up my now-floppy hair, checking my arms. “Crap, crap, crap! Your face! Is your face okay? Bruised? You’re filming tomorrow! I told Mark to not let you strip on the show. I told him it was a bad idea! Mark’s gonna murder me if—”

  I grab her hands and clasp them together. “Gee, it’s fine,” I say, lying.

  “B-b-b-but—”

  “I’m fine,” I repeat, gently easing her down into the couch, and return the ice pack to her hand. Gail is the closest thing I have to a friend, after my actual friends turned into, well, assholes. I know Gail. I trust her
. She’s that little voice in the back of my head telling me when something isn’t a good idea. Like taking flying lessons from Harrison Ford, or buying a house on the same street as Justin Bieber. And she always seems to Houdini me out of pits of fan hell or stalker paparazzi just in the nick of time.

  “But I forgot to tell you about that convention!” she cries. “ExcelsiCon. I completely forgot.”

  The name punches a shard of ice through my stomach. She must see my face twist because she begins to fret again.

  “Oh crap—oh no, that’s the one you used to go to. With—”

  “It’s fine,” I lie again. “Actually, you sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

  Slowly, I back out of the green room and close the door quietly behind me. I touch my mouth, feeling the wound from where Fishmouth’s teeth collided with the inside of my lip. Maybe Mark’s right. Maybe I do need someone who can keep the fans at arm’s length, provide a little muscle just in case—

  “No,” I tell myself. “Stop it. You are trusting. You love your fans. You’re cool and funny and chill. You are Jennifer Lawrence.”

  But even as I say it, my heart begins to sink into my gut. Because ExcelsiCon may be a con—but it isn’t just a con. It’s ExcelsiCon. The con I used to fly across the country for with my best friend, Brian. Back before I had to start covering my face to meet a date at a restaurant. Back when I could date. Back when it wasn’t a publicity stunt. Back before my abs had more screen time than the rest of me.

  I scratch my stomach at the thought of it. The airbrushed makeup—I mean, “contouring”—makes my skin itch like hell. Even thinking about going back to a con hurts. If I go back, it means I’m really not that Darien anymore. The normal—well, geeky and obscure—guy with normal friends who didn’t betray him.

  So I’ve just always said I don’t do cons. Everyone knows this little factoid—Gail, my publicist Stacey, Mark, the countless assistants he’s fired over the course of my career. This isn’t a secret. It’s probably even in my personal file at the agency, highlighted and underlined with scented marker. So, yeah, this is kind of ticking me off.

  I’ve barely leaned back against the green room door when a thunderous voice makes me jump.