Twenty-Four
In the morning, Mom drives me to the airport. I have a seven o’clock flight. There is absolutely no good reason to set an alarm clock for five in the morning when school is not in session, and I am a stumbling, semiconscious mess when I slide into the passenger seat.
Mom smiles sympathetically. “You going to make it?”
“No wonder this flight was cheapest,” I groan.
“But it’ll be worth it, right?”
I consider this. I nod begrudgingly.
“Call me when you land,” Mom says. “And when you check in to your room, all right? I still don’t like the idea of you staying in that big hotel by yourself.”
“It’ll be fine, Mom. I’m not going to be totally alone. George Connor will be there, remember?”
“Yes, that doesn’t really put my mind at ease.”
“Oh my God, don’t worry. George and I don’t think of each other that way at all .”
I haven’t told Mom about Thom, though. It doesn’t seem necessary, when he’s a person I haven’t even met in real life. That’s my screwy logic, anyway.
The one good thing about that awful review on Horn-Rimmed Glasses Girl showing up right before the convention is that I’m way too preoccupied to dwell on it. I didn’t even pull it up on my computer last night to reread the goriest pieces and comb through the comments. I know it’ll only get me down, and I don’t want to be in a bad place for Orlando. I’ve learned over the past couple months that those kinds of comments stick around in my mind a lot longer than the nice ones. If I don’t want them forever filed away, then I shouldn’t read them, period.
I try not to think of Paul, either, but that’s a harder feat. As I sit curled up by my gate, trying to read an issue of Entertainment Weekly , the better part of my mind goes rogue and keeps flashing up images and fragments of sentences. Paul’s face when I pulled my shirt over my head. Fifteen pumpkins. Confused. Twisted inside. I beat each one down, telling myself that I can’t think about those things right now. I should be focusing on Orlando. On what panels and meet and greets I want to attend, on how I’m going to wear my hair for the dinner tonight and what I’ll say if Unhappy Families wins a Tuba. On Thom.
I open my phone and read the final text he sent last night: See you SOON .
Because we’re finally going to see each other. We’re finally going to use our voices to talk. That’s a big deal. That’s what I need to focus on. My life in Lexington can wait for the next two days.
I look up from my magazine after having read the same sentence five times and deeming myself momentarily illiterate. I crane my neck, looking around for George, and I spot him a few rows over, tapping on his laptop. I try to catch his eye, even wave in his direction, but that only snags the attention of the girl next to him, who stares at me like I am a mountain troll. I give up and return to my magazine. I am still incapable of reading, but at least I can look at the behind-the-scenes shots on the set of Storms of Taffdor .
It’s not until we’re boarding the plane that I get George’s attention. He’s already seated in one of the front economy rows when I inch down the aisle.
“Hey,” I say.
He nods.
“Guess I’ll see you on the other side.”
He nods again.
So that’s that. What great company. George is the one person I know who could make this trip unpleasant.
I check my ticket again. Judging from my row number and current position, I’m guessing I’m at the very back of the plane. My guess proves correct. The good news is the seat next to me is empty, so I get some extra legroom. The bad news is the flight attendant runs out of Biscoff cookies by the time she reaches me.
“This usually never happens,” she says, and she gives me double the roasted peanuts instead, as though this makes up for it, and I’m left wondering why any airline still hands out peanuts when there are so many people out there with allergies. Which makes me think of Paul and his peanut butter kryptonite. Which makes me unspeakably sad. So I pull out my iPod and play St. Vincent so loudly I’m sure I’m doing long-term damage to my eardrums.
• • •
“Want to share a taxi?”
I’ve just hauled my suitcase off the baggage carousel when I find George hovering behind me like the freakin’ Ghost of Christmas Past. So he’s finally deigned to use words. That’s an improvement, I suppose.
“There’s a shuttle to the hotel, actually,” I say. “It’s a lot cheaper. I was just going to take that.”
“Oh, really? Huh.” George looks like I’ve suggested we ride bareback on mules down the highway.
“Sorry,” I say, yanking out the handle of my suitcase and rolling it past him, toward the sign that reads BUSES & SHUTTLES .
“Hey, wait!” I hear. George hurries to catch up with me and says, “How often do they run?”
“Like, every thirty minutes. Why, you have somewhere you need to be fast? Adoring fangirls waiting for your autographs, Levin?”
George smirks. “They can wait, I guess.”
It’s not that bad a wait. The shuttle shows up in ten minutes and is well air-conditioned, a blessed relief after standing in the sticky ninety-degree heat. I make a mental note to not complain so much about Kentucky summers; Florida is way worse. When we get to the hotel, I grab my suitcase off the rack before the driver can, because I don’t really need help, and I also don’t know what tipping protocol is when it comes to stuff like that.
George and I stand in the hotel check-in line together. I am irrationally nervous that because my mom made the reservation, they won’t let me check in and will call security on me. Like I’m some underage kid trying to buy a bottle of gin. But no one calls security. The problem, it turns out, isn’t that I’m underage but that it’s too early in the day, and there aren’t any available rooms that have been serviced yet. The receptionist tells me to check back in a few hours, once housekeeping has made their rounds.
I roll my suitcase over to a couch in the corner of the massive lobby. Mozart is piping out of a nearby speaker, and the table in front of the couch is fashioned to look like a giant purple geode. It’s gaudy, but overall pretty cool. I prop my feet on the table’s edge and text my mom to let her know I’ve arrived safe and sound at the hotel. Then I text Thom.
Here, here, here! Still up for meeting at registration at noon?
That’s the plan we made nearly a week ago. We’re going to meet at the registration tables and then go to the convention’s kick-off dinner together. Maybe, somewhere in between there, Thom will buy me coffee from the little Starbucks kiosk in the lobby and tell me he’s been secretly in love with me since he saw my first vlog.
Maybe.
Thom doesn’t reply immediately, no matter how intently I stare at the screen. Then I hear someone clear his throat above me. For a wild moment, I think it’s Thom, come early to surprise me.
It’s George.
“Won’t let you check in either?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He sits beside me with an irritated sigh. “Then what’s the point of flying in early?”
I give him the stink eye. It’s not intentional, just instinctual. I don’t want to sit next to George, and I was seriously considering lying out on this couch and taking a power nap in public, dignity be damned.
“See anyone you recognize yet?” George asks, weirdly conversational.
“No,” I say, “but I haven’t really been looking.”
“Greta Farrow is over there,” he says, nodding to a corner diagonal to us. “You know, from Greta Gabs ?”
“Oh.” I note a petite girl with a hot-pink bob cut, who’s wearing black denim overalls and chatting merrily with two guys a foot taller than her. “Yeah, she is kind of hard to miss.”
“Isn’t it wild to think any of them could be staying in a room right next to us?”
“I hadn’t thought of that. But sure. I mean, they’re normal people like us.”
“Not exactly,” says George. “Most of them are from L.A.”
I cock my head at George. “Yeah, but being from L.A. doesn’t make you less normal. Maybe more tan, more of an asshole. But they’re just people, George.”
“Yeah, I get that. You’re . . . never mind. You’re missing the point.”
“I don’t like star worship,” I say. “Celebrities aren’t worthy of a tenth the attention we give them. We just have this huge vacuum to fill because we don’t believe in Hercules and Medusa anymore.”
George snorts. “Production people always have inferiority complexes.”
I glower at George. “Production people make movies happen . Actors wouldn’t have a chance to get famous if it weren’t for production people .”
“Mmm-hmm, sure.”
I narrow my eyes. “You have an acceptance speech prepared, don’t you?”
He gives me a look. “That’s your job. You’re the showrunner.”
“Yeah, but I bet you’ve still got a speech prepared.”
George says nothing, but he’s wearing a self-indulgent smirk. He gets up, lugging his backpack with him. “I’m going to explore some.”
I nod, afraid that if I say anything else George will change his mind. I watch him go, then check my phone. Thom’s texted back: Hey, so sorry. Something came up, can’t meet then. Call you later.
I stare at the screen. Call you later ? He’s bailing on me last minute, with no explanation? Just Call you later ?
I tell myself not to get pissed, not to overreact. Something urgent must have come up. A family emergency or a delayed flight or any other number of legitimate obstacles. Whatever it is, it’s probably so urgent he doesn’t have time to explain. When he calls me later—soon, I beg of the universe—he’ll explain everything. Then we’ll meet up, and everything will be great. It’s probably better that way. If we met at registration, I would be so distracted with absorbing all the new information that I wouldn’t be my most charming. So this is fine. It’s all for the best.
If Thom isn’t going to show up anytime soon, though, I might as well register for the convention and look around. I go back to the reception desk and ask if they can store my suitcase. They do, with a scary amount of courtesy, and afterward I stuff my claim number in my messenger bag and follow a glossy sign atop an easel that reads, GOLDEN TUBA REGISTRATION THIS WAY .
The hotel is even vaster than I expected. I turn past the reception area and find myself in a wide, high-ceilinged hallway filled with mingling people, most of them in their twenties and thirties, laughing raucously and sharing confidential whispers and telling stories with overlarge hand gestures. Everyone and everything around me is crackling with life and anticipation. Sets of double doors line the hallway, marked with hotel placards (BALLROOM A, CONFERENCE ROOM 2 ) and, above those, card stock signs with alternative room names (FRENCH HORN, SAXOPHONE ). Again, I think of Paul, and my heart twists. I refocus my attention on two long tables at the end of the hall. A gold-lettered banner hanging from the tables reads, REGISTRATION .
I get in line at the P –Z table, my eyes still wandering around the hallway. We’re right outside the biggest set of double doors, marked BALLROOM C and TUBA . I’m guessing this is where the award ceremony will take place tomorrow night. From my obstructed vantage point, I see circular tables draped with white linen tablecloths, which makes me think they’re holding the kick-off dinner there too.
“Name, please?”
It’s my turn in line, and a cheery woman wearing bright pink lipstick and a Doctor Who T-shirt is looking up at me, expectant.
“Natasha Zelenka,” I say.
She nods, flips to the last page of her stapled sheets, and runs her index finger down the row of names, chanting, “Zelenka, Zelenka, Zelen—there you are!” She drags a green highlighter over my name, then ducks under the table to retrieve a fat manila envelope. She hands it to me saying, “Everything you need is in there: schedule, ticket for tonight’s dinner, name tag. Make sure you put that name tag on as soon as possible! You have to wear it to get into all our panels.”
I nod dutifully, thank the woman, and slip out of line.
The hallway feels twice as crowded now as when I first set foot in here. There are so many conversations popping around my ears, so many running, shifting bodies. It’s overwhelming, and I can’t decide if it’s a kind of overwhelming I like. It is . . . splendifying . My eyes are strained and my whole body feels itchy and oily from the early morning travel. I really want to be alone in a hotel room, where I can splash cold water on my face and pass out for an hour-long nap.
Since that’s not a possibility, and since my couch by the geode table has now been taken over by a family of four, I go to the Starbucks kiosk and order a tall iced coffee. Then I tuck myself away at a small table by the window and open my manila envelope. There are enough papers and brochures in here to keep me occupied for a while. I just hope Thom calls before I’ve gone through them all.
• • •
Hours later, Thom still hasn’t called. I’m on my second iced coffee and reading the one carry-on book I brought with me—The Death of Ivan Ilyich , by my ever-so-talented boyfriend, Leo. At this point, I can’t help but be well and truly pissed at Thom. It’s after three o’clock, and he hasn’t called, texted, anything . Not even a few words to let me know he’s sorry and trying to get here as soon as possible. I mark my place in the book and attempt to look on the bright side: At least by now there has to be a room ready for me. I pack my things into my bag, drop my name tag necklace over my head (I’ve crossed out Natasha and written Tash over it in mechanical pencil), and head for the reception desk.
I receive a key for a room on the seventh floor, which I take to be a good omen, because why not. Then I retrieve my luggage and head upstairs with only one objective in mind: face-planting on my queen-size bed.
It is a well-earned, satisfying face-plant. I know I shouldn’t nap, though, because it’s too late in the afternoon, and I always turn into a mumbling Yeti-like creature if I nap after two o’clock. I decide it’s best to power through, so I turn on the television before heading to the bathroom, peel off my sweaty travel clothes, and shower down my body. When I emerge from the bathroom, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air is playing. The familiar voices of the Banks family put me in a happier mood as I remove my shower cap and untangle my wadded bun of hair. I decide to go ahead and put on my dress for tonight, considering the dinner is in under two hours. I’m applying mascara when my phone chimes. It’s a text from Thom. Not a call.
I can be there in 30. Want to meet in the lobby?
Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m aware that I should be mad, but there’s no way I’m going to spoil this newfound good mood. So I text back, Works for me! and spend the next twenty minutes choosing from the two pairs of earrings I packed and trying to beat down the feeling that I’m going to lose two cups of iced coffee all over this hotel room desk.
Then I head down to the lobby.
It’s beyond weird, meeting like this. We both know what the other looks and sounds like from our vlogs, but we’ve never seen or heard each other in person. So we will recognize each other in the lobby, but not in the way most humans do. Only because of video cameras and the Internet. The marvels of the Modern Age.
I see him first. He’s sitting, of all places, at the couch by the geode table. I take this to be a good omen, because I am taking everything as a good omen from here on out. He’s wearing black skinny jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a thin, mustard-yellow tie. His hair is cut short but messy at the top, the same as it is in his vlogs. But he’s different from the vlog version of himself too. His shoulders are narrower than I thought, and his profile is almost unrecognizable. It’s like I’ve only known him as a flat, monochromatic stick drawing up until this moment. Now he is three-dimensional and pumped full of Technicolor. My intestines feel like they’re crawling up my throat, but I’m here, and I’ve seen him first, which means I have to be the one to make this happen.
He doesn’t catch sight of me until I’m close enough to tap his shoulder and say, “Hello, stranger.”
He looks up, his face instantly breaking into a grin. “Oh my God,” he says. “Look who it is.”
He stands up, and I think we’re about to embrace, but then he’s wrapping an arm around my shoulder in a side hug instead. It’s awkward, but how could it not be? This is us, Thom and Tash, Internet buddies, meeting in person for the first time.
I pull away and say, “Hello, Thom Causer” with mock formality, dipping into a little curtsy.
He returns the gesture with his own little bow and says, “Why, hello, Tash Zelenka.”
He says my name wrong. He pronounces it like it rhymes with “ash.” And my intestines are slipping back down my throat. It’s such a small mistake, but it’s a huge one too, and I wonder, how could he not know something like that? Something as simple as how to pronounce my name ?
Because we’ve never spoken to each other before, that’s how. It is a logical explanation that bears no blame on Thom. Still, I can’t help but feel hurt—resentful, even.
Then he’s talking, and I realize the moment is gone. I can’t correct him now. It would be too bitchy to interrupt and say, “Hey, by the way, Tash is short for Natash a.”
So I clear my mind as best I can and focus on what he’s saying.
“. . . gets so chummy and boring, so I thought maybe we could go out for dinner. I know this great Italian place, Giuseppe’s. I went there last year. It’s not far from here.”
I stare stupidly at Thom, still slow on the uptake. What is he suggesting?
“You want to ditch the kick-off dinner?” I hate the sound of my voice. It’s high and thin, like a kettle whistle. “But it’s a free meal. And aren’t they going to make some important announcements there?”
Thom shrugs. “Nothing I can’t fill you in on. It’s been the same thing both years I’ve gone: mediocre food and condescending company. Plus, if we’re stuck at a table with six other people, I won’t be able to talk to you as much as I’d like.”
I do like the sound of Thom’s voice. It is low and crisp and rings around in my ears longer than all other noises.
“If you put it that way,” I say, smiling.
Thom motions toward the hotel’s front doors. “Come on. I’ve got an aunt and uncle here who are letting me borrow one of their cars.”
It crosses my mind for a blip of a second that Thom could be a psycho killer about to drive me off to my doom. But this is Thom , a good-looking nerd who once posted a video defending me from Internet haters. It’s Thom, and even if he doesn’t know how to pronounce my name, he knows a ton of other things about me, like how I mentioned once that my favorite meal is fettuccine Alfredo. And now he’s taking me to an Italian restaurant.
It looks like my reality is shaping up to be better than my dream. Dinner totally trumps a coffee date.