Geekerella

I can almost see the fire, the taste of fake blood in my mouth, the stucco falling from the ceiling, the screams of people trapped in the Federation building as it goes up in flames, the titanium in my bones hurting—because for Carmindor they never stop hurting, never will, his humanity rebelling against the unnatural inside of him—and for a moment, I look at the window and I’m not afraid.

Run, kiss ass goodbye, and—

I launch myself out the window, arms pin-wheeling, air rushing around me faster and faster. The green-screen floor comes so close so fast, between one heartbeat and the next, my life flashes before my eyes. I don’t regret most of it—except one minor, inconsequential thing.

I never asked my mystery friend’s name.

The harness tightens, pressing against my chest, squeezing the breath out of me. I land, feet spread like I’ve been practicing on the green-screen ground. Right where they want me.

Nailed it.

I hold the landing for one second—two—

“And CUT!” Amon yells from the ground. He runs up to me and slaps me on the back. “Amazing! Great job. That was sick.”

“Thanks,” I wheeze, tugging at the harness. I relish my feet planted on sweet, sweet ground. My hands are shaking; I push my thumbs into the harness so the director doesn’t notice.

From the window the stunt coordinator applauds. “Perfect! You could be a stunt man,” she adds. I feel the ropes on my harness begin to tighten again. As if they’re about to hoist me up. “Except next time, try not to scream like a girl.”

“That’s not very PC,” I yell up, my voice shaking, before I realize what she’s said. “Wait—next time?”

Amon claps me on the shoulder. “Word of advice? Don’t grimace like the harness is pinching those pretty brass balls. You don’t wanna have to record sound for this scene in post, right? That’d be embarrassing.” He motions for my stunt coordinator to set me down again, and one of the assistants comes to unharness me. “Okay, five-minute recess!”

Thank the gods of special effects. The moment the assistant unstraps me, I make a break for the restroom in the corner of the building, because all the jostling has not been kind to my bladder. But as I sidle through the crowd of PAs loitering around the snack bar, I get this weird déjà vu, like I’ve passed someone familiar. When I look again there’s no one I recognize—no one besides all the lucky PAs cramming doughnuts in their faces.

I duck into the bathroom and do my business, but my hands are still shaking from the stunt. It’s the adrenaline messing with my eyes, my brain, making me hallucinate that I’m seeing people.

“Shake it off, Darien,” I tell myself. I would splash water on my face but it’ll ruin the special-effects makeup on my forehead: a shard of glass embedded into my hairline, a line of blood curving down my temple. I’m just being paranoid. No one’s here trying to snap pictures of me. I mean, I don’t even have any friends left to sell me out.

The longer I spend in this oasis of conflicting aromas—one of the PAs stationed bowls of mango potpourri everywhere—the longer I prolong going back out there and doing it again. Mark told me that doing my own stunts would be good press—and I did most of my own stunts on Seaside Cove—but this is different.

Just another way I’m not the Federation Prince. He isn’t scared of heights, or firefights, or flying through space with a 0.1 percent possibility of landing his target.

Darien Freeman? He’s scared of it all.

WHEN MY PHONE PULSES WITH THE wake-up alarm at its usual ungodly hour, I reach for it, swiping clumsily for the UNLOCK button to shut the alarm up. But it’s not just the alarm. I have a message.

From Carmindor.

I roll over in my bed with my cell phone. The morning light peeks in through star-patterned blackout curtains, creating yellow ribbons across the carpet. In the distance someone is mowing the lawn at six-thirty a.m. Ah, summer.

I tap the message icon and the text pulls up with a soft whoosh.

Carmindor 11:23 PM

—Hey, sorry I didn’t text back earlier. I had to save myself from an assassination attempt.

—Twenty-three times.

—Anyway, this might seem a bit late in the game but…

—what’s your name?

I bite the inside of my lip, trying not to smile.

6:34 AM

—You were busy saving the galaxy! No need to be sorry.

—And I thought Carmindor knew everything?

—ps - good morning

Across the hallway, the twins’ alarm goes off, a screeching sound that Chloe will snooze off at least three times before they finally get up.

I roll off the bed, sneaking a look underneath at the costume folded in a cardboard box. I still have to pinch myself. Dad’s costume. His actual costume. Here. I left Mom’s safely in the attic, where no one—not Chloe or Cal or the Nox King himself—will find it.

I grab yesterday’s work clothes and a towel from the main closet and pause. I move slowly toward my computer and tap the space bar to wake it up. Rebelgunner has thirty thousand followers and climbing. Still not a dream.

I should be wary because this universe never lets me be lucky, but I shove that thought to the back of my mind. I take a quick shower before Chloe or Cal can bully their way into the bathroom, and then wiggle into my day-old uniform. I’ll never get the smell of vegan fritters off me.

Carmindor 6:41 AM

—Ugh, there’s nothing good about this morning.

—And we both know that I don’t know anything.

6:41 AM

—So I’m not in CLE-0’s files?

—Man I feel left out, Carmindor…

Carmindor 6:42 AM

—OR you’re too important to be in her systems.

—You might be classified.

“Classified as a raging idiot,” I mutter, pulling my wet hair into a ponytail. I glance at the reflection in the mirror on the far wall—a girl with red hair from a box, her mom’s brown eyes, and a birthmark shaped like a starfish on her neck, wearing a frumpy TREAT YO PUMPKIN T-shirt and holey, greasy thrift-store jeans.

I wonder what Carmindor thinks I look like. Probably better than I do.

6:43 AM

—Alas! You found my secret.

—I am much too important for your trivialness!

—You shall address me as Your Supreme Intergalactic Empress.

Carmindor 6:44 AM

—So you’re a girl.

—Sorry—that came out weird.

—It’s an observation. Casual-like.

—You’re a girl.

—Argh. I’m digging myself a hole, aren’t I?

6:45 AM

—Yes, yes you are.

“Danielle!” Catherine’s voice calls up from the kitchen. I curse, stuffing the costume into a duffel bag and slinging it over my shoulder. It’s missing a few pieces. The starwings, for one, and the crown. I looked everywhere in that trunk, but they weren’t there. Catherine probably threw them away when she chucked everything up in the attic.

I start down the stairs as Carmindor sends another text.

Carmindor 6:48 AM

—I’m really good at that. Digging myself into holes.

—Making impossible promises. Groveling. Endangering my own mental sanity. More groveling. It’s part of the job.

—So: I am worms, Your Supreme Intergalactic Empress

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh, then hear Chloe in the kitchen.

“God, I know, okay?” she snaps. “I didn’t think it’d be so hard to find a stupid costume.”

“I don’t think they’re just costumes,” Calliope replies hesitantly as I enter the kitchen. “Like, there’s a whole community of people who dress up for conventions.”

“It’s called cosplay,” I say before I can stop myself.

Chloe turns her dark-eyed glare at me. “We get it, Elle. You’re a huge nerd. But guess what? Everyone likes that star show now. It’s, like, retro chic or something.” She screws up her mouth. “You probably know where to get a costume, right?”

Fear twists in my stomach. I clutch the strap of my duffel bag.

“No,” I say.

“Darlings,” Catherine says. “You don’t have to click your heels just because everyone else does. You girls like what you like. Don’t be like Danielle.”

Don’t be like Danielle.

If ever I had a cue to leave, that was it. Ducking my head, I pull my duffel bag higher and quickly escape through the front door. I hurry toward the end of the street when, with a roar, the Pumpkin skids onto the pavement and comes to an exhausted stop. Sage leans over. “Get in, loser. We’re getting the good spot today!”

I jump in and glance back at the house one last time with unease, remembering the twins’ conversation. I grip my bag tightly. It’ll be fine.

Starfield is just a phase for them. Soon it’ll disappear like Princess Amara through the Black Nebula and never be spoken of again.

“LOOK AT ME.”

I glide Jessica to a stop. We’ve been waltzing through this ballroom for two hours, a herd of PAs following to sprinkle fresh ash and dirt over the map of my failed footprints.

Focus. I cup Jessica’s cheeks and whisper, “You ignite me.”

She presses her dark-red lips against mine and the world spins.