Geekerella

My stepmom gives one last victory fluff to her hair in the foyer mirror. “Are you sure you don’t want me to put in a good word for you at the club, Danielle? I’m sure they’d take you back even after your…incident…last year. You’ve learned, haven’t you?”

To never trust a guy again? Sure. I pull on a polite smile. “No, thanks.”

“It’s the best place for someone like you, you know.” She shakes her head. “You’ll see I’m right in the end.”

With that, she closes the door.

I wait until the Miata pulls out of the driveway before I dart into the living room and turn on the TV. 8:57. Perfect. The food truck’s supposed to pick me up at ten to head to the RiverDogs baseball game across town, so I have plenty of time. For the next hour, I will be basking in perhaps the biggest news in Starfield history.

This moment to end all moments—or maybe begin them. A new Starfield for a new generation. I like the possibility in that.

Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, I sit down cross-legged in front of the 54-inch TV. The black screen flickers, and anticipation blooms in my chest. I wish Dad could be here to see this. I wish he could be sitting beside me. He’d be just as excited—no, he’d be more excited. But the reality is, I don’t really have anyone to fangirl about this with. About who will finally don the Federation starwings and follow in the legendary footsteps of David Singh, the original Prince Carmindor. I’ve been blogging about it for months in my little corner of the world, but no one really reads it. Rebelgunner is therapeutic, more like a journal. The closest I have to friends is the online Stargunner community, where everyone’s been speculating about the casting: maybe the guy from the latest Spider-Man movie? Or maybe that cute Bollywood star who’s in all the Tumblr GIFsets? Whoever it is, they’d better not whitewash my prince.

On the TV, Hello, America is wrapping up a segment about pets doing goofy things on the internet. The host beams, and then the camera cuts to the audience. It’s full of girls—lots of girls—and all of them are cheering. Holding signs. Wearing T-shirts with the same name scribbled across them. A name that makes the anticipation in my chest grow cold and drop like an atomic bomb into my stomach.

Darien Freeman.

The girls throw up their hands for the camera, screaming his name. One person’s name. Some look like they’re literally going to swoon.

I don’t swoon.

My excitement makes a U-turn into dread.

No—no, this can’t be right. I must have the wrong channel.

I jab the remote INFO button. Hello, America, the caption states, and I want nothing more than for the Black Nebula to swallow me whole.

What are the odds? What are the odds of him being on the same morning talk show? What are the odds of him being the guest appearance on the show that will announce the Starfield cast?

But the host is smiling, and says a few choice words, and suddenly all my fears come to light.

The Starfield logo blazes across the screen behind her. This moment has become a train wreck I can’t look away from. It’s my entire fandom crashing into a burning, bubbling pit of despair.

No. No, it’s not him. It can’t be him.

Darien Freeman is not my Federation Prince Carmindor.

THE CROWD IS FULL OF MONSTERS.

Okay, not actual monsters. But you try flying to New York City on a red-eye, subsisting on nothing but burnt coffee and half a grapefruit, sitting for thirty minutes in a makeup chair just so your stylist can get your curly hair just right (for God’s sake, man, it’s hair), in designer jeans that are pinching you in places that aren’t even awake this early while you’re trying to remember the answers to all the questions the cohosts are going to ask you—all on three hours of sleep, three—and then being excited to see a crowd of fans.

Breathe, I tell myself. It’s fine.

I pace back and forth behind the outside stage. No one has spotted me yet, but my skin’s crawling as if I’m being watched. It comes with the territory.

Now I know why Gail, my handler, told me to pop two Advil before the show. I’ve been to rock concerts (and, back in the day, convention panels), but this audience is ridiculous. Gail said they’ve been standing out here since four this morning. What person in their right mind would stand in line that early for me?

Beside me, Gail bounces on her well-worn sneakers. I don’t think she’s had the chance to unlace them since the second episode of Seaside Cove. She’s scrolling through her emails, nodding. “Everything’s set. We’ve got your flight booked for tonight, your ride to and from the airport, two assistants running interference for paparazzi…” Then she looks up at me and smiles. “We’re golden.”

She hands me a water bottle, and I put it against my neck. Her strawberry-blonde hair is pulled back into a too-tight frizzy bun, a sure sign she’s just as stressed as I am. “Just breathe. You’ll be fine. This is just the starter course for the media blitz. You can do it.”

“You could say I’m leveling up,” I joke.

She gives me a blank look.

“Like in video games? When you get enough experience points you—shutting up now.” I unscrew the bottle and take a swig. Through the gap in the backstage curtains, I watch my fans shift impatiently. I squint. “Is that girl wearing my face on her shirt?”

“Don’t pay too much attention,” she replies. Her phone beeps and she pulls it out again. She frowns.

I give her a side-eye. “Everything all right?”

She scrolls through her email.

“Earth to Gail?”

Nothing.

“Gail Morgan O’Sullivan.”

“What? Oh!” She shoves her phone into her back pocket. “Sorry, sorry. Do you ever feel like you’re forgetting something?”

“My underwear. All the time,” I say with dead seriousness. “Sometimes I give myself a wedgie just to make sure I have them on.”

Her worry cracks open into a small smile. “You do not.”

Gail is older—twenty-five or so—with a brushing of freckles on her cheeks that darken in the summer, and almost glow when she blushes. Aside from my signed copy of Batman: Year One, she’s the best friend I’ve got. When you’re me, real friends don’t come all that easy. Or at all. They used to, but I learned the hard way that things change. Especially when you’re famous.

A stagehand comes over to mic me. I thread it under my blazer and clip the receiver to the back of my jeans. “Two minutes,” he says, and rushes away.

“Oh-kay!” Gail says. “Remember to smile and just be the best you you can be.” She looks me over with an eagle eye, putting a lock of hair back in place and straightening the blazer over my T-shirt. It’s the most expensive thing I own—the blazer, not the T-shirt—as per my agent’s request. He wants me to look approachably geeky but still Burberry-wearing Seaside Cove material. Which, as far as I’m concerned, are two streams that you shouldn’t ever cross.

“Look to the stars. Aim. Ignite.” Gail chants. She hugs me tightly. “I’m so proud of you, Darien. Your dad is too.”

“Proud of the money,” I mumble.

Her mouth twitches. “I don’t think it’s just—”

The audience’s shrill cheer cuts through her words. Just shrill, all-hell-loose screams. I’m pretty sure my costar Jessica Stone—sweet, popular, with an indie-film track record that’s way more impressive than my Seaside Cove stint—gets a crowd that’s a lot…calmer. Her dude followers don’t draw I HEART JESS on T-shirts, they just…well, never mind. I don’t really want to think about the creepy Google searches of Jess Stone fans. Our crowds are different, end of story. The Starfield director, Amon Wilkins, of giant robot movie fame, probably figured she would bring in the coveted awards attention and accolades. But I guess I’ll find out soon enough, since we start filming tomorrow.

As for me? I apparently bring an army of monsters to a beloved cult fandom. My fans call themselves SeaCos—or maybe it’s Darienites. And today? This is a publicity stunt. This is my manager and PR team at their finest.

Scotty can beam me up anytime now.

That’s the thing too. I know I’m not the first young guy to take over a character that people already love. I’m sure Chris Pine had people who didn’t like him because he was Kirk 2.0. But I’m different. I’m eighteen. He was twenty-something. He had time to refine his No Fraks Given. I still worry about matching my socks and making sure no one uncovers my Star Wars boxers. Plus, right now, my hands are clammy and I think I’m starting to sweat, and sweating during a televised interview is the worst possible thing you can do.

Breathe in, breathe out. You can do this, Darien.

The stagehand rounds back and corrals me up the steps to the stage. He starts counting down with his fingers.

Five…four…

I smooth my blazer. Swallow my anxiety.

“And now let’s welcome our next guest to the stage,” one of the cohosts says, quieting the crowd, “the young actor better known as the king of Seaside Cove”—Holy Ego-Crusher, Batman, that knocks off all my street-cred—“and now picking up the mantle as our favorite royal from the stars, Federation Prince Carmindor…Darien Freeman!”