He’s in dark blue swim trunks and a T-shirt that reads I’D RATHER BE ON PROSPERO with the silhouette of the starship Prospero whirling around the last word, warping into light speed.
I clear my throat, pointing to his shirt. “I hear the observation deck is nice this time of year.”
“Huh?” He glances from me to Sage, but she isn’t even paying attention. Then he looks down to his shirt. “Oh, this? It’s my brother’s old shirt. He’s into that dumb nerd stuff.”
“Dumb,” I echo, and for a moment I want to shove a cold and soulless vegan fritter down his throat. Dumb. He’s totally lying. He didn’t call it dumb last summer. “What’s so dumb about—”
Sage kicks me beneath the counter.
I shoot her a glare. She returns it under glittery fake eyelashes. I turn back to him.
“What would you like?” I say between a tight-lipped smile.
“He wants the chimichangas,” Sage says, putting down her sketchbook. “Don’t you?”
“Uh…” James looks like what he wants, even more than vegan food, is just to get away from the crazy Starfield girl and her colorful, piercing-covered companion. “Sure.”
He pays—with his own credit card, of course—takes some chimichangas from Sage, and leaves at warp speed. I sit down on a cooler and open my notebook again, still angry at James, and use that vehemence to draft another scalding blog post about other uses for Darien Freeman’s deceptively perfect body.
Number one: A washboard.
Number two: A skin suit for criminals.
Number three: The mold for real-life Ken dolls.
Number four: Not being Carmindor.
Across the truck, Sage’s pencil makes quick tic-tic-tics across the paper. A leaf of green hair falls into her face and she scoops it back absently.
“That guy seemed like a douche-bro.”
It’s one of the longest sentences she’s ever said to me. I don’t even know how to answer.
“You two have some history?”
When I don’t answer, she shrugs and juts her chin in the direction James left.
“Don’t you go to high school with me? I’m sure you saw the video.”
She just frowns, and from the way she scrunches her pink mouth against the orange ring pierced into her lower lip, I can’t tell if she did see it or not. But if she wants to press the issue, she doesn’t—and I’m glad. Last summer’s better left tossed into the Black Nebula. It’s better off gone.
Thankfully, my phone chooses that exact moment to vibrate on the counter. But when I pick it up, I don’t recognize the number—which doesn’t surprise me. Since I inherited Dad’s phone number, I’ve gotten calls and texts from random people, usually about ExcelsiCon. And usually—actually, every time—I ignore them. They’ll get through to the right person eventually, and it’s best to ignore things you don’t want to remember. It’s not because I don’t want to be reminded of Dad, but because every time I think of ExcelsiCon—of not going—it feels like I’m letting him down.
But as soon as I let it go to voicemail, I feel bad. It’s not this person’s fault ExcelsiCon left Dad’s bio up on the site for so long. They miss him as much as I do. And a part of me, so small I can normally squash it out, thinks that it could be Dad, phoning in from another universe.
So when my phone buzzes again—a text, this time—I pick it up.
Unknown 11:36 AM
—Hi there. Could you take the Federation Prince off your schedule?
—He sincerely apologizes, but something came up.
My annoyance quickly turns to curiosity. It must be one of the dudes on the cosplay panels. After the announcement today, everybody and their mothers will probably be playing Carmindor, so professional cosplays will probably want to cosplay as someone else.
Before I can even answer, the phone buzzes again.
Unknown 11:39 AM
—Please? He will be very tired. He has a lot of work to do.
Today just wants to give me a face full of Starfield, doesn’t it. I type back a reply before even really thinking about it.
11:40 AM
—Work? Like what? Last I heard, Carmindor doesn’t give excuses.
The number pings me back almost immediately.
Unknown 11:41 AM
—Oh I beg to differ.
—Do I have the right number? For ExcelsiCon?
11:42 AM
—Nope.
—But hey, I can offer you an out-of-this-world deal on vegan chimichangas.
Unknown 11:42 AM
—Sounds galactic. Maybe some other time.
—Do you know who I should contact?
Yes. Maybe.
I could point him in the right direction. I haven’t been in touch with Dad’s colleagues at ExcelsiCon since…well, not in a really long time. But I could probably get in touch with someone. I’ve never offered to before. I never wanted to.
11:43 AM
—Afraid not.
—Maybe it won’t be so bad.
—You know, boldly go.
Unknown 11:43 AM
—Wrong show, but thanks.
—And may the force be with those chimichangas.
“Look, look!” Sage crows. I jerk my head up from my phone. Out in front of us, James rounds out of one of the beachwear shops, pushes a hairy guy in trunks out of the way, and sprints toward the public bathrooms.
Wide-eyed, I stare at Sage. “Did you…”
Sage smiles her demon grin. “Were those the new batch of chimichangas? Or were they chimichangas from last week?” She heaves a big shrug. “Who’s to say? Wibbly wobbly timey space stuff.” She wiggles her fingers, making her many bracelets jangle.
Did my coworker just exact vegan food-poisoning revenge on my behalf? I don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified. My phone vibrates again.
“Sorry, I…” I hold up my phone. “This wrong number keeps texting me—”
But then I look at my texts again and my stomach plummets.
StepMOMster 11:44 AM
—The neighborhood watch called me about a food truck in our driveway.
—We’ll speak about this tonight.
—After you pick up this grocery list.
—[1 attachment]
When I look up again, Sage is back at her sketchbook, totally silent. And for the next four hours, the mystery number doesn’t text back either.
Once again, I’m completely alone.
—
APPARENTLY MR. RAMIREZ COMPLAINED ABOUT A noise violation on his peaceful day off, aka basically tattled on me to Catherine. So when Sage drops me off at the end of the street—so Catherine doesn’t hear the truck—my punishment is cleaning out the attic. And coupon duty for the next month. And dish duty. And grocery duty. Basically every chore I do already, but now considered “punishment.”
Catherine hands me rubber gloves and a dust mask.
“You’re lucky I don’t ground you for the rest of summer vacation,” she says. “The humiliation of having to apologize to Giorgio! I’m barely going to be able to look him in the eye at Pilates. This is a respectable community, Danielle. You can’t just go around parking nasty trucks in the driveway. Honestly, sweetie, what would your father think?”
Dad would think she was a monster for siding with someone who leaves their poor wiener dog out in the weather. Dad would adopt the Frankenwiener in an instant, probably. But most of all, Dad would chastise her for throwing his things away, for wasting our money, for pretending like things were still perfect.
I still don’t understand how or why he fell in love with her.
“And working with someone with so many piercings! I’m sure that green-haired girl is rubbing off on you.”
I finally glance up, afraid for a moment that she would make me quit. “I like my job.”
But she goes on like I haven’t said anything at all. “I told Robin you would grow up to be a troublemaker. I guess it can’t be helped.”
My hands begin to shake. “I was going to work! To my job! I was being responsible!”
“Don’t argue with me.”
“You’re acting like I committed a crime!”
She gives me a surprised look. “Go,” she says calmly, pointing up the stairs. “Clean out your attic. Before it gets too late.”
Fine.
I march out of the kitchen and up the stairs, snapping the dust mask over my mouth as I pass the twins’ bedroom, when a ridiculously upbeat song blasts from their stereo. It makes me pause, and I backtrack. Through the crack in the door, Chloe and Cal stand in the middle of their room, facing their Mac, waiting for the song to start again. I stare, slack-jawed, as Chloe starts lip-syncing into a comb, wearing a ridiculous pink…thing…clamped around her chin. Whatever the contraption is—the twins are obsessed with Korean beauty products—she can barely move her mouth but still bops her hip and rolls her head. And Cal mimics her, wearing a purple facemask that makes her look more like a luchador than a beauty vlogger.
They get halfway through the song before Cal notices me out of the corner of her eye. She freezes midslide. Chloe slams into her. They stumble.
“Oh my god! What the hell?” Chloe snaps at her. Well, she kinda snaps. It all sounds like a jumble of words since she can’t move her jaw. “Klutz!”
Cal quickly looks away from the door, but it’s too late. Uh-oh.