with history: science fair ribbons, woven crowns from old Palm Sundays, framed photos of their sons at every age.
You won’t have that now, says Father Mike. Don’t kid yourself, kiddo.
I go into a windup with the drained antacid bottle, aim at a wood-slat wastecan. I want contact, a Louisville Slugger crack.
I miss by a mile.
Chapter Five
“Fellow Casties: We have arrived.”
We stand on the amazing technicolor carpet of the Fairlee Hotel in Cleveland, in front of a life-size cardboard cutout of Bree LaRue and a pull-down screen with a fanvid flickering on it. Abel’s costume of the day: Cadmus shades, skinny jeans with sky-blue hightops, a red puffy vest over a tight black shirt he stole from Kade.
Bec’s camera is rolling.
As more fans in costumes and logo shirts flood the Q&A room, Abel motormouths about some tragic new Cadsim fic called “The Passion of the Droid.” I’m only half listening. We’re here. And when you’re a weird and awkward and paranoid person at all times, CastieCon is the happiest place on the planet.
It’s like, a baseline level of freakiness is expected here, right? So unless you’re disemboweling goats in the vendor hall, no one gives a damn who you are or what you’re doing. You want to spray your hair blue like Sim’s? You’ll fit right in; ten others beat you to it. You want to dress like Xaarg at a biker bar? Girls will take photos with you, fondling your black studded jacket. You can talk to vendors about bad paint apps on action figures; you can openly geek out when two writers sign your second-season finale script; you can join a panel debating if Castaway Planet is a real place or all in their head. And when you’re waiting for a Q&A and you see a fanvid on the screen—set to “Hallelujah,” for crap’s sake—no one will judge you if you get a tiny bit choked up.
“Bran.” I jump. Abel’s poking me. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“We’re taking bets on why Bree LaRue’s late to her own Q&A.”
“She burned her hand on her curling iron,” says Bec.
“She couldn’t find the down button on the elevator,” says Abel.
“She’s pissed she got no screentime in this fanvid,” I grin.
Abel glances up at the pull-down screen and glares at the clip they’re showing. It’s from this season’s cliffhanger. Ed Ransome as Cadmus, bloodied and bitten, buckling beside the giant spider he’s just killed. Sim runs over in slo-mo, drops to his knees to check the fresh bite marks on Cadmus’s neck. The music fades slightly to lift up the line: If I die, Tin Man, you’re the new me. Promise. Abel performs a shudder and screws one eye shut.
“I can’t look,” he groans. “This whole scene like, wounds me.”
“Whatever. Xaarg’ll save him—”
“DON’T EVEN.”
“—because he’s his daa-aad.”
Abel facepalms. “I hate that theory.”
“We know.”
“Super-lame. Super-derivative.” He vacuum-breathes like Vader. “Cadmussss…I am your fatherrrr…”
“It’s foreshadowed, though.”
“Don’t you dare bring up 2-17.”
“Xaarg’s been watching him his whole life?”
“Clearly a lie! Intimidation tactic.”
“I dunno.” I shrug, basking in the indignant-fanboy back-and-forth. “I’d be happy if my TV boyfriend was a possible demigod.”
“He’s already a demigod. FYI.”
Abel sticks out his tongue and we bust out laughing like a pair of fourth graders. Onscreen, Cadmus is using the spider corpse as a grim translucent footrest, telling Sim knock-knock jokes about Xaarg and his henchmen to prove he’s totally fine and definitely not at all almost-dead. Ed Ransome’s great in this episode, so great I almost get why Abel loves him.
“Brandon?”
“Yeah.”
Abel blinks at the vid. He leans in and whispers, “I don’t really love cinnamon jellybeans. I just eat them to, ah…feel like him.”
“You do stuff like that?”
“Kinda sorta constantly.” Abel peers down at the smiley face doodled on his left shoe. “Sometimes when I do something brave I feel like I’m cheating because I was being him in my head the whole time. I get so into it that I’ll catch my reflection in a window and for a second I’m surprised I look like me instead of him.” He side-eyes me. “Did I say that out loud? God, I swear I’m not a nutbar!”
I nod with quiet reverence. It’s like when I was five and found out Danny Zurick liked peeling glue off his hands, too. “S’okay.”
“You won’t tell?”
“I’ve got four Sim playlists on my phone.”
“Dork.” He smacks me, laughing. “You know, I had this horrible dream the rumors were true and they killed off Cadmus.”
“Don’t even worry.”
“But just the idea.”
“I’m the same. Like in 3-11, when the