a skinny lady with straggly brown hair—are getting absolutely jackhammered. The crowd around them gets bigger and angrier by the minute, the fans shooting out questions and threats and conspiracy theories.
“I drove my son all the way from New York! We’re missing fireworks for this.”
“I knew he’d pull this. He planned it, didn’t he?”
“He’s got stage fright, you guys. He said—”
“Bullshit! He hates us. Always has.”
“Refunds or revolt, people!”
“Refunds or revolt! Refunds or revolt!”
Bec pulls me away from the chanting crowd.
“Sorry,” she says. “This sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“What do you want to do?”
I scan the convention hall, hoping the answer will pop out. But it’s all the same CastieCon stuff—the vendors and the overpriced snack stand and the trivia games and costume contests—and none of it is fun without Abel. I can’t go, though. Not yet. I can’t just go home to my pissed-off parents and the St. Matt’s Funfair and my stupid room with the stupid solar system sheets, like the past six weeks never even happened.
“I need some time,” I tell Bec. “I think maybe a long walk or something…”
“Want company?”
“Not this time. That okay?”
She nods. “I’ll hang out here. I want to call Dave anyway.”
“Are you sure?”
“There’s a fanfic panel at 12. It might be fun and educational.”
“Really.”
“Plus there’s a pool. Take your time.”
She’s snapping a little blue plastic dragonfly barrette in her hair, the kind she used to wear when we were kids and spent whole afternoons in the woods around St. Matt’s with her dad’s metal detector. She used to save the bottle caps for me, even that awesome vintage Orange Crush cap she probably wanted to keep.
I crush her in a hug.
“Okay, freakshow,” she laughs. “Go find your epiphany.”
“Thanks.”
“Try the gift shop first. I think they’re on sale.”
I give her a raspberry and a wave.
“Bring me back a snow globe!”
***
I stick my earbuds in and call up a Sim playlist, scrolling right to the song Abel contributed (”Coin-Operated Boy” by the Dresden Dolls). I stalk the hotel lobby while the song tootles in my ears like a demented music box. I walk with purpose, even though I have none. I scan everything like there’s a clue inside: the concierge, the fountains, the sleek leather armchairs, the glass chandeliers shaped like upside-down birthday cakes.
Just past the elevator banks, I spot the nun.
She’s an old-school kind I’ve only seen in photos, with a long black veil and just a small window of face peeking through. Like a relic from Gram’s day, when it was okay to throw a five-pound Latin hymnal at someone for mispronouncing venite adoremus. She’s walking arm in arm with a young blonde woman who’s dressed way older than she probably is in a dark severe pantsuit and pearls, her hair swept up and sprayed stiff. She looks familiar, the way all churchy girls do. They’re probably off to some kind of youth convention, where Pantsuit Woman will pump them up with an abstinence-is-cool speech and the nun will make sure no one’s secretly making out in the coat closet.
Follow them.
The weird idea presses into me. Lightly at first, then hard as a fist; they vanish around a corner and my legs jerk to action, run to catch up. Cold sweat breaks out on my neck. When you’re trolling for a sign and your gut tells you follow that nun, you probably won’t like what you get.
They turn down a narrow hallway, a dim passage with a red EXIT sign flickering at the end. I hurry past the opening, all innocent-passer-by, and then back up and duck behind the vending machine at the hall’s entryway.
“He says wait here,” says the nun, in a deep raspy whisper I didn’t expect. “He’s pulling the car around—What’s that face for?”
“You look ridiculous.”
“Effective, though. No one looks a nun in the eye. We’ll return the costume on the way to lunch.”
“Oh, geez, Lenny.”
Every hair on my arms lifts straight up. Now I know where I’ve seen Pantsuit Woman—decorating his arm at the Emmys, shuffling shyly in a mermaid-tail gown, the forums snarking Bray likes ‘em young.
I crouch down and sneak a quick peek.
“This is really pathetic,” his wife is saying.
“Well, I’m sorry, Elizabeth. Some days I can. Some days I cannot. This happens to be a cannot day.”
“At least be honest with them.”
“I was! Illness. It’s a useful word. Crippling anxiety slots neatly therein.”
She sighs. “Crippling? C’mon, that’s a little—”
“I am deep in disguise, skulking past angry throngs of fans. Would I do this unless I had to?—Yes, hello?…Uh-huh, fantastic.