How to Repair a Mechanical Heart - By J. C. Lillis Page 0,78
her class on The Epic. That miserable twat. I spent three days on an essay comparing Odysseus and Travis Bickle and she called it forced and indulgent and gave me a C minus. Meanwhile the rest of the class is stuck in preschool, decoding symbolism like good little sheep—”
“Lenny,” says Elizabeth.
“What?”
“Maybe he’d like to ask you some questions about the show.”
“Well, he can’t. I can’t say anything.”
“Not spoilers. Just tidbits he might be interested in.”
“Oh. Fine, fine.” He sighs. “All right, Brendan. Can I interest you in any tidbits?”
“Sure.” I fiddle with my chicken kabob. “Actually, I did have a question.”
“I shall do my best.”
“It’s about Cadmus and Sim.”
“Oh goody.”
“So, I…” I gulp some water. “There’s a lot of ah, fanfiction about that one scene in the crystal spider cave—”
“Terrible episode. I regret it. Derailed the whole season’s momentum.”
“I sort of agree, but…” I’m blushing already; there’s no chance he’ll take this well. “After they say that line about how the cave could swallow up your secrets and it kind of faded out? Did they, um…do anything?”
“What do you mean?”
He blinks at me. I want to vanish.
“Anything romantic,” Elizabeth smiles.
“Did they fuck?” says Lenny Bray. “Is that the question?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Jesus. How would I know?”
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“Seriously, why even ask me that?”
“Well…ah, it’s your show, and—”
“I will never, ever, for as long as I live, understand you people. Every goddamned Q&A it happens! Mr. Bray, what does this line mean? Mr. Bray, is Castaway Planet the afterlife? Can Sim fall in love? Is Xaarg good or evil?” He stuffs two ravioli in his mouth. “Apparently an alarming percentage of you traipse through life without a single independent thought. I thought my fans were supposed to be smart!”
“But you created the characters, so—
“Oh, so I’m God? Is that it?”
“No, but—”
“Listen, you runt. I saw that self-righteous eyeroll when you said fanfiction. Let me tell you something: I fucking love fanfiction. Why do you think I made up these characters? So I could play with dolls in public and tell everyone else ‘hands off’? So I could spoon-feed you stories from on high about the mysteries of love and free will and giant alien spiders?” He shows me his palms, then the backs of his hands. “I am one man with a laptop. When I give the world my characters, it’s because I don’t want to keep them for myself. You don’t like what I made them do? Fucking tell me I’m wrong! Rewrite the story. Throw in a new plot twist. Make up your own ending. Castaway Planet is supposed to be a living piece of art!” He wags a tiny fork in my direction. “I don’t know you from Adam, but if you’re sitting there drooling in front of the TV like I suspect you are, letting me have the Final Word every goddamned Thursday night, you frankly don’t even deserve to be a fan, Brendan.”
Elizabeth sighs. She’s heard it before. “Lenny.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Come on.”
He purses his lips. “What?”
“This poor kid looks up to you. Can’t you give him an answer?”
Lenny Bray looks me right in the eye. He stabs another shark fritter with the little fork.
“I thought I just did,” he says.
I should be crushed by all this, but I’m not. I get this calm settled feeling, like when you see where the last three pieces of a thousand-piece puzzle are supposed to go.
“I have to leave now,” I tell them.
“I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth touches my hand. “He’s having a bad day.”
“You have no idea what it’s like to be me.” Leonard Bray pouts and shoves a fritter in his mouth. “No one has any idea.”
“That’s true, sir. It was good to meet you.”
“I doubt that.”
Elizabeth blots her pink lips with a napkin and folds it carefully on her empty plate. She’s given up saving the day; you can tell.
“At least let our driver take you back,” she says to the napkin.
Outside, cabs are rattling by; the day’s first firecrackers are going off in the distance.
“That’s okay.” I nod to Bray, standing Sim-straight. “I’ll find my own way.”
***
In two months, this’ll be my city.
I’ve been here in Baltimore a few times since I was a kid—an aquarium trip, a college tour—but never without my parents. I let myself meander. Past the tourist crowds and the glassed-in malls and the old battleships moored in the harbor, across a swarming intersection and into a homey network of narrow streets. Junk shops and bars and bookstores introduce themselves to me, murmur about