untainted boys, they sleep on Star Wars sheets. What could be less intimidating?” He elbows Bec. “Rebecca: can he handle it? Yea or nay?”
“I’m pulling for him.”
“All right, Mr. Roboto.” He bangs Plastic Cadmus on the table like a gavel. “Put your antenna up.”
My stomach crackles.
“You find an appropriate specimen,” I stall, “and I may oblige.”
Abel surveys. Disgustingly, he cracks an ice cube between his teeth. “Him,” he points. “With the blue Chucks.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Pourquoi?”
“He’s barn owl-y.”
“Fine. Inkblot T-Shirt?”
“Pretentious.”
“So? I love pretentious people!”
“Why?”
“They try so hard to be interesting, you don’t have to do any work.”
“Next.”
“Argh! Fine. Mr. Sensitive Ponytail. Reading Ender’s Game.”
“He looks weird.”
“He looks awesome. Go talk to him.”
“About what?”
“Keep it show-related. Talk Season 5 rumors. Bitch about the cliffhanger. Bet he thinks Cadmus is really dead.”
I shoot Bec a save me look. She shrugs.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”
Abel brightens, until he sees where I’m pointing. The guy’s got on polyester pants the color of gravy, glasses thick as a telescope lens, and a baggy blue t-shirt with the Castaway Planet logo on it. I’d put his age at sixty, maybe sixty-five.
“Outstanding,” Abel says. “You think you’re funny? Grandpa it is.”
Old Guy weaves between tables with two white cups on a red plastic tray. He sets it carefully on the two-top in the corner, where a white-haired lady in a matching Castaway shirt waits for him. The little gold cross around her neck glints in the red light of the bookstore’s OPEN sign. He pours two creamers in one cup, stirs it, and presents it to her with a flourish. They smile at each other. Their smiles are the same. They look like my parents will in about twenty years.
That’s what a real marriage looks like, says Father Mike.
“Aww. Ancient fandom geeks.” Abel melts, clutching his heart. “I shall name them Lester annnnd…”
“Gladys,” Bec says.
“Perfect. Lester and Gladys.” Abel shakes his head. “Wow. That’s what I want someday. Don’t you guys?”
Yes yes yes, I want to say. The yeses gather thick in my throat; I swallow them down and blink up at a string of stuttering star-lights.
“Not really,” I shrug.
“Look at them! They’re like little salt and pepper shakers. One breaks and the other’s useless.”
“’Scuse me.” Bec hates soulmate talk; has since her dad left. She gets up from the table. “Bathroom.”
“Brandon—”
“Shh! Look.”
I point to the stage. Someone’s at the mike: this doughy college-age guy with kind apologetic eyes, thinning blond hair, and a black t-shirt printed with constellations. He looks familiar. I don’t like to stereotype since I’m probably a bigger Castaway Planet nerd than half the room, but I can almost see his high school notebooks, and the margins are filled with sketches of supergirls in metal bikinis.
“Hey there, Casties.” Sheepish nice-guy wave. “I’m Bill. Welcome to the CastieCon Kickoff Party.”
We clap. Abel kicks me under the table.
“So—ah.” He takes out some inkstained index cards and clears his throat. I flash back to traumatic oral book reports in grade school. “Four seasons ago, a crew of misfits on the run crashed their spaceship on a tiny unknown planet and became the unwilling lab rats of a merciless and childish omnipotent being known only as Xaarg. Since then, Castaway Planet has captured our imagination and sparked debate week after week. From the rash bravery and grim humor of Captain Cadmus to the, um, deeply human struggles of the elegant android Sim, these characters have become our second family. Good thing we don’t have to spend Thanksgiving with them, though. Right?” He looks up like he expects a laugh. When he doesn’t get one, he clears his throat again and shuffles the cards.
“He’s kind of adorbs,” Abel whispers. “Don’t you think?”
“No.”
“C’mon, he’s all awkward-turtle.”
“Sh.”
“Like he just won a tech award at the Oscars—”
“I’m trying to listen.”
“So anyway, guys,” Bill taps the last index card. “There’s a trivia contest in twenty minutes, 30% off DVD sets and novelizations, and don’t forget to partake of the goodies at the snack bar or we’ll have to, ah, cast them away. Any questions, I’m your go-to guy. Yes? You sir.”
He’s calling on Abel.
“Can you come to our table? We have a question.”
“Sure thing.”
I smack his arm. “What’re you doing?”
“Talk. Just chat a little. You need your wheels greased.”
“I told you—”
“Heyyy, Bill!”
Abel makes introductions. Bill smiles and shakes his hand. I hide mine under the table; they’re already slick with sweat.
“What can I do for ya?” he says.
“Brandon, tell him your question.” He whispers to Bill across the table. “It’s a really