“You’re not.”
“It’s okay. I just came to give you something.” She pulls me out in the hall with her and digs in her black sequined bag. Her eyelids are brushed with silvery shadow. I’m thinking a mini Sim bobblehead from the souvenir stand, or a funny haiku like the ones we used to make up together during study hall.
Instead, she pulls out a little foil packet.
“What’s this?” I back up.
“It’s a lubricated, extra-large, glow-in-the-dark—”
“I know what it is.”
“Just in case.”
“No. There’s no way.”
She slips the condom in my jacket pocket and gives it a pat.
“If your heart gets broken tonight,” she says, “I’m just down the hall.”
“Won’t you be…busy?”
“Oh no. As I found out today in the autograph line for the Henchmen, Dave is saving himself for marriage.”
“Really?”
She points a gun-finger at her head and blams. “I’m finally hundreds of miles from Mom and it’s like she picked him out.”
“Sorry.”
“He’s still adorable. Ugh!”
Our talk is all wry and surfacey and I kind of want to grab her by the shoulders, dare her to tell me what she thinks will happen tonight if I go through with the plan and kiss Abel on the dance floor.
But I don’t want her answer. Not really.
Dave comes loping around the corner. He’s got on a fashionably small brown suit and a Where the Wild Things Are t-shirt, and he’s crunching on cheddar popcorn. Bec elbows him playfully and grabs a handful. They look good together, friendly and fun and equal. Not like her parents; they’d make you tense, like a grizzly bear glowering at a crow that won’t stop cawing. I like Dave better now that I know he won’t be having sex with Bec tonight while I brood alone in the hotel room we splurged on, Abel snoring obliviously one bed over.
“Great costume, man,” Dave says. “You look intense.”
“Wait till you see Abel,” Bec tells him. She lands a soft punch on my shoulder. “Go get him.”
Chapter Seventeen
As soon as the four of us hit the lobby, we hear the Castaway Balclass="underline" thudding electro-pop, the din of half-drunk fans. I swallow hard, adjust my Cadmus shades. It’s like in the movies when someone’s about to be hanged in the square, and he hears the drums and the bloodthirsty crowd in the distance.
Forward march.
Abel jabs me with an elbow. “Ready for muchas smooches?” he snarks.
“Don’t sound so excited.”
“We’re going to make it a quick kiss, right? Leave the fans wanting more?”
“Sure.” I nod fast. “Right.” What does that mean?
“How many Abandon spies here tonight?”
“Um, three. At least.” A couple girls in Henchman robes giggle past us. “whispering!sage, amity crashful…hey_mamacita.”
“Aw. Your favorite.”
She could be in there already. She could be right on the other side of the ballroom door. I try to message her telepathically. Please please send me good vibes. Help tonight not be a total spacewreck.
My phone goes off. HOME CALLING. Not now. I wait till it stops and then I text back: ALLS WELL WILL CALL 2MORROW LOVE U.
Abel slips our silver tickets to a girl in a red-and-black striped suit and red Henchman contacts. She geeks out over our costumes, winds on our glow-in-the-dark wristbands, and passes us the question paddle Abel prepaid for and our VIP goodie bags.
Then the double doors swing open.
I’m like…swept away. It sounds like fluttery fanfic but there’s no other way to describe it. Entering the ball is like crashing on a planet where no one cares how you dress or how you dance or who you love. Everywhere you look there’s a beautiful weirdo: the guy gyrating on stilts in a homemade Xaarg cape, the chubby tattooed girl twirling in a skirt made of glow-sticks, the pale androgynous couple in matching Lagarde black leather. Beyond a cluster of small tables with glowing centerpieces shaped like Xaarg’s hat, there are even two girls dressed like Cadmus and Sim, holding hands on the edge of the dance floor.
Bec and Dave run off together, disappear into the churn of dancers. I just stand there in the doorway with Abel and grin like an idiot, the disco ball scattering stars on my face and the music pounding me a new heartbeat. I scan the crowd for hey_mamacita, for the sunflower she said she’d pin in her dreadlocks.
“The night that changed everything…” Abel says.
I look over at him, hopefully, but then I see he’s ripped his goodie bag open and is holding an oversized trading card, reading the caption under a picture of the smashed-up Starsetter.
“What’s in your bag?” he says.
I tear it open, not caring, still glancing around for dreads and a sunflower. A sheet of Castaway Planet logo stickers, a few jumbo trading cards, a silver favor bag of cinnamon jellybeans, and a reminder to purchase our pre-autographed Darras/Ransome photos from the booth to our immediate left.
“Thirty bucks? What a rook.” He’s already fishing in his wallet. “One David Darras,” he yells to the booth guy.
“Really?” I poke him.
“It’s for you, dimwit.”
“You don’t have to—”
He waves me off, grabs his change and the rolled-up photo. “Here, babe. Your hero.”
“What about your hero?”
“Eh. Got him in my head.”
I slide off the rubber band and unroll the photo. Darras is in his Sim costume, perfect as always, but the smile is stiff and cheesy and the signature’s so sloppy I can only read the Ds. It’s weird; a few weeks ago I would’ve held the photo up to the light to trace the whorls of his fingerprints, would’ve nearly passed out just knowing that David Darras was backstage and I was going to lay eyes on him in person within five minutes.
I blink at the photo. I don’t feel too much, just a little twinge. It’s only special now because Abel bought it for me.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
He looks away. “S’okay.”
Brandon gathered all his courage like dry tinder sticks and, with a sharp hopeful intake of breath, boldly lit the match.
“You…want to dance?”
“Umm.” He fiddles with the collar on his Sim shirt. “Maybe we should wait.”
I droop inside. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I think maybe—”
“THE MOMENT HAS ARRIVED.”
The music cuts off. The blue and purple lights stop pulsing. On the ballroom stage, a single spotlight pops on, and a slick-haired announcer in a tux jacket and logo t-shirt steps into place. Everyone flips into cutthroat mode, squeezing and elbowing toward the stage for prime Q&A real estate.
“Wanna get close?” Abel nudges me.
Yes. Yes.
I shrug carefully. “Let’s stay here.”
“Really?”
“We’ve got a question paddle. They’ll see us.”
“Don’t you want to see them?”
I’d rather see you. God, I need a better line. hey_mamacita, where are you?
“And NOW, Castie boys and girls,” the announcer’s saying, “it’s my honor and pleasure to introduce the men of the hour—the best of friends and the oddest of couples—” He winks, and then waits for the shipper squees to die down. “Let’s give a huuuuuuuuge Castie welcome to the Captain and the Android, ED Ransome and DA-vid DAR-rasssssss!”
Ransome and Darras trot out from behind the black curtain. Matching tuxes. Holding hands. When they hear how loud everyone’s cheering they play it up, raise their clasped hands high like a wishbone and stand there smiling while the whistles and hoots wash over them.
Abel tilts his head. “Ed Ransome’s shorter than I thought.”
I nod. And Darras is an alien without his pale Sim makeup. Tanned and blond and floppy-haired, with a soap-star smile and a loose, preening walk.
Maybe too loose.
“Your boy’s had a few,” whispers Abel.
“Okay, ohhhhhhh-kay, settle down,” Darras grins, waving his arms like a Muppet. “We know. We’re awesome.”
“Well, you’re awesome,” Ransome pouts. “I only aspire to awesomeness.”