How to Repair a Mechanical Heart (19 page)

He’s already gearing up for it. I can tell. He can’t even look me in the eye.

“Brandon?”

Bec’s voice, muffled behind our door. Her room is down the hall. I lunge for the doorknob, relieved for something neutral to do. Abel retreats to the bathroom and turns the water on, full blast.

Bec is dressed in a way my parents would fully approve of (on this trip, anyway): hair twisted up, siren-seductive in the slinky black ‘70s number she picked up on Wednesday at a vintage shop in Phoenix. “This says
I dance with gay boys, and possibly try to convert them
,” Abel had grinned, holding the dress up to her chest as I admired his profile in the shop’s dim Tiffany lamplight. He picked great: I’ve never seen her look so comfortable in a dress. It’s nothing like that night at my house, when she stopped by post-prom in that stiff pink thing her mom had bought her and we ate Ben & Jerry’s and bitched about boys until two a.m.

“Wow.” She appraises my Cadmus transformation. The
wow
sounds complex.

“Look, I don’t need a lecture because nothing’s going to‌—‌”

“I don’t lecture. Since when do I lecture?”

“Never. But I know you think‌—‌”

“I’m the sidekick.” She fiddles with a pin in her hair. “Doesn’t matter what I think.”

“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
blam
s. “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 Ball: 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.”

“He sells himself short, guys. All the time. Kinda tragic, don’t you think?”

They pingpong some more.
I am in the presence of David Darras,
I remind myself, but it doesn’t take. I bump my hand against Abel’s a couple times, accidentally-on-purpose, hoping he’ll get all lust-crazed from gazing at Ed Ransome’s rugged face and spiky hair and slide his warm fingers through mine. He just stares straight ahead at the stage, this weird unreadable look on his face.

“‌…‌soooo we know you guys have your questions ready,” says Darras. “But how’s about we start with the big question that’s been on
evvvveryone’s
mind since the finale.”

Ed Ransome nods. “Right. ‘Is Cadmus dead?’”

“No no no, dear. Did we do it in the cave?”

Shrieks and catcalls from the Cadsim shippers peppering the crowd. A few boos sneak in, but barely; everyone’s too drunk and giddy for ship wars.

“Ohhh, trust me, superfans and slashers,” Darras says, eyeing up Ransome head to foot. “Ed and I discuss this
nonstop
.”

“It’s true. We do,” Ransome deadpans.

“He calls me at three in the morning, people, and asks if I want to ‘practice some kissing scenes’‌…‌you know, just in case.”

“He can’t get enough of me.”

“For realsies.”

“David.”

“Yes, Ed?”

“Don’t say
for realsies.”

Darras shrugs. “So, anyway. Regarding Sim and Cadmus. Here’s what I think: there was plenty of buildup this season, their friendship’s been unfolding in a distinctly ambiguous direction since Day 1, and when two actors bring such undeniable personal chemistry to the table, it’d be a crime against nature to waste it.”

My head throbs.
Yes. Yes. Say more.

“Sooo, as a hopeless romantic and the former treasurer of my high school GSA, I’m gonna say yes! Cave love: it totally happened!”

Two Cadsim girls in front of us lose their minds. Darras and Ransome lean closer and mouth some smiley mystery words to each other. Ransome puts a hand up, waits for the crowd to quiet.

“Welllllll,
I
happen to be a realist,” says Ransome, twisting the gold band on his thick tanned hand. “So since there’s no hard canon evidence yet, I’m going to poop everyone’s party and say no‌—‌”

Booing. Darras waves them quiet.

“HOWEVER, however,” Darras says. “Let’s clarify. You would not have been able to resist me, my dear.”

Ransome claps a hand to his chest. “Oh, well, that’s a given. Who could?”

A girl in the audience shouts something out. Darras cups his ear.

“What’s that? Yeah, you. Girl in the lovely dress with‌—‌ohh. Ed, is that an iron-on of
us
?”

“I believe it is.”

I crane my neck to see where he’s pointing. A stick-figure redhead twirls, shows off a blue t-shirt dress with a Cadsim-kiss manip on it.

“That is‌…‌oh, that is really quite special,” Darras says.

Abel mutters, “Miss Maxima minion.”

“Sweetie, you had a question?”

“Yes! Yes.” The girl scootches over to one of the mikes in the audience. “So would you guys‌—‌maybe show us what the kiss
would’ve
looked like? If it actually happened?”

A low expectant
oooooooohhh
travels the room. Abel freezes. He goes vacant, like Sim does when he’s plugged into his charging dock.

Darras puts on this innocent look and starts pacing the stage, swerving a little. “That’s‌…‌something you guys would be interested in, huh? I don’t know‌…‌”

Someone whips out the kind of whistle you use to hail a cab three lanes over. That sets the other girls off. More whistles, rowdy YEAHHHs. Darras and Ransome side-eye each other.

“Hmm.” Darras strokes his chin. “A real live Cadsim kiss‌—‌that’s what you guys call it, right? Cadsim?”

The girls in front of us are getting frantic now. I feel it. What they want is so close they’re afraid to trust it, afraid it’s a tease or a joke. Abel’s pale Sim face is three shades paler.

“Okay, but we want to know you realllllllly want it, right, Ed?”

“Nah, they don’t look like they want it.”

“They really don’t.”

“Maybe they should show us.”

I don’t know who starts the chant. But it picks up fast:

“Cad-sim, Cad-sim‌…‌”

“Eh, I don’t know, Ed. What do you think?”

“They’re pretty quiet, actually.”

They layer on claps and stomps, rattle the fake-wood squares of the dance floor. There can’t be this many Cadsim shippers here; it’s drunk girls up for anything, fans who want a good story to tell, people who think it’s just fun to shout:

“CAD-sim! CAD-sim!”

“Uh-oh,” says Darras. “They’re getting hot and bothered.”