How to Repair a Mechanical Heart (27 page)

I hit send and shut my phone off before it can protest. The world doesn’t end. The cottonwood in front of me is tall and strong and unchanged. I peel a small patch of ragged bark from its side and slip it in my pocket.

Baltimore
.

Bec shuffles back down the dirt trail, drawing a line behind her with the tip of a thick walking stick.

“We’re going on?” she says.

“Going on. Yeah.”

My legs are going boneless. I start to shake a little.

“Here.” She hands me the stick, and we start on the uphill path back to the Sunseeker.

CastieCon #6
Baltimore, Maryland

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bec and I do our usual on the long drive east on I-80.

We put on the playlist we made together a couple years back and hum along with Fleet Foxes, Iron & Wine, Rufus Wainwright, Dylan. We argue over whether
Scott Pilgrim
is actually any good. We polish off the dregs of the snack bin: raisins, stale trail mix, packs of code-orange crackers with crumbly peanut butter filling. She props her polka-dot flip-flops on the dash and reads me ridiculous Cosmo quizzes on the right animal print for your body type and what your favorite martini says about you.

But sometimes I’ll catch her eye over a diner menu or glance at her while we’re stuck in bumper-to-bumper, and I know she knows that everything I say is just filling silence. That inside I’m secretly doing what Past-Tense Brandon does best: flailing wildly.

She’s right. Like right this minute, on the morning of July 4th, what we’re technically doing is listening to the Broken West and estimating how many crunches a day she’d have to do to get as ripped as Della Wolfe-Williams. But the whole time I’m rifling through a flipbook of options. I’ll go home, straight home, and apologize to my parents. I’ll call Abel, beg him for another chance. I’ll find a church and talk to a priest. I’ll pick up some random guy at the Baltimore con and drag him into a bathroom stall. I’ll swear off sex forever and join a monastery and spend the rest of my days meditating and making thimbleberry jam.

“You miss him,” Bec says, for the millionth time. We’re on 76 now, snipping the southwest corner of Pennsylvania. I’m wearing Abel’s white shirt from the Castaway Ball, the sleeves rolled up to fit me and the collar still tinged with blue.

“Yeah.”

“So call him.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s it.” She pulls out her phone. “I’m dialing.”

“No! Don’t.”

“Why?”

“It’ll just make things worse.”

“Like waiting too long won’t?”

“I need a sign.”

“Okay: STOP.”

“No no, listen. I have a
feeling
.”

She sighs. “Here we go.”

I can’t explain it. I try anyway. I tell her I feel like something’s going to happen at the Baltimore con, at the Q&A. Like I’ll absorb some of Lenny Bray’s storytelling genius on this subatomic level and I’ll have an epiphany, and all the confusion will dry up and I’ll know exactly what to do and where to go next.

Bec nods gravely. “That’s really kind of dumb.”

I grip the wheel tighter and kick it up to seventy. Let her think that; I don’t care. We merge onto 70 East, toward Baltimore. I direct the next part straight to God, if he’s up there.
Please help me. Please find some way to speak through Leonard Bray today. Give me, once and for all, the sign I’ve been waiting for.

***

***WE’RE SORRY***
TODAY’S Q&A WITH LEONARD BRAY
IS CANCELLED DUE TO ILLNESS
MR. BRAY SINCERELY REGRETS ANY INCONVENIENCE
***NO REFUNDS***

For a long time I just stare at the sign‌—‌attached to the closed door of Meeting Room 1-C with cheery mismatched thumbtacks, as if it were announcing a shortage of strawberry ice cream instead of a cruel practical joke of the universe.

“Crap,”
I whisper.

Bec squeezes my arm.

Outside the Q&A room in the Baltimore Dorchester, the CastieCon staff‌—‌a burly guy with a black goatee and 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. And it’s a curtained alcove? Marvelous. We’re on our way.” His phone snaps shut. “Reservations at Cereza. That should cheer you up. Private room, little plates, no one to bother us.”

“You break people’s hearts.”

“Darling, please. They just want to ogle me like a zoo animal. The only one who truly wants to see my ugly mug is you.”

“Not true. You’re the Genius Creator.”

“Oh, tell me more.”

Do it now. Talk to him.
I risk another peek; Bray’s yanking off the nun costume, hopping on one foot with a hand on his wife for balance, and he looks so human and approachable with his bald spot showing and his underwear peeking from the waistband of his cords that‌…‌

A sneeze sizzles up my nose and roars out of me.

“Who’s there?” Bray’s voice: sharp and mean, a trace of fear. I clap a hand to my mouth.

“Hello?” says Elizabeth.

“Show yourself!” I get a fanboy chill. He’s doing Xaarg. I remember how he joked in that interview once, how writing the voice of God was “frighteningly easy” for him. “It’s impolite to hover!”

I could run. There’s a staircase three doors down; I could lose the voice of God in a heartbeat if I tried.

I close my eyes. Breathe in, breathe out.

I step into the dim hallway light.

Bray squints.

“My glasses,” he whispers. Elizabeth digs in her little black purse, passes them over. He slides on a thick pair of tortoiseshell frames and sizes me up.

“What hath the heavens discharged?” He blinks theatrically. “One rumpled fool in an ill-fitting shirt.”

I clear my throat. “Mr. Bray, I‌—‌”

“Oh. God. Why? Why why why do you have to know who I am?”

“Foolproof costume,” Elizabeth eyerolls.

“No‌—‌” I take a step closer. He’s short in person; we stand eye to eye. “No, see, I’m a fan‌—‌”

“Of course you are. Of course. You took pictures with one of those miniscule stalker-cameras, no? By day’s end your Internet boards will be aflame with scandal!
Leonard Bray Ditches Q&A! Secret Nun Fetish Photos Inside!”

“No, I won’t say anything. I promise.”

“Uh-huh. What a Boy Scout. I suppose you followed me to buy me pork rinds?” He gestures toward the snack machine.

“No‌…‌” I try a smile. “Do you want some?”

“Stupendous. He’s a comedian, too.” Lenny Bray goes off on a muttering rant, addressing the Ho-Hos in the C4 slot. I try to absorb it: the supreme creator of Sim and Cadmus, the guiding force behind everything
Castaway Planet,
the entire reason I went to bed smiling last year, is standing right in front of me and knocking his head against a vending machine.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” says Elizabeth. “He has‌…‌some problems.”

I watch in awe. “It’s okay. I do too.”

“Why don’t you join us for lunch?”

“What?”
Bray stops the head-knocking and glares fire at her.

“Sure. We treat you to a once-in-a-lifetime afternoon with the creator of
Castaway Planet,
and you won’t spread any rumors about today. Right?”

What else would I say? “Absolutely.”

“Lenny?”

“Fine.” He slumps against the machine and knots his arms. “He’s not sitting next to me on the drive over.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Leonard Bartholomew Bray,” Elizabeth scolds. “Will you lean in a little? He won’t bite you!”

In the white curtained alcove of some fancy small-plate restaurant, Lenny Bray is protesting a photo op. Elizabeth frowns behind my phone, waving us closer together. Her pink nails are perfectly rounded and she’s got a giant honker of a diamond ring on her left hand.

“He’s going to post this,” Bray whines. “I know it.”

“Well, he said he wouldn’t, and I believe him. He deserves a souvenir.”

“And I deserved a day of rest. Genesis says so.”

Lunch is not going exactly as planned.

I want to ask Bray a thousand questions about Sim and Cadmus and the rumors about next season and of course the cave scene, but so far opening my mouth in his presence hasn’t yielded very positive results. It’s like a nasty version of comedy-club improv; I toss out a random comment, he builds a complaint around it. By the time the shark fritters and goat cheese ravioli arrive, I kind of have to face it: in addition to being smart and witty and talented and even kind of cute in a pop-eyed, older-guy, sweater-vesty way, Leonard Bray is pretty much a giant jerkoff.

Once Elizabeth snaps the photo, he starts yammering again: “Oh, and
another
thing about the Loyola English department!” I made the mistake of telling him I’d be a freshman at his alma mater this year. “If Antonia Humphrey is still moldering in her corner office, don’t ever take 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.”