Together, they were unstoppable. The way Dad told it, he barely knew how to darn pants, never mind sew cosplay, but Mom was a pro. She was known through the circuits as one of the queens of cosplay. She made Dad’s Federation Prince uniform as an anniversary present, and he looked great in it (that was also back when he had hair). He always said he was the studdiest muffin. I laughed, but in all the pictures Catherine threw away he really was handsome. In a 1980s, Marty McFly sort of way.
In the Starfield world, Mom and Dad became celebrities in their own right—Big Name Fans before the internet was even a thing—and then Dad went on to found ExcelsiCon.
I keep scrolling. There are more comments, but it’s just too overwhelming to read. I ease away from my computer, change into my pajamas, and face-plant on my bed. There’s no way that I have that many page views. It’s a trick. Someone’s playing games. But Chloe’s friends aren’t that smart, and I don’t know of anyone else who would.
Out the attic window, heat lightning streaks across the ocean. Through the damp wood of the attic, I can smell the rain in the air. Dad loved thunderstorms. He would sit with me out on the porch and we would watch them together.
“They’re starfights, starlight,” he would tell me. Starlight—his nickname for me. Like in the rhyme.
Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…
How many times did we used to look out these windows together? I turn my face into my pillow so I can’t see the sky anymore. Without this house, I have no reason to stay. Catherine doesn’t want me, and the twins certainly don’t either. But I don’t have anywhere to go. What I need is for the Prospero to come sweep me up. What I need is a ticket to another universe.
Outside, the thunderhead slowly crosses the ocean, eating up all the stars in the sky.
THE HOTEL MATTRESS IS TOO SOFT. They’re always too soft. I sometimes dream I’m drowning in them. Those are the worst nightmares, but not as bad as the ones where I’m falling. I didn’t have falling nightmares until a stunt went wrong during filming of the climax of Seaside Cove’s first season. My harness broke and I fell twenty feet—onto foam, but still. For two seconds I forgot the camouflaged foam wasn’t cement.
How am I going to film Starfield, whirling around in harnesses in “deep space,” if I can’t even get over a twenty-foot fall? Worse, what if that dude in the cafeteria was right?
I fluff up my pillow again and roll over onto my back, trying to forget about him. The ceiling’s absolutely spotless. That’s how you can really tell how expensive a place is. I remember when Mark didn’t put me up in five-star hotels, back when I first auditioned for Seaside Cove. He drove me to the casting call in Santa Barbara and booked me into a shoddy Motel 6 that had roaches crawling across the ceiling.
It’s no use. I can’t sleep. I sit up, scratching my stomach from where the airbrush makeup irritated my skin, and wander over to the mini-fridge. Low-calorie beer, bottles of water. I actually don’t want beer, though I’m pretty sure the entire population of eighteen-year-old guys would disown me for that, and the water’s the weird kind with added electrolytes.
What I want is an Orange Crush. It’s my one and only kryptonite, diet or no diet. One of these floors has to have a soda machine, and even a walk down the hall beats being holed up in a hotel room.
I’m pulling a hoodie over my head when the door lock clicks green and Mark strides in, coming off a call from some other agent or producer or whoever.
“Hey! Yo, ever heard of knocking?” I grumble, tugging my hoodie down in aggravation.
“Heard of it.” He takes a no-taste beer out of the mini-fridge and pops it open on the half-kitchen counter. “Enjoying the hotel room?”
“I was just about to go get a soda.”
“Call room service,” he replies, taking out the menu from behind the phone on the desk in the sitting area. Yeah, my hotel room has a sitting area. “What do you want? I’ll do it—”
“Never mind. I’ll just have a bottle of water.” I sulk over to grab one from the fridge. Electrolyte water tastes as bland as my soul feels. “What’d you want?”
“What, a father can’t spend some quality time with his son?”
I give him a look.
“Fine.” He takes another swig before setting his beer on the coffee table. He sits down in one of the plush velvet chairs. I take the one opposite of him.
We look alike, from our brown skin to our black hair. But I got my nose from my mom, and apparently my temperament from her father. At least that’s what Mark said. They split up a long time ago, in the B.S.C. (Before Seaside Cove) days. Mom went back to her socialite family in London, and I can’t say I blame her—if being Mark’s son is this bad, I can’t imagine what being married to him was like. These days she’s always doing charity work with her new husband in India or modeling for Italian magazines or something. She used to invite me to family reunions to meet the Dayal side of the family. I went once, but because I grew up with my dad, I didn’t know how to address my grandparents, I didn’t know table etiquette (you use your right hand, never pour your own drink, eat only after the eldest at the table has eaten). The Dayals were open and welcoming, but I felt like an idiot, like a jigsaw piece that didn’t fit into their big picture.
After that disastrous reunion I stopped going, and after a while Mom stopped inviting me, the son of a Hollywood social climber—I’m sorry, manager. Now it’s just me and Mark, united under the Freeman brand.
“So, here’s the deal,” he says. “We’re moving your vacation to the weekend after you wrap filming.”
“Surprise,” I deadpan, waiting for the rest. I want him to bring it up—ExcelsiCon. Because he sure as hell hasn’t yet. I failed miserably this morning when I called—well, texted—that stranger. I didn’t get the person at the con, and I practically blew my cover besides. It was, certifiably, one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had.
“We had some last-minute gig come up. A photo shoot for Entertainment Today, a car commercial—assuming those clowns at BMW USA sharpen their pencils a little—and that appearance at the…you know. The thing.” He waves his hand in a spiral.
“The con,” I say shortly.
He snaps. “That’s it. Look, I know Hello, America spoiled the surprise, but—”
“Spoiled the surprise? I’m not an idiot, Mark. I know you didn’t tell me so that they’d corner me and I’d basically have no choice but to agree on camera!”
He sighs. “Come on, kid. You love cons, don’t you? You always went with that buddy of yours. Billy or Bucky—”
“Brian.”
“Yeah, him. And you haven’t been to one in a while. I thought, hey! Let’s give him something he’ll actually like doing!”
I massage the bridge of my nose. “Mark, you know I don’t—”
“Yes yes, you ‘don’t do cons.’ I get it—”
“Did you just air-quote me?”
“—but hey, you know what? It’ll perfect timing at the end of summer to remind everyone that you’re in Starfield. You’re coming right off filming! You’ll be in great shape! And it’s great press to get out there and meet the fans.”