But it’s awesome to think about all those people, too, all over the country, who love the same things that you do. Or who love other things, their things, as much as you love your thing. God bless fandom, forever and ever. Amen.
“This is your first time to do meet and greets? To do photo sessions?” Michaela asks.
“Yeah, so go easy on me, okay?” Hunter says, with that little, shy half smile, to us, and I promise myself right then and there, I promise myself in my heart, that I will be cool when I have my photo op. I will.
It’s got to be a Special Memory, after all.
6
Michaela and Hunter have a little back-and-forth onstage about the show, about the fandom, about the best-part-of-the-show-so-far, and then Michaela says, “Okay, does anyone have a question?”
And like a jackrabbit, I’m up, along with people all over the ballroom, even while Michaela and Hunter continue talking onstage.
“Attagirl, get in there!” Imani whispers as I climb over her lap.
Siggy whisper-cheer-screams for me as I’m climbing over laps like a hurdler, then I’m in the aisle hustling to the line already forming.
I actually do have a question—it’s about something it felt like Hunter was almost going to say in an interview, but the interviewer moved on before he said it. The interviewer had asked why Hunter identifies with his character so much. Hunter had started in, his usual boilerplate answer about Clay’s vulnerability and toughness, but then he started to look contemplative and he said, “Clay’s a searcher, you know? And I feel like I’m searching, too.”
And then the interviewer did not ask what Hunter is searching for! So that’s my question. That’s what I want to know. And I feel . . . an affinity toward that unanswered question. To the idea of searching, and to Hunter as a searcher, because sometimes I just get this yearning inside. Like a longing. Like I’m missing a part of myself, almost. This big, nameless feeling like there’s something out there in the world waiting just for me, somehow. And if I could figure out what it is then I wouldn’t be scared that I won’t ever find it. And I won’t be as scared about graduation, or what’s next, or any of it. Or if I still get scared sometimes, it won’t be as big, the not knowing, because I’ll know about this other part. This part that’s mine.
Also, and this might be corny, okay, I admit that, but I feel like by asking my question, maybe I’ll let Hunter know that I recognized him in that moment, you know? That he’s not just an actor, not just a show pony, but a person with something to say.
I don’t know. It’s ridiculous.
I still want to know the answer.
I’m the sixth person in line, but that’s okay, I saw online they usually take at least ten questions. And I also know from watching the sessions with some of the other actors that most of the questions are either about their personal lives, their pets (Hunter has a dog, a super-cute mutt named Best Rex, so I bet someone asks about him), or it’s not a question at all and is instead a fan wanting to talk about a show theory or something.
Okay, yes, I spent a lot of time researching for this. Like, a lot. Hours, even. My dad said I should use my powers for good but he was just kidding, really.
Since I’m the sixth in line that means I’m almost guaranteed to get to ask my question!
Then I see a second mic in the next aisle, and I realize if they alternate, and if they stop at ten, I won’t get to ask my question
But maybe, just maybe . . .
Michaela starts cuing the stagehands holding the mics, and I’m listening but it’s kind of hard to hear over the thuds of my galloping heart. I’m inching forward, and no one has asked my question, and then they get to the eighth person.
And she ruins it for everyone.
“Hi, I love you. My question is . . . can I get a hug?”
The reaction of the audience is split, one part groan of annoyance, and one part get it, girl.
Hunter laughs and his hand comes up and pushes the hair down over his eyes, a nervous gesture, but he says, “Sure.” He hands his mic to Michaela and hops off the stage and trots up the aisle. The girl steps out in front of the mic a few steps, and Hunter is there, just a few feet in front of me, and he gives her a hug, a little awkward, bending down, but he smiles and he doesn’t hold her like he really resents it, he just gives her a quick squeeze, and she asks to take a selfie, and he does and—
Fortune favors the bold, I guess.
I am so jealous of her. And so mad at her.
Hunter trots back up to the stage and everyone is screaming, and I see Hunter say something to Michaela, and he’s smiling, but then Michaela says something about what a great crowd we’ve been, and thanks so much for opening the con, Hunter. Hunter says, my pleasure, thanks, guys! And he waves and scoots off that stage fast before anyone can ask for another hug.
It’s over. I didn’t get to ask my question. That’s it, there won’t be another chance. Photo ops move so fast I won’t be able to ask then, and besides I don’t want to monopolize the time because Siggy and Imani and I pooled all our money together for it.
I didn’t get to ask my question.
I still feel a little shaky from the adrenaline dump, and a little empty like a balloon drifting down to the floor.
Onstage Michaela is saying don’t go far, the next event is a panel featuring some writers of the show, and after that is the zombie makeup team, don’t miss it—
But all around me people are grabbing their things and making their way out, brushing past those of us who rushed out to get in line and are still standing in the aisle.
Imani and Siggy are making their way toward me. Imani has my mini backpack slung over one shoulder.
I’m struggling to keep from feeling furious at that girl, wondering if the session would have gone on longer, if I would have been able to ask my question, and also wondering if he smelled good and if that girl can die happy now that she got a selfie and a hug.
Ugh.
“Ugh,” Siggy says as they reach me.
“Ugh.” Imani hands over my backpack and starts to lead the way out. “That’s so unfair!”
“Yep,” I say, but they know how I feel already; they heard me practice my question all week.
We step out into the airy hallway, and file onto the down escalator.
“Okay, we’re not going to let that ruin our day but can I just say, that was so much BS.” Imani runs a hand over her side-sweep of wavy hair.
“It was,” I agree. “I’m just gonna be in my emotions about it for a little bit more.”
“We still have the photo op,” Siggy says. “Maybe you can ask your question then.”