How to Repair a Mechanical Heart (10 page)

The lights cut out.

Bec says, “What the‌—‌?” My insides jump.

Giggles.

Nervous whispers.

A voice in the dark:
Um, hellooo?

The lights flicker on but stay dim. There’s a loud wheezy *poof*, like an old-time camera, and a thick cloud of Xaarg’s purple smoke engulfs the stage. Red lasers stutter. Xaarg’s theme blares: three descending cello notes sawed on a sinister loop. People clap and stomp like it’s a monster truck rally and Abel’s bouncing up and down, fist-pumping and shouting YEAH WOOO-HOOOO and I look for the nearest exit, just to know it’s there.

When the smoke clears, Tom Shandley stands alone onstage, filing his nails with a small silver dagger. He wears his red-and-purple ceremonial robe, a black stole embroidered with gold skulls and swords, and a two-foot-tall red velvet hat.

He cups a hand to one ear.

Cheers. Decibel level: new pope at balcony.

Nothing’s left of the Henchman. Just a heap of black robe, a wisp of steam escaping it. Shandley bends down and pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, dangles it like a rotten sardine.

“That’s what the little beast gets,” Shandley vamps, “for
ringing my bells.”

Abel hoots and whistles. My vest is unbearable; I unzip it a centimeter, let out some heat.

Shandley’s taking off the hat, smoothing his neat silver hair with a little black comb. He’s tanner and thinner than usual and his sharp nose and chin look sharper in person. He loses the robe next, slowly, an ironic striptease that more than half the audience seems to appreciate unironically. Pressed gray pants and black
Castaway
shirt underneath.

“Before you ask, let’s get a few things out of the way.” He plucks the mike off its stand. “I’m a Leo with Scorpio rising, my favorite color is chartreuse, I do all my own stunts, and I will not, I repeat,
not
go to the prom with you.” A staff guy hurries onstage with a paper coffee cup; Shandley takes a sip and
aaahs.
“Also, if I were a peanut butter, I’d be smoooooth. Any more questions?”

Everyone giggles.

“No? Damn, easiest five hundred bucks I ever made. Just kidding! Yes, Lady Leatherpants‌—‌you first!”

Lagarde Lady wants some dirt on their famous on-set pranks. Shandley trots out a story I’ve heard before, the one about the fake finale script where Sim malfunctions and kills the entire cast. Abel’s grinning like a kid at a circus and laughing at the story like it’s new, and I should be too, I should be sharing this with him, but I can’t. I keep staring at the Henchman’s abandoned robe.

“Do you believe in heaven?”
I’d asked my dad once. I was nine, and my goofball teacher Mr. Ratison had just died in a car crash in Maine. I hadn’t slept with the light off all week.

“Absolutely.”
Dad pulled my plaid comforter up to my shoulders and tucked it tight around me like a cocoon.
“There’s a lot in life I’m not sure about, but I know there’s a God, and I know he’s got a place ready for us when it’s our time to go. And as long as we’re good people, that’s where we’re going to be someday, with God forever and ever. You can trust in that, Brandon. Okay?”

He ruffled my hair and shut off my light, thinking he’d comforted me. I lay there stiff and wide-eyed until two a.m., listening to my baseball clock tick. What would you do in heaven if it lasts forever and ever and time never ends? How could quiet eternity not feel like water torture? And heaven was the
better
option. There’s no way I’d be good enough to get in, not with all those shivery thoughts about kissing Spider-Man upside-down and‌…‌

“Next! Yep, you.” Tom Shandley’s pointing right at us. “Well, well, Mr. Neon Sweatband. I like it. Very Olivia Newton-John.”

Abel’s been Summoned by Xaarg.

He steps forward like Cadmus, chin held high, hands on the hips of his tight dark jeans. He’s asking our question. I’m sweating through my shirt. I lob the maybe-God a softball:
If you’re up there, give me a sign. If Shandley says no, nothing happened in the cave, then Father Mike is wrong. You’re okay with this trip. You’re okay with me, just the way I am.

“‌…‌so do you think they did anything in the cave, for real?”

Say no, Shandley. Say no.

“Yes, I do. Unfortunately.”

Crap.

Abel’s shaking his head. “Are you serious?”

“I think that was the implication, yep. Bray hasn’t confirmed, so I’m talking out of school. But I wouldn’t be shocked.”

A cheer shoots up in the corner.

“You sound disappointed,” says Abel.

“Well, yeaaah, I don’t think that’s the smartest move, to be honest. I hope we don’t go there next season.”

“Yeah! They’re like, exactly wrong for each other.”

“No, it’s just‌—‌you know. The sensational aspect of the storyline.”

Abel’s jaw tenses.

“What do you mean?” he says.

“Oh, I dunno. It just seems so, ya know,
desperate
. Let’s have a big gay story to pump things up. Win some awards.”

“That’s sort of cynical.”

“Eh. It would backfire, anyway.”

“Why is that?”

“You know why. If it was a glorified sidekick, someone like Dutchie, then sure. Aww. Cute little neutered gay. But make the show’s primary hetero heartthrob a sudden secret queer and just watch how many people tune out before sweeps.”

“That’s not very nice,” Dave pipes up. His gross hipster hand is around Bec’s waist but I feel too sick to react.

“I’m just being honest,” Tom Shandley shrugs. “Bray’s got to think of the ratings. If your main character’s in a relationship you have to show it, and I don’t care how many gay fans
Castaway
has: you can’t turn a major network show into
Queer as Folk
and not expect a backlash. We’re not that evolved yet.
N’est-ce pas
?”

Abel folds his arms. “
Mais non
,” he says.

“Well, aren’t you an optimist.”

“You’re selling people short.”

“Bigots exist, dear.”

“They exist but they’re not important.”

“They have remotes. Remotes equal importance.”

“They shouldn’t. Leonard Bray shouldn’t worry about a bunch of fucking idiots. They’re too stupid to be real fans.”

I hear people around us pull in a sharp breath, as if Shandley could really incinerate us with his eyes if he felt like it.

“He’s the showrunner.” Shandley cocks his head. “The show lives and dies on its fans. Even the stupid ones. You’re smart enough to know that, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, but if he never takes a real chance‌—‌”

“The network will be happy. So I hope he doesn’t.”

“But listen! Don’t you think challenging things and making like, a legacy‌—‌”

“Aaaaand could we get a new question? ‘Kay? I love a debate, but cheez
whiz
, you guys.” He rolls his eyes and sips his coffee. “I’m a god, not a politician.”

A murmur races through the crowd. Some girl lifts a question paddle and asks a polite, careful question about Shandley’s stint with Shakespeare in the Park. For a second I just stare at Abel’s profile‌—‌the tension in his jaw, the rare
you-have-angered-me
flare in his eyes. He took on Xaarg. Just like Cadmus. I never could have done that. Even when I sat at the table and came out to my own parents I barely looked at them; just traced the parading goose families on Mom’s plastic placemats while Nat listened from the kitchen, ready to jump in if I chickened out. I can make excuses, say I only appear timid to the naked eye because I see things the way Sim does and tolerate all points of view, but the truth is that 95% of the time, I’m mostly too terrified to say what I think.

Also, this is really not the point at all, but Abel McNaughton is hot when he’s mad.

You’re not listening,
says Father Mike.

Shhhhh. Not now, please not now.

You got your sign. Shandley said yes.

My eyes drift down to Abel’s forearm, Malibu-tanned from resting in the RV’s open window. Today’s belt buckle: pewter thorns and roses wreathed around the words TRUE LOVE.

Stop looking at him.

What if I don’t?

Maybe God will take him away. To make it easy.

I press my eyes shut. Shandley answers the next question, some egghead ramble about Xaarg and the perversion of free will. When I open my eyes again, I’m alone in the crowd. Bec’s drifted away from me, whispering to Dave with her hand on his shoulder. And Abel’s gone altogether‌—‌his spot beside me filled by two teenage girls in sunflower shirts, as if he’d never existed at all.

Chapter Ten

I scour the logical places. The costume stand, the makeshift prop museum, the alcove where
Castaway Planet
blooper reels flicker on a loop. Nothing.

“He’s about six-two, black shirt, yellow rubber watch, white hair that goes like
ppfft
all over?” I tell the costume-stand lady. She’s filling a display stand with ten-dollar replicas of Sim’s mechanical heart‌—‌slim pods cased in cheap frosted plastic, blinking out of sync with each other. She nods indulgently, like I’m describing an imaginary friend.

“If I see him,” she says, “I’ll tell him you want him.”

I do a fast sweep. The hotel lobby, the indoor pool. The east end of the ballroom, where a dozen girls bicker in a fanfic workshop. I circle back to the Q&A just as the Shandley mob floods out. Bec’s green shirt glints through the crowd. I push through people to get to her.

“Jesus. Where’d you go?” She hooks my arm. I steer us to a calm corner, in front of an artist hand-painting Starsetter nutcrackers.

I grab her shoulders. “Did you see Abel leave?”

“No, I‌—‌”

“You didn’t?”

“I was‌…‌busy.”

“Right. Right.”

“Why are you so frazzled?”

“We should stick together!”

“I’m sure he’s okay.”

“How could he disappear?”

“Brandon, I’m sure he just took a walk. He looked really pissed.”

Dave bounds up with a wide white smile. “You ready?”

“Meet you out there,” Bec says.

“Cool.” He touches her arm. “See ya later, man,” he says to me. I get a half-salute and he lopes away.

“What was that?” I ask.

“I have a date.”

“With him?”

“No, with Shandley. We’re going ballroom dancing.”

“You’re not driving anywhere, right?”

“I don’t know, Dad. Why?”

“He could be a serial killer. How would you know?” I can tell I’m being annoying, the kind of annoying where it feels like I haven’t showered for days and everyone should just stay away. Bec sticks her hands on her hips.

“Are you mad ‘cause Tom Shandley’s a dick? I could’ve told you that.”

“I’m not mad.”

“People are assholes sometimes. You can’t let it get to you.”

I sigh. “Please just help me look for Abel?”

“I can’t. On account of the aforementioned date.” She pokes my stomach. “What, you think those Hell Bells people are holding him hostage?”

“Stop.”

“Like, maybe they’ll be tightening the thumbscrews, trying to get him to recant his Cadsim hate, and you’ll burst in like the conquering hero just as‌—‌”

“Quit it!” I shrug off her hand. “I’m serious.”

“Will you lighten up?”

“Don’t even joke about that!”

“Why?”

“Forget it. Forget it. Just go out. Go meet
Dave
. Have a really awesome time.”

“I will. He’s fun.”

“Maybe you can share a milkshake and buy some ironic t-shirts together.”

“You’re being a jerk.”

I shrug.

She shoves the camera at me.

“Upload the vid yourself,” she says. “When I get back, you better be human again.”

She huffs off down the merch aisle, ducking a juggler by the autograph table and a crying girl in a platinum Leandra Nigh wig. I congratulate myself on my freshly acquired talent for pissing off the few real friends I have. Outside the glass doors, Bec meets up with Dave and he drapes his arm around her like I used to in the halls before our first-period Chem class, my hand trying different positions and grips in the hope that just one might feel natural. They disappear past the thick crowd of travelers in the lobby. She doesn’t look back. Cold clangs in my chest, and my brain calls up Episode 1-7:
Captain, if I could experience real love for one day, I believe it would be ‌…‌

Men.

Two men at the action-figure booth. Black trench coats, black hats. Their faces are painted Henchmen-white and they’ve got the red contact lenses and the same cool concentrated stares, like they’re unlocking the dark little room in your brain where you stuff all the thoughts that would make your parents blush.

But what I really notice are the t-shirts.

They’re hidden at first, just thin slices of white underneath the coats. But then the taller guy moves his arm and I see the intricate image on the shirt. It has to be homemade. There’s no official merch with that picture on it, and it looks hand-drawn by someone devoted to detail.

Obsessively, psychotically devoted.

The Hell Bells.

I zip up my vest.
Status: High alert.
I feel every one of the zipper teeth, the sick uphill click-clack of a roller coaster ready to drop you into blackness. Their white faces tilt together. One of them starts to whisper.

They’re walking my way.

***

I don’t wait. I run for the RV. Through the lobby, down a glass corridor, out the doors and across the hot parking lot. Abel’s face looms in front of me as my sneakers smack the pavement. He wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t run from them. He’d walk right up to them and say something bold like
What’s your deal?
Like Cadmus did to Xaarg in 1-04, like Abel did to Shandley in the Q&A room
.

I’m running so hard I can’t stop in time. I smack into the side of the Sunseeker. I gasp in a breath, look behind me. Scan the parking lot.

No one. Empty.

I open the door, slowly. It’s dark and stifling inside, like a confessional on a summer day.