“Your friend is going with you, yes?” she asks, struggling back to her feet. “Rebekah? The one with the hair—you know, I can’t even call her that anymore, because now you’re also the-one-with-the-hair to somebody.” She grins, and I hug her.
“Yes, she’s coming,” I say, letting her go. “I’m meeting her at the convention. She went early to get the table set up, and to...” I chuckle, thinking about Rebekah waiting in line at the crack of dawn to meet some of those comic book heroes of hers, like Kate Leth and Delilah S. Dawson and Fiona Staples. The perks of being an exhibitor. “Get some autographs before the lines start.”
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” my mom insists, grabbing my hands. “Keep a low profile, don’t say anything that’ll get you into trouble.”
“I will, I promise.” I give her hands a final squeeze, and head toward the door.
My heart feels a bit heavy. Not because of what I’m about to do, but because of what I’ve already done.
It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever truly lied to her. I can’t be careful, not today, and I know it.
I hustle down the stairs of our walk-up, my boots thundering against the old rattling steps, and burst out the front door into the early sunlight. The sun is barely out and about, but people certainly are, bustling down the sidewalks to get to whatever day jobs demand they work such hours. I change out my glasses for my sunglasses, eager to avoid running into anyone who might also be heading to the convention and might somehow recognize me.
I briskly walk toward the PATH train that’ll eventually take me into New York City, first making its way in the opposite direction toward Hoboken before turning around and heading where I want to go. An annoying delay, but worth it for paying just two dollars to get there.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out, peering at the screen from under my sunglasses.
There are a few messages waiting, but nothing I’m not expecting.
Detective Watts 6:03 a.m.
Did you get my email? I’ll be waiting for you at the convention center. At the first sign of trouble, you call me. Text me. Whatever. I’m here.
Rebekah Cole 7:01 a.m.
Are you on your way yet?! I’ve got the table set up and I MET KATE LETH OH MY GOD SHE IS SO COOL AND I CAN’T EVEN.
I smile, a bit of hope fluttering in my chest, and look up at the PATH station just a few blocks down the road. I take a deep breath and keep moving.
Today’s going to be hard.
I open my inbox and load yesterday’s message from Detective Watts. I read it quickly, my heart hammering in my chest over every single word. For a minute, I think about emailing Aaron, to tell him about our plan. It’s not too late to make a random account, send him a quick message in the game. But he would just worry, and that wouldn’t help anything. I’ll message him after it’s all over. Besides, I want to keep him safe.
Because today it’s finally happening.
I make my way through the PATH station and onto the platform. I take a deep breath and exhale as the train rumbles closer, the station hot and humid, as I try to keep my cool.
It’s happening.
And I won’t be stopped.
22
AARON
I plug my phone into the bus’s outlet and lean back in the soft cushioned seat. There’s a weird smell coming off it that I’m trying to ignore.
“We really should have taken the train,” Ryan grumbles, pushing his seat back and awkwardly squirming about in what I assume is an attempt to get comfortable. “And do you really need to charge your phone already? Don’t you have a power bank with you, too?”
“Hey, best to play it safe.” I shrug.
“Or what?” Ryan scoffs, settling in and closing his eyes. “Just take a nap, enjoy our smelly ride, and maybe get off your phone for a minute.” He grins. “How’s your arts and crafts?”
I glance over at the plastic tube I’ve got leaning against the bus wall, a long clear bright blue thing made for holding posters.
“It’s not arts—” I start.
“I still think it’s a bad idea. Getting all theatrical,” he says with a yawn. “I love you, but wake me up when we get there. And set your alarm. I don’t want to end up in Boston or something.”
The cheap UltraBus we’re on goes from Philadelphia up to New York City, and only charges a whopping five dollars. Plus, you get free Internet and places to charge your gadgets. The downside is that it can be kinda slow, it’s hard to find seats, and sometimes the buses aren’t as clean as they could be. And sometimes the Internet doesn’t work. But I’ll take a five-dollar, slightly uncomfortable bus ride over paying for the pricey train any day. The Amtrak is all kinds of expensive, and even if you do the New Jersey Transit & SEPTA—Philadelphia’s regional train—combo, traveling from Philly to Trenton and then Trenton to New York City, it ends up being almost fifty bucks.
And besides, since the gig with ManaPunk is officially over—not that Jason had paid us—I’m saving as much as I can until I manage to line something else up. If I blew every dollar on a nice train ride, it’d be a really long summer with absolutely no spending money.
The bus roars to life just as Ryan starts to snore softly, and I know I should seriously do the same. Catching the 6:00 a.m. ride meant being up at nearly 4:00 a.m., which wasn’t all that difficult, since I couldn’t sleep at all.
But I keep staring at my phone. And the social media feeds. I wonder if D1V is out there somewhere, looking at the same threads I am. Seeing what I’m seeing. What those Vox Populi idiots are posting about her. The awful photoshopped images, the GIFs that replay her defeat again and again, the terrifying threats that seem to follow every article that hints about her appearance at the convention.
The video clips of what they did to her mother.
The attack in the arcade.
The comments upon comments upon comments.
I adjust the plastic poster tube and try to get comfortable in my seat.
She’d once said to me, in our string of texts together, to just ignore the comments. Don’t read them. Don’t pay attention to them. But I can’t do that. Whether it’s these messages about her, or all the positive responses to Jason’s announcement of his game, using our stolen art and words...it’s all I can do. Read comment after comment.
And that’s what I’m going to do, this entire bus ride.
Read the comments. And let the frustration consume me.
23
DIVYA
“Sorry, says the pass is invalid.”