He bends down and picks up a feather I must have lost while sprinting into the elevator, spinning it around in his long fingers. Piano fingers, I muse. I have a habit of reducing everyone down to the instrument they should play. Jayla would be a saxophone; my other best friend, Nikki, is a flute; my ex, Dakota, is an out-of-tune harpsichord. Vera is a—
“Lost one,” Batman says, all quiet. And yeah, that mask and the scrape of his voice and the way he’s sliding up his sleeves right now are kind of working for him. The idea of “pushing the boundaries” just got a lot more interesting.
“I guess I did.” I smile and reach for it, but he just keeps twirling it, like he’s in no hurry to give it back.
“She must be molting,” Jayla deadpans. She pushes the button for the first floor, even though it’s already glowing.
“Are you going to prom?” he asks.
Jayla widens her eyes, like obviously, dude, and nods.
“We are.” I elbow Jayla. “Are you?”
“Nah.” He reaches across and hits the button for the second floor, which is odd considering he had to have been the one who hit the button for the first floor to begin with. “I like your dress, though,” he says, a little bit quiet, as the elevator doors ping open. He holds his hand out, offering me the feather.
“Keep it,” I say, and a blush rises to my cheeks as he turns to leave.
CHAPTER TWO
Ridley
I BOLT AROUND the corner, shoving up my Batman mask and sliding down the wall before the elevator doors even shut. Okay, breathe in, hold it, breathe out. Repeat. This shouldn’t be so hard. Wait. Do I hold it for one beat? Two? Three? Oh god, now it just feels like I’m drowning.
pullittogetherpullittogetherpullittogether
A cute girl dressed as my favorite comic character should not have this effect on me, but.
breathebreathebreathebreathebreathe
It used to be I could tell the difference between excitement and anxiety. It used to be I could handle crowds and small talk. It used to be a lot of things . . . but now it’s not.
I take another gasping breath, replaying the moments in my head. The way her cheeks turned pink when she told me to keep the feather twisted me up in interesting, not terrible, ways. And yet.
And yet.
I dig my fingers into the carpet and stare up at the ceiling, trying to ground myself before this panic attack spins too far out of control, but seriously, fuck this. Fuck being seventeen and wired so wrong that a person smiling at you can spin you into heart failure.
A door clicks open and a couple—drunk and sloppy like the rest of the casino crowd—steps out. I slide my mask down and shove myself through the door to the stairwell across from me, a welcome escape from their questioning looks.
It’s one flight down to the dance or eleven up to my room, but I start to climb anyway, wishing there was a delete button in my brain. I don’t know why I opened my mouth at all. So yeah, I should go. To my room. And probably never come out. Because reasons. But I still have this feather and—
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, sighing when I see Gray’s name pop up.
“Ridley, where are you?” she asks. It’s nearly impossible to hear her over the background noise.
“In a stairwell,” I say.
“For good reasons or bad reasons?”
“Are there good reasons?”
“Yes. Come to the ballroom and I’ll tell you all about the time I made out with your favorite superhero in the stairwell at RICC.”
“Never happened,” I snort.
“Okay, fine, it was his stunt double. On the escalator. Still counts.”
I laugh; I can’t help it. Two seconds ago I couldn’t breathe, and now I’m laughing. Gray is magic like that.
“Are you trying to make me meet you or run away faster?” I ask, but I’ve already started trotting back down the stairs.
“Ha ha, baby bro,” she says. “Seriously, get down here. I can only cover for you for so long.”
I let out a long breath. “I’m on my way,” I say before hanging up.
There aren’t many things that could get me to change directions when my head is like this. In fact, there’s only one—Grayson Nicole Everlasting, Gray to me, heir apparent to the family business, the golden child to my black sheep, and the best big sister I could ever ask for. Not that I’d admit that last part. She’s got a big enough head as it is.
I hit the bottom of the stairs, and Gray texts again to make sure I’m coming, the buzzing phone equal parts accusation and encouragement. I drag the heavy door open, focusing on the pinch of the mask’s elastic strap behind my ears and the prick of the feather in my hand to keep from freaking out even more. The sound of slot machines and the smell of cigarettes waft through the air, and I try not to cough.
My parents don’t usually bring me along to this stuff, since I kind of suck at being social, something that seems to frustrate my dad on a cellular level. But once a year, FabCon comes around, and with The Geekery being its biggest sponsor, my dad insists our presence is required. So Mom and I fly in from the Seattle house and he drives over from Connecticut with Gray, and we all fake being a happy little family for seventy-two torturous hours.
I skirt around the edge of the casino floor on my way to the convention center, holding my breath, with a smile pasted on my face. Mom spent the whole plane ride reminding me to hold it together in front of her Very Important Friends and to not piss off my father, so that is THE GOAL. All caps. Because I would give anything for this fake family reunion to be real, for just once my dad’s hand on my shoulder to not pinch.
I take a long, deep breath when I finally cross into the no-smoking area—god, I hate cigarettes—and come to a stop in the hallway outside of FabCon prom, undoubtedly the most ridiculous part of this whole weekend.
There’s a giant banner on the wall with my family’s logo under the words PROUDLY SPONSORED BY written in the biggest letters imaginable. I don’t know whether to tear it down or high-five it. Everything my father does is big, bigger than big, like a superhero from one of his favorite books. You kind of have to respect it.
“Ridley!” my sister calls, leaning over the railing the bouncer put up. She’s dressed like—I don’t even know. Poison Ivy, I think, but with a masquerade mask, I guess. Not like I’m in any position to judge. What did that other girl call me? Office Batman? Cool, cool, cool.
“Get in here before Allison tells Dad you were late,” she says, frantically waving me over. She’s right, but I roll my eyes anyway.
Allison Silverlake is Dad’s assistant, spy, and latest hookup. Like it’s not even a secret; he literally moved her into the Connecticut house with him. When my mom heard the news, she just raised an eyebrow and said, “Really, Mark,” mildly exasperated, like he had called to tell her he got a speeding ticket or forgot the milk or something. I assumed finding out your husband of twenty years was shacking up with his mistress in your old family home would warrant a bigger reaction, but nah. That’s not how my supremely fucked-up family rolls.