Then the princess curtsies, and leaves him on the observation deck with all of the stars in the sky—alone.
He’s meant to be alone, anyway.
SHE IS A DISASTER. That’s all there is to it.
At least she doesn’t come over on the weekends, and I can burrito myself onto the couch and fester in my cocoon of depression without her nosing through my entire life.
“Stop brooding and sit up,” Elias says with an exasperated sigh. Sansa starts sniffing at my face. I push her away, but she just sticks her nose right into my ear—and licks it.
“Argh,” I moan, pushing her away, and rub my hand against my ear.
Sansa sits down, her tail swishing back and forth like a duster, looking at me as though she had not just invaded my inner ear’s privacy. “I hate her,” I mumble.
“I know.”
“I don’t mean the dog.”
“You don’t mean it.”
I melt back into the couch and stare at television. There is a photo of Darien Freeman on Entertainment Tonight, walking beside the pop singer who did that unicorn music video. Thalia, or something. They’re talking about whether he’s dating her. I don’t even have to read their lips—I recognize the kind of story it is, a quick news flash of speculation. Only, I’m more accustomed to me being the focal point of those segments.
Elias sighs and turns the channel to Jeopardy!, and a black woman chooses Originals in TV Shows—“For six hundred, Alex,” she adds.
The tile changes to the question, “This actress was the original Princess Amara in the hit television series Starfield.”
“Natalia Ford, obviously,” Elias mutters. “That’s too easy.”
I make a wrong-buzzer noise. “Ellen North.”
And the woman answers, “Who is Ellen North?”
“Correct!” Alex congratulates her, and the woman earns six hundred glorious dollars.
Elias gives me a sidelong look. “How did you know that?”
“Everyone knows Ellen North was in the pilot episode of Starfield, but she was replaced by Natalia for the rest of the seasons,” I reply, turning onto my side. My feet hang off the end of the couch because no one makes furniture for tall people anymore, apparently. “I do two things well: I burrito on weekends and I know things.”
He frowns. “You are going to put pants on at least, aren’t you?”
“My hair is orange.”
“And you’re still in Friday night’s pajamas. It’s Sunday.”
“My hair is orange.”
He throws his hands into the air. “And mine’s beginning to fall out! We all have our problems, mijo.”
“This isn’t fair,” I go on. “I can’t leave, since my parents trapped me here, but you can very certainly make her leave—so why don’t you? Clearly none of us are having any fun here.”
“You parents didn’t trap you here,” he replies patiently.
“Then what’s it called when you send your son to some nowhere town with a warden”—I throw my hand out to him—“and no money to get out? No credit cards? No cash? No anything? What do you call that?”
He gives a long sigh and shakes his head. “All right, mijo. When she comes in tomorrow, I’ll let her know we no longer need her services.”
I give a start. “What—really? You’re firing her?”
“But you’ll have to finish up organizing that library alone.”
“A small price to pay!” I reply with a relieved laugh, surprised that he finally gave in.
As he leaves I feel just a little bit vindicated. Just for a moment. But the farther Elias gets, the less victorious I feel, until he’s gone from the living room and the triumphant smile slides from my face, and I feel just as hollow as before, except with orange hair.
* * *
—
THAT NIGHT, MY ONLY FRIEND also feels the need to turn against me right in the middle of a battle royale. “You need to apologize to her,” Imogen’s tinny voice says through my headset as I get headshotted for the third time.
DEATH IS ETERNAL! the caption reads as the camera rotates around my lifeless corpse.
I drop my controller and hang my head. “She dyed my hair, Imogen. Isn’t that retribution enough?”
“You purposefully kept a secret from her,” adds another voice—male. Imogen’s boyfriend, Ethan. I watch as his character comes over to mine and takes all of my ammo and supplies and runs on to the next objective. “It’s really simple. You just go up and tell her ‘I’m sorry.’ ”
“But I’m not in the wrong,” I try to argue.
“Oh yeah, you are,” Imogen replies.
“Because I didn’t want her to know that I was that guy at ExcelsiCon?” I respawn at the next checkpoint and jump off the sandy cliff and into the fray again. “Excuse me if I didn’t want to ruin my image.”
“Starflame. Self-absorbed much?”
That ticks me off. “What’s so self-absorbed with letting her have her fantasy? What do you think she thought, Imogen, when she realized it was me?”
“Maybe that she was happy she finally found you?” Ethan challenges.
“Or maybe she thought—oh! Let me go to the tabloids!” When they begin to argue I add, “Whatever—I don’t expect you two to understand.”
Imogen asks, “Because we don’t always see the worst in people?”
“Mo,” her boyfriend warns.
“What?” she says. “It’s the truth. Maybe you need a friend—like we’re friends, obviously—but someone else. Maybe Natalia is making her work there because she agrees.”
A friend—why is everyone coddling me, thinking that I’m not acutely aware of the choices I make?
I grit my teeth. “Yeah, and do you also think I needed to get away from LA? That it was good of me to live in some—some nowhere town?”
“I’m not saying that, Vance.”
“You don’t have to because my stepfather already did,” I snap.
“All I’m saying is those stupid friends of yours in LA made you jaded and untrusting and that’s not who friends are. People aren’t out to find the worst in you, Vance. I thought you would’ve figured that out by now—”