Fangirl (16 page)

“No.”
Levi leaned over and opened it. “You can’t stop in the middle of a vampire attack.”

“Vampires, huh?” Reagan said. “Sounds pretty exciting.”

“I’ve got to finish my biology essay,” Cath said.

“Come on.” Reagan turned to Levi. “Plant Phys. Are we doing this?”

“We’re doing it,” he grumbled, sliding off Cath’s bed. “Can I use your phone?” he asked her.

Cath handed him her phone, and he punched a number in. His back pocket started playing a Led Zeppelin song. “To be continued,” he said, handing it back to her. “Solid?”

“Sure,” Cath said.

“Library?” Reagan asked.

“Hi-Way Diner.” Levi picked up his backpack and opened the door. “Fanfiction makes me crave corned beef hash.”

“See ya,” Reagan said to Cath.

“See ya,” Cath said.

Levi ducked his head back at the last minute to flash her a wide grin.

If you wanted to meet other
Star Trek
fans in 1983, you’d have to join fan clubs by mail or meet up with other Trekkies at conventions.…

When readers fell for Simon in 2001, the fan community was as close as the nearest keyboard.

Simon Snow fandom exploded on the Internet—and just keeps exploding. There are more sites and blogs devoted to Simon than to the Beatles and Lady Gaga combined. You’ll find fan stories, fan art, fan videos, plus endless discussion and conjecture.

Loving Simon isn’t something one does alone or once a year at a convention—for thousands of fans of all ages, loving Simon Snow is nothing less than a lifestyle.

—Jennifer Magnuson, “Tribe of Simon,”
Newsweek,
October 28, 2009

THIRTEEN

Cath wasn’t trying to make new friends here.

In some cases, she was actively trying
not
to make friends, though she usually stopped short of being rude. (Uptight, tense, and mildly misanthropic? Yes. Rude? No.)

But everyone around Cath—everybody in her classes and in the dorms—really
was
trying to make friends, and sometimes she’d have to be rude not to go along with it.

Campus life was just so predictable, one routine layered over another. You saw the same people while you were brushing your teeth and a different set of the same people in each class. The same people passing you every day in the halls … Pretty soon you were nodding. And then you were saying hello. And eventually someone would start a conversation, and you just had to go along with it.

What was Cath supposed to say,
Stop talking to me
? It’s not like she was Reagan.

That’s how she ended up hanging out with T.J. and Julian in American History, and Katie, a nontraditional student with two kids, in Political Science. There was a nice girl in her Fiction-Writing class named Kendra, and she and Cath both studied in the Union for an hour on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, so it made sense to sit at the same table.

None of these friendships spread into Cath’s personal life. T.J. and Julian weren’t inviting her to smoke weed with them, or to come over and play
Batman: Arkham City
on the PlayStation 3.

No one ever invited Cath to go out or to parties (except for Reagan and Levi, who felt more like sponsors than friends). Not even Nick, whom Cath was writing with regularly now, twice a week.

Meanwhile Wren’s social calendar was so crowded, Cath felt like even calling her sister was an interruption. Cath had thought they were over the bar-tastrophe, but Wren was acting even more irritable and remote than she’d been at the start of the year. When Cath did try to call, Wren was always on her way out, and she wouldn’t tell Cath where she was going. “I don’t need you to show up with a stomach pump,” Wren said.

In some ways, it had always been like this.

Wren had always been the Social One. The Friendly One. The one who got invited to
quinceañeras
and birthday parties. But before—in junior high and high school—everyone knew that if you invited Wren, you got Cath. They were a package deal, even at dances. There were three years’ worth of photos, taken at every homecoming and prom, of Cath and Wren standing with their dates under an archway of balloons or in front of a glittery curtain.

They were a package deal, period. Since always.

They’d even gone to therapy together after their mom left. Which seemed weird, now that Cath thought about it. Especially considering how differently they’d reacted—Wren acting out, Cath acting in. (Violently, desperately in.
Journey to the Center of the Earth
in.)

Their third-grade teacher—they were always in the same class, all through elementary school—thought they must be upset about the terrorists.…

Because their mom left on September 11th.

The
September 11th.

(Cath still found this incredibly embarrassing; it was like their mom was so self-centered, she couldn’t be trusted not to desecrate a national tragedy with her own issues.)

Cath and Wren had been sent home from school early that day, and their parents were already fighting when they got there. Her dad was upset, and her mom was crying.… And Cath thought at first that it
was
because of the World Trade Center; their teacher had told them about the airplanes. But that wasn’t it, not exactly.…

Her mom kept saying, “I’m done, Art. I’m just done. I’m living the wrong life.”

Cath went out and sat on the back steps, and Wren sat beside her, holding her hand.

The fight went on and on. And when the president flew over their heads that afternoon on the way to the air force base, the only plane in the sky, Cath thought maybe the whole world was going to end.

Her mom left for good a week later, hugging both of the girls on the front porch, kissing their cheeks again and again, and promising that she’d see them both soon, that she just needed some time to feel better, to remember who she really was. Which didn’t make any sense to Cath and Wren.
You’re our mom.

Cath couldn’t remember everything that happened next.

She remembered crying a lot at school. Hiding with Wren in the bathroom during recess. Holding hands on the bus. Wren scratching a boy who said they were gay in the eye.

Wren didn’t cry. She stole things and hid them under her pillow. When their dad changed their sheets for the first time—not until after Valentine’s Day—he found Simon Snow pencils and Lip Smackers and a Britney Spears CD.

Then, in one week, Wren cut some other girl’s dress with safety scissors, and Cath wet her pants during Social Studies because she was scared to raise her hand to ask for a bathroom pass; their teacher called their dad in and gave him a business card for a child psychologist.

Their dad didn’t tell the therapist their mom was gone. He didn’t even tell Grandma until summer break. He was so sure she was going to come back.… And he was such a disaster.

They were all three such a disaster.

It had taken years to put themselves back together, and so what if some things didn’t get put back in the right place? At least they could hold themselves up.

Most of the time.

Cath closed her biology book and reached for her laptop. Reading was too quiet—she needed to write.

It startled her when the phone rang. She stared at it for a second before she answered, trying to recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Hey. It’s Levi.”

“Hi?”

“There’s a party at my house tonight.”

“There’s always a party at your house.”

“So you’ll come? Reagan’s coming.”

“What would I do at your party, Levi?”

“Have fun,” he said, and she could hear that he was smiling.

Cath tried not to. “Not drink. Not smoke. Not get high.”

“You could talk to people.”

“I don’t like to talk to drunk people.”

“Just because people will be drinking doesn’t mean they’ll be drunk. I won’t be drunk.”

“I don’t need to go to a party to talk to you. Did Reagan tell you to invite me?”

“No. Not exactly. Not like that.”

“Have fun at your party, Levi.”

“Wait—Cath.”

“What?” She said it like she was hassled, but she wasn’t. Not really.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to write. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just got off work. Maybe you should finish reading me that story.…”

“What story?” She knew what story.

“The Simon Snow story. Vampire Baz was just about to attack Simon.”

“You want me to read to you over the phone?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not going to read to you over the phone.”

There was a knock at the door. Cath eyed it suspiciously.

More knocking.

“I know that’s you,” she said into the phone. Levi laughed.

She got up and opened the door, ending the call. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I brought you coffee,” he said. He was wearing all black—black jeans, black sweater, black leather work boots—and holding two Christmassy red cups.

“I don’t really drink coffee.” Their previous encounters notwithstanding.

“That’s okay. These are more like melted candy bars. Which do you want, gingerbread latte or eggnog?”

“Eggnog reminds me of mucus,” she said.

“Me, too. But in a good way.” He held out his hand. “Gingerbread.”

Cath took the cup and smiled in resignation.

“You’re welcome,” Levi said. He sat on her bed and smiled expectantly.

“You’re serious?” She sat down at her desk.

“Come on, Cath, don’t you write these stories so that people can enjoy them?”

“I write them so that people will read them. I’ll send you a link.”

“Don’t send me a link. I’m not much of an Internet person.”

Cath felt her eyes get big. She was about to take a sip of her coffee, but stopped. “How do you not like the Internet? That’s like saying, ‘I don’t like things that are convenient. And easy. I don’t like having access to all of mankind’s recorded discoveries at my fingertips. I don’t like light. And knowledge.’”

“I like knowledge,” he said.

“You’re not a book person. And now you’re not an Internet person? What does that leave you?”

Levi laughed. “Life. Work. Class. The great outdoors.
Other people.
”

“Other people,” Cath repeated, shaking her head and taking a sip. “There are other people on the Internet. It’s awesome. You get all the benefits of ‘other people’ without the body odor and the eye contact.”

Levi kicked her chair. He could reach it without stretching. “
Cath.
Read me your fanfiction. I want to know what happens next.”

She opened her computer slowly, as if she were still thinking about it. As if there were any way she was going to say no. Levi wanted to know
what happened next.
That question was Cath’s Achilles’ heel.

She opened the story she’d been reading to him. It was something she’d written last year for a Christmas-fic festival (“Deck the Hols with Baz and Simon”). Cath’s fic had won two awards: “Tastes Like Canon” and “Best in Snow.”

“Where did we leave off?” she said, mostly to herself.

“Baz’s teeth were bared, and his face with filled with disgust and decision.”

Cath found the spot in the story. “Wow,” she said. “Good memory.”

Levi was smiling. He kicked her chair again.

“Okay,” she said, “so they’re in the boat, and Simon is leaning over, looking at the tiles on the moat wall.…”

Levi closed his eyes.

Cath cleared her throat.

When he looked back, Baz had stepped toward him in the punt. He was curled above Simon, washed blue by his own conjured fire, his teeth bared and his face thick with decision and disgust.…

Baz held the pole just over Simon’s face, and before Simon could reach his wand or whisper a spell, Baz was driving the pole forward over Simon’s shoulder. The boat shook, and there was a gurgling howl—a frenzied splash—from the water. Baz raised the pole and drove it down again, his face as cold and cruel as Simon had ever seen it. His wide lips were shining, and he was practically growling.

Simon held himself still while the boat rocked. When Baz stepped back again, Simon slowly sat up. “Did you kill it?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Baz said. “I should have. It should know better than to bother the boats—and
you
should know better than to lean into the moat.”

“Why are there merwolves in the moat anyway?” Simon flushed. “This is a school.”

“A school run by a madman. Something I’ve been trying to explain to you for six years.”

“Don’t talk that way about the Mage.”

“Where’s your Mage now, Simon?” Baz asked softly, looking up at the old fortress. He looked tired again, his face blue and shadowed in the moonlight, his eyes practically ringed in black. “And what are you looking for anyway?” he asked waspishly, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe if you told me, I could help you find it, and then we could both go inside and avoid death by drowning, freezing, or torn jugular.”

“It’s…” Simon weighed the risks.

Usually when Simon was this far along on a quest, Baz had already sniffed out his purpose and was setting a trap to foil him. But this time Simon hadn’t told anyone what he was doing. Not even Agatha. Not even
Penelope.

The anonymous letter had told Simon to seek out help; it said that the mission was too dangerous to carry out on his own—and that’s exactly why Simon hadn’t wanted to involve his friends.

But putting Baz at risk … Well, that wasn’t so distasteful.

“It’s dangerous,” Simon said sternly.

“Oh, I’m sure—danger is your middle name, etc. Simon Oliver
Danger
Snow.”

“How do you know my middle name?” Simon asked warily.

“Great Crimea, what part of ‘six years’ is lost on you? I know which shoe you put on first. I know that your shampoo smells like apples. My mind is fairly bursting with worthless Simon Snow trivia.… Don’t you know mine?”

“Your what?”

“My middle name,” Baz said.

Morgan’s tooth, he was stroppy.
“It’s … it’s Basilton, right?”

“Quite right, you great thumping idiot.”