The Geek's Guide to Unrequited Love (6 page)

“So do you even know the characters?”

“You mean by name?”

“Name, appearance, function in Ponyville, et cetera.”

“Um . . . isn't one of them Sparkle . . . something?” I attempt.

She shakes her head. “Right. So, not a brony.” She looks up at me. “Sorry, this isn't going to work.”

Then she looks back down at her packet, takes out a pen, and starts to make notes on what I'm beginning to suspect is a
My Little Pony
questionnaire. She looks really into it, like it would be rude to interrupt her, and before I know it, there's a BONG.

Without taking her eyes off the paper, the girl slides down to her right, and a very petite blonde takes her place. She at least starts out by smiling at me.

“Hi,” I say.

Her mouth opens and it looks like she's saying the word
hi
back, but I can't hear her for the life of me.

“Sorry, it's so loud in here.” I raise my voice a little to be heard over the din. “I'm Graham.”

Her mouth opens again and this time it looks like lots of words come out, but once again, I hear nothing.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” I ask, leaning forward.

But I swear she must be on mute. Not a single syllable of her conversation gets over to me. I begin feeling self-conscious about the number of times I say “sorry,” so at some point, I just start nodding. She beams at me. And when the sound of the gong comes, she slips something across the table to me before moving over. I look down. It's a piece of paper that says
Penny
, followed by her phone number.

“Sorry, I don't do gingers,” a loud voice booms, and I look up to see
a pretty but intimidating girl sporting a lip ring and staring at my hair.

“Um, okay . . . ,” I start.

She stares at me. “But you do have really nice eyes. Could you take your glasses off?”

She is commanding, and I don't even think twice about doing exactly what she says. She leans over and blinks in my face.

“Really nice. What color would you say they are?”

“Um . . . blue?”

She tilts her head at me thoughtfully. “Sort of a stormy blue. Really unusual.” She indicates for me to put the glasses back on. “I like those, too. Very Clark Kent/Superman.”

I almost blush. The black-framed glasses are new and they sort of cost a fortune. But I replaced my wire-rimmed glasses for specifically that reason: because Roxana has a comic book crush on Clark Kent.

“Sorry, though. The ginger thing is still a deal breaker.”

BONG.

A girl dressed like SpongeBob SquarePants sits across from me and proceeds to talk for the entire three minutes without asking me a single question.

BONG.

A tough-looking girl tells me she's a wrestler and won't date guys who are shorter than six-three or weigh less than 250.

BONG.

A pretty brunette with a nice smile introduces herself as Louisa and
actually reaches over to shake my hand. But then she immediately looks apologetic.

“I'm sorry,” she says.

“Let me guess, you don't do gingers either,” I say, flicking at my hair.

She laughs. “No, that's not it. It's just . . . I'm in love with someone else.”

Well, finally. Someone I have something in common with.

“He's over there at the purple table,” she says, turning slightly in her chair to look. “I thought maybe this would make him jealous.”

My own eyes flick over to the purple table, and I immediately pick out Roxana. A guy with dark hair sits across from her and she laughs at something he says. I scowl.

“Sorry. I know it's stupid!” Louisa says, thinking the scowl is for her.

I shake my head. “No, not stupid. In fact, I know exactly how you feel.”

“Really?” She brightens. “Isn't it awful?”

“Kinda,” I agree.

“And I guess kinda exhilarating,” she says. “I mean, I've never been in love before.”

“Me neither. But now I sorta understand pop songs. It's definitely weird.”

“Yes!” Louisa declares. “Why is Z100 suddenly playing the soundtrack to my mind?”

“Whoa. Doubly cruel.”

She smiles.

BONG.

She sighs. “Guess I made my bed with this one,” she says as she slides down a seat and wishes me good luck before she turns unenthusiastically to her new partner.

“You too.”

I notice something immediately about the girl who sits in front of me now. It's on her wrist, it's paper, it's silver, and it says
ZINC
on it.

I stare wide-eyed at her.

“Hi,” she says. She's black, with a smattering of freckles on her nose, and her dark hair is in a thick braid over her shoulder. There's a bright red streak in it.

“Um . . . ,” I start, before I realize I really have nothing left to lose. “Hi, I'm Graham. Is there anything I can do to get that wristband from you?” I point to it.

She bursts out laughing. “Sense of humor—check.”

“I'm serious,” I mutter.

“Okay, then never mind,” she says. “Deranged—check.” She stares at me. “I'll have you know I waited all night for this wristband.”

“Me too,” I say darkly.

“Ohhhh.” Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Were you one of the ones who got screwed 'cause of the bum rush?”

I nod.

“Jackasses,” she responds. “I was only able to keep my place because of my sharp elbows. One of the perks of being New York City born and bred.” She taps one of her elbows like it's a Thoroughbred
that just won a race for her. “That blows, though, I'm sorry.”

I shrug.

“Maybe someone will post a video of the panel. There's a forum I go to that's pretty good for Zinc stuff if you're really into him. It's called z-men.net.”

Despite myself, I smile. Weakly. “Yup, I'm on there.”

She visibly brightens. “Oh, what's your screen name?”

“ScribePoz.”

“Oh, hey, I know you!” she says, grinning now. “You wrote some prequel chapters about Charlie Noth, right? With him getting his first publishing deal?”

I'm startled. “Yeah, that's me.” I've never met a stranger who's read my stuff before.

“That was good,” she says, her gaze livelier now. “I really liked that you had the story within the story and went into what his book was about.”

Whoa. And a stranger with compliments to boot.

“Thanks,” I say.

She looks at her wristband. “Damn. Now I'm actually sorry I can't give this to you. Since I know you're a true fan and all.”

I smile at her. “Thanks. For being sorry, I mean.”

“I'm Amelia, by the way.”

BONG.

“Well, I'm Earhart5921 on the forum,” she says as she's getting up. “Maybe I'll see you around there?”

“Yeah, maybe.” I smile at her.

The next girl is a curvy blonde, and so is the one right after her. They're twins. And their responses are almost as identical as they are. I feel like I have déjà vu when I speak to the second one.

BONG.

Short. Tall. Crazy-colored hair. Mousy-colored hair. Costumed. In a T-shirt. My head is spinning with the possibilities, and it doesn't really matter anyway, because none of them are Roxy.

Finally, thankfully, the girl with the clipboard gets back on the mic to let us know that our session is over.

I slowly gather up my backpack, deliberately not making eye contact with Penny, or Amelia, or any of the other girls I just spent three intense minutes with. By the time I get to the door of the conference room, Casey and Felicia are already there, and they're chatting animatedly. It's a weird sight because I'm not sure I've ever seen them hold a conversation with each other before.

“Hey!” Felicia says when she sees me approaching. “How did it go?”

I shrug and then I look at her hand, which is holding at least fifteen tiny slips of paper, the kind that was on the table for those who wanted to exchange information. “It went well for you, I see.”

She shrugs. “There were some nice guys there. And some cute ones. But shall ever the twain meet? That is the question.”

I'm not surprised. When you look like Felicia, you're dressed like Wonder Woman, and you're at New York Comic Con . . . there is only
one logical result. I can only wonder what was wrong with the other five guys who didn't give her their number. Probably too intimidated.

I sneak a peek at Casey and am surprised to see that he has a few slips of papers in his hand also. “You got some too?” I say incredulously, before I realize how that sounds and immediately wish I could take it back.

Casey sighs and goes to put the slips away. “Some of the girls were cool,” he grumbles, “and they seemed to like me.”

“That's not what I meant, Case,” I start. “That came out wrong. I'm sorry.” And it's true. Casey is a great guy, but before this whole weird thing with Callie, he'd really never shown much interest in something as mundane as dating. I always thought there were too many unknown factors for him, too much he couldn't control.

He shrugs. “Well, I guess I gotta find some replacement for Callie,” he retorts. “Now that that's off the table.”

Ah! Maybe one tiny good thing did come from us not getting the Zinc wristbands: I will no longer have to figure that headache out.

“Hey, guys,” a cheerful voice says behind me, and I prepare myself to turn around and see if Roxana has any telltale slips of paper.

But what I see is much, much worse.

She's grinning from ear to ear, and right behind her, following her like a tall, buff puppy dog, is some guy. Some guy with jet-black hair and bright blue eyes, wearing all black except for some outrageously colored Converses on his feet.

“This is Devin. It turns out he's going to the inking panel next too.”

I continue to stare at his feet. I see. Those are illustrations on his Converses that he probably drew himself. He's an artist, just like Roxana.

And then Devin opens his mouth to say hello, and my heart sinks even further.

The asshole is freaking British.

WE'RE SLOWLY INCHING OUR WAY
forward in the bowels of the Javits Center, toward Room 1A04, where the inking panel is taking place. Casey leaves us when we reach the stairs. He's scheduled himself to get three artists to sign some books.

“I'll have exactly twenty-five minutes for lunch at one thirty,” he says, looking at his watch. “Not sure that's enough time for the food court.” He's probably right. We found out last year just how long the lines could get at the food court.

“Hot dog stand at the top of the stairs?” I suggest.

He nods. “Meet you there?”

“One thirty. Got it.”

He jets off and I'm left with Felicia, Roxy, and, of course, now Devin, who is currently going on and on about his “gap year” from “university.” Kill me.

“I hopped around California and Arizona for a month or so, but I haven't been able to bring myself to leave New York yet. It's just too amazing.”

“Isn't it the best?” Roxana gushes. “I'm hoping I can go to college in the city.”

“Completely. Though, I admit, my money is running out faster here too,” Devin says cheerfully, and I wonder if there's a wikiHow for hacking into a bank account, zeroing it out, and forcing the owner of it to cut his “gap year” short.

“Ah, here we are,” he says as we reach the end of a line of people outside one of the closed beige doors that leads to the panel room.

“So this is a panel about drawing, right?” Felicia asks, and I see her consulting her schedule.

“Yup,” Roxana says. “Well, inking specifically.”

“I hope they don't only have digital artists,” Devin says. “I still prefer to do mine with old-fashioned marker and paper.”

“Me too!” Roxana answers a little too enthusiastically.
Geez, could she make it any more obvious,
I think moodily.

But Devin seems to have no problem with the blatant flirtation, matching Roxy's excited tone with a British-tinged one of his own. Of course. Obviously the idiot has exquisite taste in women.

I watch them flirt on line for as long as I can stand (and amuse myself with a quick aside about them flirting on line as opposed to
online
, the traditional method of modern flirting), and am luckily distracted by Felicia precisely at the moment I think I've hit maximum anxiety levels.

“Oooh! Gary Chatham is going to be on Stage One-D at four p.m.” She looks up at me. “Could I get into that?”

I look at her schedule. Gary Chatham is a big star promoting a big new blockbuster, so I have a feeling it's in one of the main hall panels. Which means she might have to try to get a wristband for it, and it's likely those are already gone at this point.

The schedule tells me my assumption is correct. “You have to line up for a wristband, near the front entrance,” I tell her. “You might want to go and try now, but it's possible they're all gone already.”

“Oh, really?” she asks. “Hmmmm . . .”

I can see her trying to determine whether or not to leave us to give it a go, but she ultimately shrugs. “I don't want to go by myself, I think. You guys have other plans at four, right?”

Ugh! I was supposed to have other plans. I was supposed to be coming out of the Zinc panel and sweeping Roxana off her feet. But now . . .

No, seriously, I can't give up. Maybe I can go over to the room where the Zinc panel is and see if there's any possible way to get in. Maybe there's a weak point in the guarding or ticket-checking systems. I admit, I'm better at brainstorming fantasy-adventure scenarios than, say, heist
movies, but this is for true love, and that's a goal that binds together every genre on the planet.