The Geek's Guide to Unrequited Love Read online

  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.

  Chapter 8

  The

  British

  Invasion

  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.

  Of course, going to investigate the Zinc situation might mean leaving Roxana and Devin alone together.

  “By the way, I didn’t tell you, but that is an excellent Pris costume,” he’s now saying to her.

  She laughs. “Thanks, but . . .” She points to her green ear. That’s right, idiot. The costume is not from Blade Runner, I think triumphantly.

  Devin only looks confused, which makes me think . . . “Did she have a green ear in the movie?” he asks, puzzled. Whoa! Does he really not know who Althena is?

  “The Chronicles of Althena?” Roxana asks. “You do know what that is? Right?”

  “Um . . . ,” Devin starts, and I am immediately gloating. “You know, I think I’ve vaguely heard of it.” Yes! Yes! Yes! He’s got to be getting so many deductions right now.

  But instead of frowning at him, Roxana is smiling mischievously. “Vaguely heard of it? Oh, man, that is so sad for you.”

  Devin merely grins back. “Then enlighten me, not-Pris.”

  What the hell? How does he turn his utter and offensive lack of knowledge of one of Roxana’s favorite things into more flirting?

  Roxana bows. “The Chronicles of Althena,” she rattles off, “was an American comic series that ran for two years from 1991 through 1993, by the incomparable writer and artist Robert Zinc. It was published by the then newly established Young Guns Press. And it was—is—utterly brilliant.”

  Devin’s bright blue eyes flash even brighter. “Tell me more,” he says. “What is it about?”

  “Well . . . I can give you a brief synopsis. But you’re definitely going to have to read it for yourself,” Roxana says, crossing her arms.

  “All right,” Devin says. “I defer to your expertise on that.”

  “But basically it’s about an alien, Althena, who crash-lands on Earth to do a research project and meets a failed sci-fi writer named Charlie Noth. Althena’s knowledge of humankind is pretty limited, though, and comes mostly from an outdated sci-fi movie marathon her lazy Homo Sapiens Studies instructor fed her in school. Hence . . .” She swoops her arm up to indicate herself.

  “Ah, of course. I see. Hence Blade Runner . . .” Devin glances over at me and grins like he’s just discovered the theory of relativity. “And Mad Max!” He taps at his ear to indicate he has now noticed that I also have a green ear. Needless to say, I’m not impressed.

  “Right!” Roxana says as if she is. “And here’s a fun fact: Zinc based the character of Noth on himself. He started out as a sci-fi author, you see, and not a very successful one. He was feeling really jaded about that industry when he started writing Althena. Anyway, read the original series. They are wonderful. Zinc has these gorgeous panels, coupled with just the perfect words, and it’s just like poetry, really. Comic book poetry.”

  I’m starting to smile despite myself because hearing Roxana talk so reverently about something I also deeply love is intoxicating.

  “The original?” Devin asks. “As opposed to . . .”

  “Oh. Right. So Zinc and Young Guns had a huge falling-out. That’s why the series only ran for two years. Afterward Zinc basically disappeared. But Young Guns owned the rights to Althena. There wasn’t any overt interest for a long time, but pretty soon the fansites started to get traction and some of the kids who were fans when they were teens started to get old enough to become, like, executives. So long story short, five years ago, there was a reboot.” She pauses dramatically.

  “And . . . we do not like this reboot?” Devin asks.

  “No, sir, we do not,” Roxana says emphatically. “It has none of the subtlety or the nuance. And certainly none of that otherworldly art.”

  “Or the humor.” I can’t help but butt in now. “No sly little jokes.”

  Roxana looks at me and snorts. “Those guys don’t know no Sly that isn’t a Stallone.”

  “Idiots!” I proclaim.

  “Fools!” she responds, not missing a beat.

  “So then . . . you guys think the movie is going to suck too?” Felicia interrupts our well-rehearsed dialogue. “I thought you were excited for that panel today.”

  “Ah, well, we did think the movie was going to suck,” Roxana starts, and then turns to me to continue.

  I oblige. “But then word got out that Zinc himself—who hasn’t been heard from in twenty years, mind you—that he had actually given the film his stamp of approval.”

  “Which means that the movie has to be based on the original,” Roxana concludes. “And Zinc being here today basically confirms that.” She looks at me, and I can see all the excitement and disappointment pooled together in her eyes.

  “It does,” I say as my mind goes into overdrive. I should treat this panel problem like brainstorming one of our stories. That’s how I’ll figure it out, by thinking What would Lockbreak do?

  “Ah, right,” Devin cuts in again with his perfect British accent. “I had been hearing mutterings about him. So, really, no one’s heard from him in twenty years?”

  “Not a peep.” Roxana turns to him. “No photographs. No interviews. No social media. There were even rumors that he was dead.”

  The doors to the room we’re standing by finally open and a stream of people file out as Roxana continues to tell Devin some of the more outrageous theories surrounding Zinc over the years: That he was an alien himself. That he never existed. That he has spent the past decade running a tantric yoga retreat in East Chatham, New York.

  We’re finally let inside. They don’t clear out these smaller rooms between panels, so there are quite a few people already seated by the time we get in, likely taking in a block of panels at once. We find two seats in one row and two a row behind it. Without consulting anyone, Devin walks in after Roxana as she slides into the row closer to the stage. I scowl as Felicia and I are forced to sit behind them.

  “Hi, and welcome to Inking Techniques, everyone,” the panel moderator says from the stage, then begins to introduce the panelists.

  I’m forced to watch as Devin leans way too close to Roxana’s ear to whisper something to her, and as she laughs at whatever he says. Really? Like, how funny can he possibly be about the moderator’s introduction? Also, he should shut up since the panel has started now.

  I force myself to take deep breaths.

  Get it together, Posner, I think. Focus on getting Roxana into the Zinc panel and it won’t matter what sweet nothings Devin whispers into her ear.

  Because, above all, Roxy is a Z-man.

  “I think I might be getting the hang of the communication intricacies of Homo sapiens,” Althena says in Issue #4. “You never say what you mean. Your brain must function as a highly evolved translation program factoring in posture, eye movement, vocal tone, context of dialogue . . . otherwise no one would ever comprehend anyone else.”

  “I’m not sure anyone does comprehend anyone else,” Charlie replies while a thought bubble expresses his true feelings. “And the only one who seems to understand my every feeling is not even human.”

  It’s true—we never say what we mean. But for once, I want to. And I want to say it to the one person who understands me better than anyone.

  Chapter 9

  If Only

  Real Life

  Came with

  XP

  AFTER THE INKING PANEL, I make my decision and (painfully) leave Roxana and Devin to their own devices. I tell th
em I’ll meet them at the hot dog stand with Casey at one thirty.

  That gives me thirty minutes to root out what I can about the Zinc panel, which is hopefully enough time to gather some useful intel about getting us in. But hopefully not enough time for Roxana and the British stud muffin (crumpet?) to fall irrevocably in love.

  I make my way over to where the Zinc panel will be, Stage 1-E, which is the smaller of one of the two main halls. These halls are reserved for only a few special events, and the Zinc panel at 3 p.m. is only 1-E’s second of the day, followed by an advance screening of Godzilla: Unleashed at 6 p.m. Just as I told Felicia earlier, everything here needs wristbands. ROOMS WILL BE CLEARED OUT BETWEEN EACH PANEL IN THE MAIN HALLS AND WRISTBANDS WILL BE CHECKED, a sign tells me in the con’s signature Comic Sans font (which, besides actual comic books, is the only place Comic Sans is ever called for). ABSOLUTELY NO PHOTOGRAPHY OR VIDEOGRAPHY. ANYONE CAUGHT FILMING OR TAKING PICTURES WILL IMMEDIATELY BE ESCORTED OUT OF THE ROOM, another sign reads, adding insult to injury.

  There are people lined up in front of 1-E already, every one of them adorned with a silver-colored piece of paper around their wrist. I’ve never been so jealous of a piece of sticky paper in my life. And then, worst of all, I catch a glimpse of the Zinc hater in the Papa Smurf hat. Unbelievable. He gets to see Robert Zinc and Roxana and I don’t?

  There’s a curly-haired guy in a teal Comic Con staff shirt standing guard in front of the line. I try to exhale my anger out before I approach him.

  “Excuse me,” I say, putting on an I-promise-I-am-polite-and-rational smile and asking him something I’m sure he’s heard at least a dozen times today, “but is there any way I can get into this panel?”

  “Do you have a wristband?” he asks, not in an unfriendly tone.

  “No,” I say. He starts to shake his head, but I continue, “I actually waited in line for it since last night. I was number one hundred and three in line, so I should’ve had one. But then there was a great big bum rush and all these people cut ahead of me.” I realize exactly what I’m doing: the nerd whine. But nothing is beneath me at this point. If he asked me to grovel, or lick the floor, or sing an Ariana Grande ballad in front of the whole con, I would do it. “It’s just . . . really unfair.” And my nerdgradation is complete.