SUNDAY, THE DAY after the Trivia Quest, I’m like a zombie. I stumble around, and my head feels sick and swirly. I guess it was all the sensory overload.
So I stay in my pajamas and watch the extremely boring history of hydraulics on TV for a while with Gramps, then go back to bed and read comics. Every so often I look at the two VIP passes, which I’ve pinned to the corkboard on my wall.
“Since Liberty’s gone, why don’t you offer that second ticket to your brother?” Mom said when she saw them pinned there. Cal had been right behind her in the hallway, and he immediately fell to the floor and clutched his throat. “Well . . . maybe Joon, then?” she added, swatting at Cal.
I don’t want to think about giving Liberty’s ticket away to anyone right now. I’m still hoping she comes back.
I fall asleep in my bed, surrounded by comics. When I wake up later in the day, the light’s already fading to purple outside my window. Sunday’s almost over.
I hear strange bustling downstairs in the kitchen. There are delicious smells wafting around. As I’m sitting up and rubbing my eyes, Mom calls out: “Stanley? We’re eating in the dining room tonight! Go wash up!”
I do, and when I come downstairs, Mom, Cal, and Gramps are standing behind their chairs, waiting for me with big grins on their faces.
In the center of the table is a platter of spaghetti and raisin meatballs—my favorite homemade Mom-dinner. Homemade Mom-dinners are rare as comet sightings, so this is awesome. And next to the spaghetti is a big round cake that says Congratulations, Stanley! On it are seven yellow frosting coins.
There’s even a replacement phone, sitting by my place at the table.
I can’t stop grinning. My head feels swirly again.
But not in a sick way. In a really, really, really good way.
Lib: Hey from LA.
Stan: Hey. Everything okay?
Lib: Yup. But I’m sorry. I’m not gonna be back in time for Comic Fest.
Stan: Dang. Well, how’s your mom? You feeling okay?
Lib: She’s fine, I’m fine, we’re fine. Uncle Dan said he told you about my stupid cancer. I guess I should have told you.
Stan: You don’t have to talk about it. It’s cool.
Lib: GOOD! I’d rather not. For now. So tell me: Is Joon taking my ticket? Is he happy?
Stan: Is he happy!? Is the Green Lama a crime-fighting Buddhist?
Lib: What?
Stan: Never mind. YES, he’s excited. And I hope LA is okay. And that everything is cool with your mom . . .
There’s a lot more I want to say to her, but I don’t know how. Yet.
The day of the great, the long-awaited Comic Fest dawns bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. And before I know it, I’m standing with my friend Joon on a rowdy, shuffling line of cosplayers, superhero wannabes, and people in nerdy T-shirts, all of us waiting to get into the best fest on the planet.
Dream come true.
Joon’s got on his Green Lama cape from last Halloween. Every few seconds, he flashes me a grin and says, “Hey, thanks again, dude.”
“Thank Liberty,” I say, shuffling forward with him in the line. “Not me.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m just—glad you still want to hang out. I know I’ve been acting like kind of a jerk.”
I don’t say anything. But it’s nice to hear.
When we get to the front of the line, we’re so excited to flash our VIP passes! A big, bored-looking guy waves a wand over us. Another one hands us convention booklets, and big freebie tote bags plastered in logos and ads, and boom, we’re in.
This is the dream. We. Are. Living. The. Dream.
WE’RE AT COMIC FEST!
Famous actors! Just standing around! Celebrities, standing like ten feet from us!
And tons of booths filled with vintage comics of every possible era. Fans poring over huge stacks to add to their collections.
Massive lines of people snake around the edges of the hall, waiting to get into special discussion and film sneak preview panels.
I look at my VIP pass. It includes entry into an exclusive lunchtime panel with the Master himself. Epic!
And the costumes! We look around and see Wonder Women and Obi-Wans, Professor Xs and Magnetos, Hulks and Princess Leias, Batmen and Spider-Men, Game of Thrones–ers, Ms. Marvels, and Captain Americas, male and female. And some people—whoa—I have no clue what they’re dressed as. There are a lot of super-skimpy costumes, and super-weird ones, too.
And . . . if I wasn’t sure it was impossible, I could swear I’ve just seen someone in a silver-gray jumpsuit and utility belt disappear around a corner, with a swish of a bright blue cape. I whip around to do a double-take.
“What’s the matter?” Joon asks. “What are you looking for?”
“I thought—never mind,” I say. “Too much to explain.”
Joon’s goal is to look for vintage Green Lama comics. He’s got the hood up on the cloak his mom made him for Halloween two years ago, and he’s already been asked twice if he’s supposed to be the Green Arrow, which really ticks him off.
I’m not wearing a costume. Too uncomfortable. Plus I have a hard enough time just figuring out how to be myself. I smile, nod, and pretend the roaring noise and pressing crowds don’t bug me. But my ears are pounding—despite the fact that I’m wearing a pair of Mrs. Ngozo’s earplugs—and my skin’s already crawling.
“Isn’t this awesome?” Joon asks, and I give two wobbly thumbs ups.
With Liberty, I could complain about the sensory overload. But with Joon, I always need to act cooler than I feel.
The longer we spend wandering around the main exhibit floor, the buzzier my head gets. When Joon tries to talk to me, I can only see his lips moving against the dull roar of the room.
Wait. Did I just see that flash of blue cape again?
No way.
I’m so small, I’m getting knocked and elbowed constantly. It’s like people don’t even see me down here. They step backward onto me, brush past me. My nose is filled with the smell of fried food and people’s deodorant and perfume and body odor, and this weird plastic smell that’s maybe coming from the carpet.
“Joon!” I call. “Wait up!” I’m stuck behind some Trekkers—he’s gone on without me.
I am sweating in places I didn’t even know I had sweat glands, and breathing fast. Wait—there he is! That man in a silver-gray jumpsuit, mask, and blue cape. He’s by a Dr. Octopus display, and when he turns slightly, I see that on the front of his thick blue utility belt is a golden buckle with the letters JL.
I . . . drew that belt! How does it even exist in real life?
Okay. I have to make a decision. Do I try to catch up with Joon? Or do I follow this . . . this . . . John Lockdown?
Clearly, I go with the superhero. I dodge left and push right like a robotic tracking drone. Even though the crowd is Electric-Blue-Oblivion-concert-level thick.
Still, he’s getting away! He’s slipped between the World of Warcraft booth and a swarm of Firefly fans.
I stop.
I take in a giant breath.
I’ve always been a super-quiet, soft-spoken, stuttering sort of kid. But there’s a time and a place for everything.
I shout—so loudly, everyone around me turns:
“IS JOHN LOCKDOWN IN THIS BUILDING??????”
Then I stand there, panting.
Just visible up ahead, I see him—the man in the blue mask and cape. He looks through the crowd at me, and I wave both arms in the air.
Then the crowd shifts again, and he’s gone.