Be Dazzled Page 7

  He’s closer than I thought. And blushing. He gives me a sort of slick expression, like he knows he’s charming, like he knows he’s guilty of maneuvering the conversation into territory where neither of us has control.

  “Fine, yeah,” I say. “Maybe I do.”

  He leans toward me. I watch him splay his hands out and see the shadows carve into dimples on his shoulders as he leans over the table.

  “I make you laugh,” he says.

  “I make you clothes,” I say.

  We will kiss.

  I know, because like everything else, a kiss is a sum of parts. It began a long time ago, at Craft Club, with Luca’s shouldering his gear as I handed him a bag of jewels. Then at school, the particles of gold soaking into Luca’s clothes, drawing from him the dramatic performance he gave me as the faucet poured water over his lips. And here, the kiss waited patiently between us as I sewed an entire shirt out of nothing, out of the hope that it would keep this boy captivated by me a little while longer, his eyes memorizing the shapes of my fingers as I fed fabric beneath the hopscotch of a needle and into his waiting palms.

  And now, as he crawls up onto the table with me, turning me around to wrap my waist in his arm and my mouth in his breath, the lead-up to the kiss ends. It ends with our lips fitting together, my laughter pushed back down my throat to wait inside as I let myself enjoy what I’ve created. The kiss ends like all my projects: amazing and whole, the fragments of many moments joined together to create something entirely alive and real. Something incredible, out of nothing.

  Minutes later, we need to breathe. The pause is long enough that we both consider what’s happening, what we’ve created.

  “Have you ever—” I begin to ask.

  “Not with a guy,” Luca says. “You?”

  “Yeah. Only guys. But only, like, twice. Do you want—” I breathe deep, not sure when my next chance will be. “I mean, we can do that again if—”

  “Okay, but…” Luca trails off.

  “But what?”

  “But I want to keep the shirt on.”

  “Of course.” I smile, lean in. We’re kissing again when Luca stops us.

  “Not because I’m, like, not into you,” he assures me. “I just like the shirt. I’m very much into you. And into this.”

  “Okay, Luca.”

  He evades my lips one more time.

  “Not just physically. I think you’re cool. I think what you can do is amazing. And I’m sorry if buying you those gemstones was weird. My plan was to get more and give them to you in school, but then we met in Craft Club. That was dumb luck, I swear. This wasn’t, like, a plot to get into your pants, I promise.”

  I stifle a laugh. He looks down, mumbling now.

  “I just really like watching you work.”

  “Luca.”

  “What?”

  “It’s cool. You’re good. You can watch me work later, okay?”

  His arms tighten around my waist. His nerves settle. Mine don’t, but I try to play it cool.

  “Is that an invitation?” he whispers, lifting my chin toward him.

  The afternoon sun fills the narrowing space between us with golden light. We close over it until it’s just a glowing seam between two things, finally joined.

  Nine

  Now

  We’re led from the conference room to an elevator, then up to a hallway with windows overlooking the con floor. From above, there’s no trace of the calamity we caused. In the open areas, people are back to taking photos with cosplayers. On the other side of the hall, we can see down into the aisles of displays and booths. The density and color of the slowly churning crowd gives the dizzying impression of some sort of multicolored seascape. A coral reef carpeted in anemone, an invisible tide keeping it all moving.

  “Wait here,” Madeline says, leaving us in the hall. The guards go with her, and Luca and I are left before a pair of double doors. We stand there in silence for a long time. Surely whoever we’re waiting on has better things to do than attend to two delinquent boys. The moments become minutes, the awkward silence in the hallway emphasizes everything left unsaid between Luca and me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says finally.

  I turn away from him, pretending to look out over the con floor. The glass is tinted; probably no one can see us. I watch Luca’s reflection, but he keeps his eyes down as he talks.

  “I should have made sure you were okay with us using your idea. It was shitty of us to develop something you came up with. I really thought she checked. I’m sorry.”

  I watch him in the reflection, and finally he looks up at me. I look away, back out over the crowd.

  “And if it’s any consolation, the judges thought it was good, but simple. They called it ‘sensational,’ but, like, not in a good way. I’m not even sure what they meant.”

  “In this case, it means provocative. Like, you took an idea and made it edgy. Shock value, basically.”

  “I knew I could get you to talk by giving you a chance to make a jab at me. Feel better?”

  We make eye contact in the reflection of the window now. It reminds me of one of my earliest memories of us: We’re sitting in my studio, watching each other in the glass cabinets and waiting to see who will make the first move. Who will start the story of our together.

  We’re so far from that now.

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I can’t help it. I turn and look Luca dead in the eye.

  “What I said to you was shitty. It was even shittier to say it in front of all those people. I was mad, and I was trying to leave, and my mouth…just got the better of me. But now it doesn’t matter who’s the better builder, because we’re both done for.”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. He actually shrugs, as though this is one of the many cons he was planning on getting kicked out of today. And his cavalier attitude slaps me like a frigid wave. I’m breathless with perspective, suddenly. For most people, this is a fun activity. It used to be just fun for me, too, but recently it’s felt like so much more. Like everything. Without the Craft Club sponsorship, was any of this even worth it? The only silver lining is the boon of followers I’ll probably get from being the infamous moss creature who made a mess.

  I know that now is the time to hold myself together, but I start to cry. I’m here with Luca, the boy I loved and the boy who broke my heart, and we’re alone together for the first time in months. All those feelings—I forced them into my work, my craft, my dream, into shaping my future. But now, with that future going up in flames, the prison I built around those feelings is gone. They’re free to surge forth, and they do so with the full intensity of the day they were hatched from my breaking heart.

  Luca hugs me, and I let him. I don’t worry about the mess I’m making of my makeup or the streaks of green and black that smear over his biceps and chest as he embraces me.

  “I’m sorry, Raff,” he says. “But you’re going to figure out a way to fix this. You create stuff, remember? You can make anything. And that means you’ll find a way to make this right.”

  I pull away, dabbing at the tears stinging my eyes. I badly want to rip off this prosthetic nose, but I need a special releaser chemical to do so. Still, it’s started to peel, probably from all the frowning. And as I force down sobs, petals and leaves drift from my crown and fall to the floor. My careful costume is coming undone.

  “I’m sorry, too,” I say. “I’m sorry I’m so angry. I can’t help how I feel.”

  “Me neither,” Luca says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I still feel a lot for you, and I don’t know what to do with it all. Inaya and I are close now, but we’re just friends. We just cosplay together. But you and I were more, and I think about it a lot. I think about you a lot. And…”

  “A
nd what?”

  “And I know it’s terrible timing, but I still really want to kiss you. But only if you say it’s okay.”

  Through the window past Luca, the crowds are cheering as someone takes up a microphone. We can’t make out the words through the thick glass, but we can sense the excitement vibrating in the silence. I pretend the cheers are for us.

  It’s okay.

  I imagine saying it. But I don’t say it, because just then, the double doors open.

  “Boys,” says Irma Worthy.

  Luca and I push apart. I laugh—actually laugh in shock at the sight of Irma Worthy appearing out of nowhere.

  She’s smiling at us like I’m not a sobbing mess covered in literal moss and leaves.

  “Well, sounds like you created quite the scene down there,” Irma says.

  “We’re sorry. It won’t happen again. If you allow us to keep our passes—”

  “Keep your passes?” Irma throws back her head and fills the hallway with a crackling cackle like snapping electricity. Her curls bounce as she shakes off the amusement. “You think I came here to confiscate your badges? Honey, I have a job. And it’s not that.”

  Her laugh surrounds us. She puts out her hands for us to take, which we both do without hesitating, as though she’s our mother. She leads us over to the windows so we’re all watching Controverse from above together.

  “Listen. I understand the hard work that goes into these projects, probably better than most,” she says. “I know the time and money a person’s got to spend if they want to make something, or make something of themselves. More than anything else, I respect that effort. Maybe too much. I look at all this”—she gestures at Controverse—“and sometimes I have trouble seeing it as an experience. As a convention. I tend to focus on the parts instead of the whole. The time, the effort, the creativity. The people. I see all of them, and all of their work, and sometimes it’s easy to lose sight of the big picture we’re all creating together.”

  She looks between us. I find that I’m nodding. I get this.

  “Controverse wants you two gone, and I understand why.” Irma sighs. “I heard about what happened just as we were tabulating the final scores of today’s judging. It would be the easiest thing in the world to knock you both out and let the competition race on without you.”

  She looks at Luca with adoration, a maternal glow that he can’t help but smile under. When Irma looks at me, the glow cools into a smoldering fixation that I cannot make sense of. I don’t have time to dwell on it.

  “But I want you both in this competition. And the other judges agree. You scored very high. So high, I couldn’t let the convention staff kick you out. I’m going out on a limb here, boys, for the big picture we’re all making together. Do you get what I mean? I’m making promises to people, but you’ve got to keep them for me. With me. Are we clear?”

  We’re both stunned. I can tell Luca’s nonchalance is slipping. He’s just gonna go along with whatever, so it’s up to me to ask the question on both our minds.

  “You’re letting us stay in the competition, but in exchange for what?”

  Irma looks up at me with the same stern contemplation. I can’t help but compare her to Evie. The difference is that while Evie loves me, Irma respects me.

  “All we ask is that you give us the best show possible tomorrow. You’re both moving on to the final round. Take tonight to prepare. Don’t make a scene on your way out. And not a word to the other teams about our little chat, okay?”

  She winks. Luca winks. I don’t know how to wink, so I nod. Then Madeline emerges from the double doors, her trusty tablet lighting her neck and jaw with a ghostly glow.

  “Madeline, they’ve agreed to compete. Isn’t that nice?” says Irma.

  Madeline, as per usual, is the image of poise. But there, just at the edge of her mask, I see a wisp of apprehension seep out. Her nostrils flare as she sets her jaw.

  “Very nice, but are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “I am, dear. No more questions. I’ll answer to the board if they need some convincing.”

  Madeline’s lips tighten. She gestures for us to leave with her. We’re led through a maze of back passages down to the convention center’s employees-only parking lot. A car is waiting.

  “Luca, security has your bag. I’ll escort you. Raphael, this car is for you. Your items from coat check are in the trunk. The driver’s instructions are to take you straight to your house.”

  I climb in, and Madeline closes the door without a goodbye. The car isn’t an Uber or a Lyft. It’s a private car, like a president might ride in. Is it Irma’s? I don’t know. Inside, the driver gives me a quick glance and checks a mounted phone with my address preprogrammed into it. He says nothing, and we turn away from Controverse on silent wheels.

  As the convention center vanishes from view, Irma’s words buzz in me like a large fly, swatting against my lungs. She saved us, but I can’t help but feel the cost is going to be a big one, and it’s going to come tomorrow. But no matter what happens next, I’ve been given a second chance. Now, more than ever, I’m determined to prove that I’m worth it.

  Ten

  Then

  Twelve months ago

  The day after we kiss for the first time, I can’t bring myself to look at Luca in class. After he left my house, I replayed the strange sequence that led me into his arms and decide it was definitely an anomaly. An aberration. An irregularity, never to be repeated. But then, as I’m walking in the hallway, a shoulder nudges mine, and I look up to find Luca strolling beside me.

  “Psst,” he whispers. “Can I come over later?”

  “I’ve got work to do,” I hear myself say.

  “Okay, and? Take out your phone.”

  I do. Luca swings to the other side of the hall, across from me. People fill the space between us. My phone buzzes, asking if I’d like to accept an AirDropped photo from an unknown number. I do, and a picture downloads of Luca, shirtless, a phone number printed on his biceps.

  I roll my eyes at him. He’s got his tongue between his teeth, his eyebrows arched. Playful, but restrained for him. Then he flashes open his zip-up. I see the green; I see the orange. He’s wearing the tank top we made together.

  With a finger to his lips, Luca backs down the hall, our eyes locked in a playful battle until my blush forces me to look away.

  I wait six whole minutes to text him.

  * * *

  Luca shows up, and he keeps showing up. Every time, I pretend to be surprised, but the truth is that it only takes me a week to get used to our weird routine. He comes after soccer, sweaty and smelling of grass, and there’s always a small chase around my worktable until he captures me in a gross hug. Then I make him shower, using the precious minutes to get as much done as I can before he’s out and demanding I teach him something.

  Our lessons are small. They’re usually about things I’ve streamed recently for Plasma Siren, because those are the supplies I have accessible, and it seems important to Luca to frame this as him helping me. I play along with that. Why not? I think it’s cute, but the truth is that I usually redo his work later and just don’t tell him. I don’t mind. Like, at all. Which is very strange for me. Wasting time is the one thing that makes my anxiety go through the roof, but somehow with Luca, time never feels wasted.

  I have no idea what we’re building together, between us. But as with all projects, I am determined to find out, and I put in the work to make it the best it can be. Luca does, too. He starts bringing homework over. He starts staying later. The pizza place near my house memorizes our order. We start working less and kissing more. Sometimes, we don’t work at all. Sometimes, like today, we collapse into each other and just watch anime, and I marvel at this strange new person I’m letting Luca make me into. A person who isn’t obsessed with working on something every minute of every day. A person wh
ose hands are content to be still, so long as Luca’s the one holding them.

  Late on a Thursday night, I wake up because once again I’m overheating in the vise-like embrace Luca winds me into every time we end up together on my couch.

  I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but as soon as I’m conscious, I regret being awake. By the way my arm is numb, I know we’ve been asleep for a while, which means it’s probably past the time when I need to send Luca home so his parents don’t freak out. Which means I need to wake him up. Always an ordeal.

  We fell asleep on the loft couch, and the only reason I woke up was because the opening song of the anime we’ve been marathoning for the last week is full of electric guitars. It’s a horror anime, Luca’s favorite, and as I rub at my eyes, I watch a montage of characters race through the opening credits in a parade of slashing blades and spraying blood.

  “Luca, come on, we fell asleep,” I say, poking him. He doesn’t budge, but I know he’s awake. Luca is forever falling asleep while I’m doing work, and he always sleeps with his mouth open. But right now? His face is perfectly serene except for his lips, which are puckered for a kiss. He’s faking it.

  “Luca,” I say.

  Nothing. I can see the muscles of his mouth twitching, trying not to smile. I groan and finally give in, kissing him. But because this is Luca and everything has to be dramatic, he’s not waiting for just a kiss.

  Smiling, I exhale onto his lips gently, and all at once, he comes alive.

  “THE BREATH OF LIFE!” He surges upward, throwing the blanket over his shoulder like a cape. Then he kneels before me. “My master, you have breathed life into me, and now I serve you as your loyal totem.”

  It’s a line from another anime—I never can remember the name—that we finished last week during another “work” session. And now, anytime we fall asleep watching something, Luca insists on me waking him up this way. Sometimes he’ll wake me up with a poke and then fake sleep until I give him the breath of life.