We hadn’t texted since. I was flying out the day after tomorrow.
This endeavor wasn’t happening.
Originally, we’d agreed to meet after my panel in the gallery space set aside for my students.Lucas, wandering the gallery space considering my students’ work ...I opened my eyes and sat up, my heart thumping too hard and climbing into my throat, and my brain suddenly too distracted to continue eating itself.
There was no chance he was coming, but it couldn’t hurt to wander by the place we’d said we’d meet, could it? I was deluding myself, but I had nothing else to cling to.
I jerkily stood up out of my chair, and Ainsley gave me a little wave. I waved back and marched—hobbled really—directly out of the conference room into the seething mass of humanity. I wandered through the press of people, keeping to the edges of the enormous hall and trying to quell the feeling that I’d found my way into another world, where a large, colorful crowd of people provided the same visual experience as a Hardyssweetshop.
I had been to comic events before, of course, but never on this scale. Drawn & Quartered Comic Convention wasn’t some twee little con in Rotherham; there were bloody movie stars somewhere about. And I was aninvited speaker. An attraction. I was used to spending a grueling day behind a shared desk, feverishly signing old issues while Lakshmi (and Sam and Craig who sometimes came to help) tried to coax people over to the table apportioned to us, a local romance author, and a tarot reader.
There was noSurrogate Goosetable here—there was aSurrogate GooseCorner in the Drake House Complex. In the sea of color and texture, my monochrome artwork stood out like the edgy,ridiculousadolescent in a family photo.
Merchandise hung on display, and young people dressed in Drake House apparel were selling it alongside action figures, posters, and collectibles. It feltbizarre. Like an elaborate joke or misunderstanding. How could this level of corporatization still qualify asindie? How could anyone use that description with a straight face?
Well, I probably wouldn’t have to worry about that for much longer. I’d shown up and I was presentable and all, but bet you tuppence I would still make an utter arse of myself on stage and Drake House would drop the comic and Lakshmi would behead me and the world would end—
“Oh my god, Professor Demetrio! Hi!”
Ohno. I cringed but then saw Blue-Glasses-Afro-Puffs—(Ariadne)—beaming up at me. There were two people behind her who were unquestionably her parents. “Oh hello,” I managed, trying not to panic. Or at leastshowthat I was panicking. I hadn’t thought to prepare for the uncanny valley of seeing my students in any other context than the classroom.
“I was just taking my folks over to see the workshop gallery,” she said, then indicated a direction. “It’s this way, if you want to come. I know you hate looking at your own work.” She glanced back toward theSurrogate GooseCorner, then shrugged, giving me an adorable little half smile.
I felt my face heat up but also a bloom of gratitude in my chest—it was terrible to think that I was so transparent, but comforting to know that my students didn’t seem to hold it against me. I followed Ariadne and her parents through the colorful throng and toward a large auditorium. There was a stage at one end, and a small crowd had gathered around the speaker. Their distorted voice echoed, as did the soft rumbling of the audience. It was a Q&A session. I turned away, shuddering.
At the other end of the hall, there was a gallery space, where my students’ work covered the walls. I stopped in my tracks. I’d seen each piece individually, of course, but there was something about seeing them all spread out in one place that caused a fluttering in my chest.
They weregood. And even better, somehow, they were alldifferent.There’d been a big part of me that feared I was doing little more than turning out a classful of mini-me’s. But while my influence was visible if you knew where to look, each of these kids’ visions was unique and their styles distinctive. Finch’s odd vampire wizard romance had a great deal of substance to it, with color themes and a dynamic lineup. Damien’s spread showed near flawless technique, with fewer sloppy motion blurs, Cyrus had truly taken to heart the lessons of cinematic panels as pacing—I could practically hear the soundtrack—and Aubrey ... had done a fantastic job with the available resources. Which had primarily been gall.
And there they all were, milling about with their friends and families, sending the odd wave my way but otherwise engrossed in the experience of seeing their art professionally displayed for the first time.
I definitelywasn’tchoking up.
“Armand, there you are!”
I turned to see a red-faced Finch running up to me—perhaps hehadfound a volleyball game. “I’ve been looking all over for you! I thought we were staying in the room with the nice lady!”
“Have you seen Lucas at all?” I asked, twisting my fingers in the hem of my sweater.
Finch gaped at me and then let his shoulders sag, mouth twisting in an incredulous smile. “You have no idea the kind of heart attack you just gave me, do you?”
“Sorry.” I took a deep breath. “He’s not coming, is he?”
“We don’t know that yet,” Finch said soothingly. “I’m sure he’ll be here.” He glanced around and then nodded toward the stage. “I can’t believe you found the right auditorium on your own. I’m impressed.”
I chose not to divulge the role played by Ariadne and her family. Instead, I focused on the fact that the last speaker was clearly finishing up, and bits ofthiscrowd were filing out so that a new crowd could replace them. A few con officials were coming through with brooms, checking the seats for forgotten belongings.
“Do you remember the lineup?” Finch asked, then, when I stared at him mutely, simply continued. “Okay. So the panel moderator makes opening remarks, then you give your talk, then the panelists respond.” He searched my face. “You remember who the panelists are?”
As a matter of fact, I did. They were three auteurs of three different indie comics practically indistinguishable from my own, but for some inexplicable reason not remotely as successful. They were all from local publishers—small, boutique, indie publishers that trundled along doing their best with what they had. Not like the behemoth of Drake House that had plucked me from obscurity. The same obscurity whose icy bosom I was soon to return to. My fellow panelists had likely just spent their day the way I’d used to—meet and greets and signings, hawking homemade merch, and accumulating large amounts of con crud.
Not hiding out in a small, quiet room, slowly succumbing to their own stomach acids.
The idea behind the panel was that I was meant to be aspirational. I was the ascended indie kid co-opted by the mainstream as a vehicle for their own performance of authenticity. This panel was me making myself available to the prodding and criticism of my former peers so they, too, could get the best possible odds on their tarnished souls. I had no clue what they might say, but whatever crimes they laid at my feet were likely justified. They were already seated at the table—one had pink hair and the other two were identical in nearly everything but the placement and subjects of their tattoos.
“So the tortured reverie is a yes?” Finch smiled. “Okay, and then there’s the audience Q&A.”
I nodded, still scanning the incoming crowd for Lucas, because I was delusional. And desperate for a point of light in the tumultuous sea of strangers.
