It’s a soft laugh. A perfect laugh. A laugh you could record and play on loop. In other words, it’s a rehearsed laugh, and now I wish I had practiced more myself.
“It’s a little overwhelming,” I manage to squeak out, my voice a little raspier than I want it to be.
The crowd responds by clapping again.
I wave at them even though I can’t see most of the people. They are a big black blob. The lights have blinded me, and maybe that is for my benefit. I can pretend like no one is out there.
I turn back to Melanie just as she says, “Let’s begin our questions, and then we can turn those questions over to the fans. Rachel, what made you want to write fanfiction, specifically using Evan Michaels’ novels?”
This is an easy enough question. It is one of the questions Melanie had emailed, and I practiced it a few times with Mal and Wonton as my audience. Mal applauded me. Wonton did not.
“Evan is brilliant at constructing a good plot line that pulls you into the story. I write for a newspaper for a living. More real life than fiction. I’ve always loved to write, and when a friend suggested I take one of my favorite characters from a series and write fanfiction, I was surprised by the reaction to it. I posted one chapter, and suddenly, my account blew up. I had no idea the world of fanfiction was so huge,” I reply matter-of-factly, staring directly at Melanie. “I mean, obviously, just from the reaction today.”
The crowd applauds again. I feel a tickle crawl up my spine that this applause is for me. I also feel the tickle of bile making its way back up my throat. Throwing up on stage would be just as embarrassing as passing out.
“Evan is the master of a plot line, but did you feel like something was missing? Is that why you gave his character a love life?” Melanie questions.
It’s still a predetermined question. One I’ve practiced. One I can feel the answer to on the tip of my tongue. And yet…
When I hear it asked in front of all these people, I wonder how Evan feels about it.
I told Evan that somethingwasmissing, even as far as saying that I had resuscitated Barrett with my own writing. How would I feel if someone picked apart my own successful book series andreconstructed it to fit their own narrative? Not that I had a successful book series…yet. But if I did. When I did…
I shake the thought from my head, but the words just rattle around instead of disappearing.
“I mean…” I stutter. “I don’t think Evan’s writing is lacking. Like he said, romance isn’t his genre, but I did wonder about Barrett. I wondered if there was more to Barrett than just solving murders. What made him laugh? What reason did he have for getting up in the morning? What more could Barrett be than just a detective with a badge? Hence the name BarrettBeyondTheBadge. I think everyone deserves love, even the fictional characters we all love so much.”
I steal a look over at Evan. He’s sitting upright, no slouch to his shoulders. His expression is hard to read. It’s well rehearsed, revealing nothing about how he feels about my answer.
What is real on this stage and what isn’t?
“That’s such a beautiful sentiment, Rachel. We all deserve love. So, Evan, this new book coming out,Death Before Daybreak…Would you say it is one of your best works?” Melanie asks.
“My best?” It’s a question, but it’s not a question. It’s just a practiced response to make it sound like he’s never heard these questions before. “I guess my fans will have to decide. I think all authors have their favorite books they’ve written, and they all can’t be your favorite, but this one is good. It’s what's to be expected from Barrett.”
“Expected as in the same Barrett we’ve seen from the last several books?” Melanie asks.
The question hangs itself in the air between them. A purposeful pause.
“The same reliable Barrett that is decisive and good at his job. There will be murder, suspense, and of course, Barrett will have a few leads to follow until he discovers the murderer,” he answers.
“So, no romance, then?” Melanie asks.
Evan laughs. It’s deep and rich and captivates me, but only because I’m 99 percent positive that it’s not his real laugh at all.
“I’ll leave that to the fanfiction writers like Rachel. She is obviously good at what she does, judging from the crowd today.”
He motions to the blob of darkness. They clap, once again, in response.
I feel confusion cross my face, my facial muscles scrunching without my permission.
I know this is all for show—a big performance to sell books and hopefully launch my own writing career, but I also wish I knew if what Evan is saying is genuine, or if he’s just doing what Melanie has told him to do andplaying nice.
I once pretended, too.
I pretended to be something I wasn’t to make other people happy. Maybe it wasn’t a crowd of twelve hundred, but it was for someone that I thought loved me.
And I can’t do it anymore. If I’m not going to hide behind my username, I’m not going to let another man sit here and pretend to be something he’s not. To make others believe in him when there’s nothing to believe in.
