How to Repair a Mechanical Heart

“Oh God!”

He mimics the Meaningful Look in the photo and makes a wet kissy noise. I flick a card at him sideways. He flicks one back. It nicks my ear. I put up my fists and he yelps and takes off and this is what it feels like to chase a boy, no fear or shame or anything, just the two of us gasping and laughing like kids as we zigzag the ballroom and skid around chairs and run right into the shiny gold badge and foreboding beige shirt of Joh

Joh

“You two,” says the security guard. “Hold up.”

My stomach knots. Joh

“He started it,” Abel says. “He’s a terrible influence.”

I smack him. “Sorry, sir,” I say. “We’ll stop ru

“No no no. That’s not it.”

“Oh.”

“It’s Mr. Ma

***

The corridor smells like chlorine and coleslaw. We follow Joh

Abel’s going omigod omigod.

“I know,” I whisper.

“My heart’s going supernova.”

“What do you think he wants?”

“You.”

“Really?”

“Maybe.”

“He’s got a girlfriend.”

“He could be bi.”

“This is crazy.”

“Eh. Maybe he’s just a fan.”

“Of us?”

“We have fans!”

“What, so he sits around in his trailer watching fan vlogs?”

“Maybe he’s bored.”

“Maybe he ships Abandon.”

He shoves my shoulder. I crack up.

“Guys‌—‌guys.” Joh

“Yeah. No problem.” Behind his back, Abel gives me an exaggerated shrug, eyes wide and laughing.

The door we go through has a VIP sign taped to it, but the meeting room inside doesn’t look too special. There’s a bunch of long tables and folding chairs with convention equipment scattered around‌—‌stacks of crinkled programs, empty boxes with bubblewrap crumpled beside them. Joh

I hold my breath as he nudges the curtain aside. Augie Ma

“Heyyyyy, guys,” he says. “Come on into mi casa here.”

The guard’s like, “Should I stay?”

“Naw, they’re cool. Right?”

“Definitely,” says Abel.

Joh

“Mr. Ma

“Awesome, yeah, that’s sweet, man.” He’s looking at me. He steps closer and rests his hand on my upper arm. Dutch Jones, I tell myself. His hand. My arm.

“Lemme ask you something, okay?”

“Sure.”

“It’s go

“Okay.”

“Can I have your shirt?”

“My‌—‌”

“Yeah, not the blue button-down thing, that’s like J.C. Pe

“I don’t know‌…‌”

“This t-shirt.” He opens up my button-down and ogles the tee underneath. “Ohhhh, yeah. Oh, baby. Ka. Ching.”

My starstruck-ness starts to fade; he smells like old socks and this is really pretty goofy. The shirt he’s salivating over is a baggy old Bob Dylan concert tee, and it’s not very sexy. The image on front is a foursquare grid‌—‌three of the squares hold cartoon outlines of faces, and then the fourth one is filled in with Dylan. There’s a rip near the neckline and it’s been washed about five thousand times, so I can’t imagine what he wants with it.

Ma

“No thanks.”

He takes a big swig. “‌—‌and so this one time in college I took one of her t-shirts, like that exact shirt, and I left it at the beach like an effing moron and oh my God you’d think I murdered her dog ‘cause she never let me forget it. This is authentic, right?”

“Yeah.”

“From the ‘88 tour or whatever?”

“I guess.”

“Where’d you get it? It’s super-rare. I’ve looked seriously everywhere!”

“I don’t know. My sister got it for my birthday.”

“Birthday. Exactly. Mom’s birthday’s in two days.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “So how much you want for the shirt? Two hundred?”

I glance from Abel to Ma

“It’s pretty sentimental, sir,” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Two-fifty. And my shirt, here‌—‌” He starts peeling off the surf-shop tee, unveiling his pale freckled chest. “You can sell it to some fan or whatever. My sweat’s all over it.”

I glance at Abel. Vibrating, sucking his lips in.

“Well, that’s a generous offer,” I say. “But‌—‌”

“Your sister would freak, Brandon,” Abel tsks. “You know how Natalie gets.”

“Mm. You know she just had another breakdown, right?”

“Did she? No! I’m so sorry.” He shakes his head. “I thought she’d gotten so much better since the staple gun incident.”

Augie Ma

“Yeah. Sure.” I peek inside. Six thin homemade cigarettes rolled in blue paper.

“They’re Spaceman Straws. You drink in some serious wisdom with these.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. I’m not responsible for what happens if you decide to partake.” He claps me on the shoulder like a grandpa, stuffs the envelope in my shorts pocket. My eyes trace the Big Dipper in his chest freckles. “Just make sure you’re someplace safe. Comprende?”

***

I don’t plan to exit the Actors’ Lounge naked from the waist up. It just sort of happens. When we pass Joh

Abel’s dying. He’s absolutely losing his mind, bouncing all over the corridor like a sheepdog on uppers.