“What’s wrong with chow mein?”

He lobs a donut hole at me.

“I mean, I’d rather have moo shu pork, but‌—‌”

“Can I punch you? Like for real?”

Dad’s GPS breaks in: Arrive at destination. I wave Abel quiet and bump up into the bookstore parking lot, looking for a spot I can ease the Sunseeker into without breaking a sweat. I’ve got this swervy carsick feeling. It’s the Zander talk. Can Abel tell it’s a lie? He’s too smart to be fooled forever.

“Whoa‌…‌” Abel says.

My knuckles go white on the wheel. “What?”

“A-plus park job.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You did that one-handed.”

“I did.”

He toys with Plastic Cadmus. “I’ve been like, covertly admiring you all day. I’d crap my pants if I had to drive one of these.”

I sneak a glance at him. It doesn’t compute, Abel scared of a thing that’s like walking for me. RV driving’s just geometry and physics; it’s Dad in the seat beside me with his tall can of BBQ chips, guiding me through highway merges and practice park jobs in empty lots. You get into a rhythm on a long straight road, and after a while you forget you’re hauling something huge and scary behind you.

“It’s easy,” I shrug.

“Really?”

“Well, I’m kind of amazing.”

“Confidence. Excellent.” He stands up and stretches like a cat. “Just what you need tonight.”

“Okay, but I swear I’m not‌—‌”

He kicks the Sunseeker door open, like in the pilot episode where Cadmus breaks into StarPort 38’s android-storage locker and steals Sim from his charging dock. He turns to me, holds out his hand with a grave stage-glare. Bec watches, grinning, shrugging on my Phillies sweatshirt. Abel’s got on a candy-striped polo shirt and his new truck-stop hat with Punxsutawney Phil on it, and right above the fly of his dark designer jeans is a big ironic belt buckle that shouts PRAISE THE LORD.

“C’mon, shake your circuits, android,” Abel quotes. “Your freedom is waiting.”

***

To enter The Robot’s Bookshelf, the three of us duck under a droopy Welcome CastieCon Attendees! banner and squeeze through an archway wound with silver garland and blue plastic lights shaped like spaceships and stars. The owners are huge Castaway Planet geeks, you can tell. Dr. Zara Lagarde’s favorite album is playing (Janis Joplin, Pearl), they’ve got the snack bar stocked with Cadmus’s favorite jellybeans (cinnamon), and the backdrop to the small stage is this giant blown-up photo of sunflowers, like the ones in Cadmus’s visions of his Earth childhood.

“Sim scanned the room, rusty heart creaking in his plastic chest,” Abel narrates, reading off his phone. “Before him, men flirted in the shadows, their nuances painfully foreign‌—‌”

“What is that?” I know I’m blushing. I’ve read this one at least three times.

“’Sex and the Single Droid’ by cavegrrl94. It’s relevant.” He exchanges five dollars for a packet of jellybeans. “Carry on.”

“Let’s find a table,” I tell Bec.

“As he roamed the crowded room, he realized he was ill-equipped to choose a man for himself, at least from the selection before him. He turned to Captain James Cadmus, who blazed with raw masculinity in his tight black t-shirt and aviator shades.”

I tilt my head at Abel. He slams back a fistful of jellybeans.

“’Captain,’ Sim said. ‘Help me choose a male with whom to converse.’” He pecks my shoulder with his index finger. “That’s your cue, Tin Man.”

I pick a table in the corner made from parts of a theme-park rocketship, painted retro-aqua to look like the U.S.S. Starsetter. There’s no chance I’m talking to a guy, but I scan the room to humor him. Few dozen AV-club types, some with gawky girlfriends. Castaway Planet is supposed to have a big gay following, but none of them seem to be here tonight.

“Captain: clarification.” I eyebrow him. “I should flirt with a random straight guy?”

“No! No flirting. Just talking. I mean, look at these sweet untainted boys, they sleep on Star Wars sheets. What could be less intimidating?” He elbows Bec. “Rebecca: can he handle it? Yea or nay?”

“I’m pulling for him.”

“All right, Mr. Roboto.” He bangs Plastic Cadmus on the table like a gavel. “Put your antenna up.”

My stomach crackles.

“You find an appropriate specimen,” I stall, “and I may oblige.”

Abel surveys. Disgustingly, he cracks an ice cube between his teeth. “Him,” he points. “With the blue Chucks.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Pourquoi?”

“He’s barn owl-y.”

“Fine. Inkblot T-Shirt?”

“Pretentious.”

“So? I love pretentious people!”

“Why?”

“They try so hard to be interesting, you don’t have to do any work.”

“Next.”

“Argh! Fine. Mr. Sensitive Ponytail. Reading Ender’s Game.”

“He looks weird.”

“He looks awesome. Go talk to him.”

“About what?”

“Keep it show-related. Talk Season 5 rumors. Bitch about the cliffhanger. Bet he thinks Cadmus is really dead.”

I shoot Bec a save me look. She shrugs.

“All right,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”

Abel brightens, until he sees where I’m pointing. The guy’s got on polyester pants the color of gravy, glasses thick as a telescope lens, and a baggy blue t-shirt with the Castaway Planet logo on it. I’d put his age at sixty, maybe sixty-five.

“Outstanding,” Abel says. “You think you’re funny? Grandpa it is.”

Old Guy weaves between tables with two white cups on a red plastic tray. He sets it carefully on the two-top in the corner, where a white-haired lady in a matching Castaway shirt waits for him. The little gold cross around her neck glints in the red light of the bookstore’s OPEN sign. He pours two creamers in one cup, stirs it, and presents it to her with a flourish. They smile at each other. Their smiles are the same. They look like my parents will in about twenty years.

That’s what a real marriage looks like, says Father Mike.

“Aww. Ancient fandom geeks.” Abel melts, clutching his heart. “I shall name them Lester annnnd‌…‌”

“Gladys,” Bec says.

“Perfect. Lester and Gladys.” Abel shakes his head. “Wow. That’s what I want someday. Don’t you guys?”

Yes yes yes, I want to say. The yeses gather thick in my throat; I swallow them down and blink up at a string of stuttering star-lights.

“Not really,” I shrug.

“Look at them! They’re like little salt and pepper shakers. One breaks and the other’s useless.”

“’Scuse me.” Bec hates soulmate talk; has since her dad left. She gets up from the table. “Bathroom.”

“Brandon‌—‌”

“Shh! Look.”

I point to the stage. Someone’s at the mike: this doughy college-age guy with kind apologetic eyes, thinning blond hair, and a black t-shirt printed with constellations. He looks familiar. I don’t like to stereotype since I’m probably a bigger Castaway Planet nerd than half the room, but I can almost see his high school notebooks, and the margins are filled with sketches of supergirls in metal bikinis.

“Hey there, Casties.” Sheepish nice-guy wave. “I’m Bill. Welcome to the CastieCon Kickoff Party.”

We clap. Abel kicks me under the table.

“So‌—‌ah.” He takes out some inkstained index cards and clears his throat. I flash back to traumatic oral book reports in grade school. “Four seasons ago, a crew of misfits on the run crashed their spaceship on a tiny unknown planet and became the unwilling lab rats of a merciless and childish omnipotent being known only as Xaarg. Since then, Castaway Planet has captured our imagination and sparked debate week after week. From the rash bravery and grim humor of Captain Cadmus to the, um, deeply human struggles of the elegant android Sim, these characters have become our second family. Good thing we don’t have to spend Thanksgiving with them, though. Right?” He looks up like he expects a laugh. When he doesn’t get one, he clears his throat again and shuffles the cards.