I got my first job a few weeks shy of my senior year of high school. It wasn't anything special, but I quickly developed an addiction the independence. I could take the city bus anywhere, go out with friends, and buy the posters and frivolous items that tapped my father's paltry paychecks. The first deposit to hit my freshly-opened bank account was ninety dollars.
That summer, I became a fan Carmilla, a small scripted web series. September had barely started when the creators and cast announced they'd be attending New York Comic Con at the beginning of October.
I scrambled to the convention's website, pulled out my newly-minted debit card from my wallet, and decided to worry about the logistics later.
A Walking Dead-branded badge arrived two weeks after. A gleaming and tangible testament to my newfound autonomy. I hooked it onto a lanyard as I finished marveling it.
My father deposited me at the Javits Center on the first Thursday of October. My breath left me as I stepped into the main atrium, where some 80,000 people milled about on the floors above and below me. The venue's paneled glass walls cast a bright light over the steady pulse of the crowd.
I was never bothered by large groups, but it took me a few minutes to get my bearings. I began to elbow my way down to the basement floor a few hours before the panel was due to start.
“I was never bothered by large groups, but it took me a few minutes to get my bearings. I began to elbow my way down to the basement floor a few hours before the panel was due to start."
I found a spot in the third row, and made friends with the girls around me. It was a welcome strangeness; after loving this thing alone for so long, a thrill washed over me as I sat among hundreds of people who harbored the same passion.
You were somewhere in the room. The buzz was palpable as the panel began.
There are a few things I remember from that day; the way my voice quavered as I stepped up to the microphone to ask a question. [Audio clip of my question from the panel.]
"Steph and Jordan, I was wondering if you had any advice for an aspiring writer trying to come up with an original idea and a new story." And how the room exploded with noise after a surprise announcement. Your cheer was hidden somewhere in the chaos.
People spilled like ants into the main hallway as it ended, making a mad dash to the autograph line. I set off with my newfound group at a brisk walk.
During high school, my closet door was still firmly shut, but I found comfort and community in relative innocence. I turned to the few shows with decent LGBTQ+ representation that were out at the time to convince myself that what I was feeling wasn't anything to be ashamed of.
I found that in Carmilla, a modern retelling of Sheridan Le Fanu's vampire novella of the same name. It was a small show with a big presence; what it lacked in prime time funding, it made up for with its (mostly women) international fanbase.
Some out-and-proud, others like me- still working on figuring it out, but finding solace and happiness in our shared interest.
After a few minutes of standing, a crew member moved up the line with a counter in his right hand. I heard him whisper 198 under his breath. He counted the last two girls in our throng, inserted himself between 200 and 201, and announced the line ended where he stood. My blood pounded as the faces of another hundred or so girls behind us fell.
I don't remember how long we stood there, though I'm sure it was close to three hours.
We were halfway through the wait when you strode by, wearing a costume and confidence I could only dream of pulling off. A red flannel hung low on your waist, a leather jacket wrapped around your shoulders. Crimson paint too bright to be blood dripped from the corners of your mouth.
"Hey!" I shouted. Your straight, dark hair floated around your shoulders as you turned, eyes moving across the line as you tried to pinpoint who it came from. I cleared my throat.
"Your costume is amazing," I gushed, gesturing to your outfit and the prop sword clutched in your hand.
Both our gazes fell to the gold-painted blade- a handmade replica of the "Blade of Hastur,"an item from the series. A weapon meant to shatter all who opposed it. Sharpie signatures were scrawled along it. You were dressed in the same grunge and gothic as the titular character.
A smile broke across your face as my new friends chorused emphatic agreements. You gave a warm thanks in my direction before running off to join your own group.
“The euphoria of those conventions only lasts so long. I knew what it felt like to come down from that high.”
I saw your face again a month later, while mindlessly scrolling through Twitter. The series account, actresses, and dozens of other people I followed retweeted two pictures of you wearing the same grin you flashed at me.
The word missing sprang in bold from every caption, right next to the name I forgot to ask for.
Hundreds of fans poured into the replies, sharing your story and tagging figures with bigger followings. It proliferated across our corner of the internet, then to news stations and other media outlets.
A few days later, they found your car on a bridge over a bay in New Jersey, doors ajar and cold December wind blowing through it. Empty, with the keys still in the ignition.
People thought the worst, as they always do. The euphoria of those conventions only lasts so long. I knew what it felt like to come down from that high. Christmas was only a few weeks away; maybe all of it was too much.
A childhood friend stepped forward and told police you'd been struggling. Family and friends scoured the edges of the inlet for your body. Your killers joined the search party.
That childhood friend was charged with murder less than a month later. The boy you went to prom with was prosecuted with him. They never found you.
It might be foolish, but I've wondered if I'd done something different that day- talked with you a moment longer- perhaps I could have changed the beat of the butterfly's wings.
When I think about all the new content that's come out since 2016, a cold washes through me. I know we ran in the same circles. I still talk to some of the people I met that day.
We could have become friends. Or, just a familiar face to look for in the sea of spandex and plastic each year.
I went alone, and out, in 2019. I thought of your smile as I passed through the metal detectors.
That experience was the first domino of my own self-acceptance, and your kindness is irreparably linked to the memory of it.
I'm sorry you never got to see the movie. You would have loved it.
The Sarah Lee Stern Scholarship Fund was created to help high school and college students further their career in arts and media. You can donate to it here.
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