The Princess and the Fangirl

by Ashley Poston

  “I figured it hadn’t been planned. She looked scared to death up there. Who was she?”

  “I think she’s an exhibitor—at least, judging by her badge,” Ethan says.

  I roll my eyes. “She didn’t look very scared when she went on that whole Amara tirade.”

  Dare shrugs. “She’s probably part of the Save Amara initiative.”

  “Ugh, they’re everywhere.” I scowl.

  The double doors swing open, and a woman in a Captain Marvel T-shirt greets us with a wide, plastic smile. “Oh, good! Darien, Jess, my name’s Heather.” She extends a hand for us to shake. “Thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy schedules. I’ll be interviewing you for the next thirty minutes. Shall we?” She gestures back into the room, where I see a makeshift interview set, complete with photo lights, a green-screen backdrop, an ExcelsiCon banner, and three chairs. An expensive-looking camera on a tripod is off to the side, a cameraman in black standing behind it.

  Ethan pulls out his phone and says, “I’ll be out here catching Pokémon,” and then wanders toward the elevators.

  Nerd.

  * * *

  * * *

  AFTER THE INTERVIEW, AS I FOLLOW con security across the skybridge to my hotel, I realize I’m still holding the package from Amon as I enter the hotel. Our secret, he called it. Must be the contract for the next movie, where I’ll be relegated to melodramatic flashbacks. Or maybe it’s panel questions for tomorrow, because that girl royally screwed me with her surprise performance.

  Whatever it is, I’m furious that I even have it.

  Ethan squawks as I lob the envelope into the nearest trash can, where it drops to the bottom with a satisfying thunk. If it’s the contract, Amon’s probably sent a copy to my agent. I haven’t been officially brought on because no one knows if the princess will “return”—in a flashback or whatever—but either way I don’t want to sign on for a sequel. I want to reiterate, again, that Amara is dead. Here’s hoping she stays that way.

  “Jess!” Ethan runs over to dig it out. “It might be important.”

  “Then Diana can take care of it,” I say, a bit too loud. “That’s why I pay her,” I add, lowering my voice. Everyone in the lobby has begun to suspect who I am.

  It always happens this way. First is the quiet, as people squint at me, trying to place my face; then they’re googling or whispering to their friends; then—

  “Amara!” someone calls.

  And suddenly I’m not anonymous anymore. It’s happening quicker and quicker these days. They call me that even though Amara’s not my name and even though I don’t turn around in response to whoever’s yelling it.

  I press the up button on one of the elevators. Which, by the way, are breathtaking—pods of glass that rocket you up ten, twenty stories, some sort of meld between Willy Wonka’s magical lift and a transporter in an ’80s sci-fi flick. When we checked in yesterday I was awestruck by them, but now I can’t look, keeping my head down, praying that no one recognizes—

  “Princess Amara!”

  That’s not my name.

  “It’s just a fan,” Ethan mutters. Then, in a kind but stern voice, he prods, “Jessica.”

  He’s right. Of course.

  I turn to the girl with a smile. “Hi!” She’s about fourteen maybe, cosplaying as…something orange. She gushes about how big a fan she is and how much she loves me, and I pose for a selfie, biding my time until the elevator comes. More people have gathered around us.

  Fortunately, before anyone else can take my picture or call me Amara, the elevator doors whoosh open and Ethan and I step inside.

  THE SHOWROOM FLOOR IS SPREAD ACROSS the second-biggest room in the main convention hotel. The space is massive, abuzz with hundreds of vendors selling everything from cosplay gear to mock weapons to T-shirts to dice to obscure tabletop games to books to trading cards, all arranged beside large exhibits hyping upcoming franchise films and obscure TV series. And in the back of the ballroom are three neat rows of artists in what we at ExcelsiCon lovingly call Artists’ Back Alley. There are vendor halls in the con’s other hotels, too, but this is where the magic happens.

  In the distant corner, farthest from Artists’ Back Alley, the Nox King has been hoisted to full mast, and I set my sights on him. It’s one of those old plastic models that used to stand at the front of comics and gaming shops in the ’90s. My moms bought it off a vendor before I was even born, and it’s been a symbol of their business, Figurine It Out, ever since. The Nox King is present at every con they attend, and it’s become a landmark for anyone who’s lost their friends on the merciless con floor.

  Here, this is where I belong. Not on some panel, being mistaken for Jessica Stone.

  I’m no one.

  I’ll see you purged from this con—and every other con—forever. Do you understand? I still hear the icy warning in her voice, and it makes me wince.

  I was basically born and raised right between the 200s and 300s aisles. I know every nook and cranny of this con, every shortcut across every skybridge, every back stairway, every rule, and every way to break them. I even know most of the longstanding volunteers. The con map is tattooed under my eyelids—I could walk it in the dark.

  This is my kingdom, my home, existing as far back in my memory as the dawn of time. Well, okay, the dawn of my time, but time is wibbly-wobbly anyway—

  “MONSTER! MOOONNNSTERRRRR!”

  I glance over my shoulder in the direction of the voice.

  A guy is pushing through a crowd of Attack on Titan cosplayers and stumbles out the other side—Milo, my younger brother, grinning now that he has my attention. He’s broad and muscular, with curly brown hair that has a single dyed silver streak in the front, a child’s Spider-Man backpack hiked high on his back. So you honestly can’t tell whether he plays football or DnD on Friday nights. (Spoiler: it’s both.) Last year, the twerp grew into his too-big feet. Now he’s taller than me and he’ll never let me live it down.

  I glare at him as he approaches. “I told you not to call me that in public.”

  His grin widens. “Why, because it’s true?”

  It isn’t true. I mean it kind of is, but only when there’s one cheese-stuffed garlic roll left on spaghetti night. That last one is mine. I will spork your eye out for it.

  Our moms began calling me Monster because, when I was little, my favorite pajamas were a T. rex onesie that I refused to change out of—ever. I went to kindergarten with it on, that’s how much I loved it. I would stomp around and roar, and whenever someone asked my name, I’d tell them that I was a monster.

  I guess my four-year-old self kind of trolled me from an early age. It doesn’t help that Imogen shortens to Mo, which is, you guessed it, the first two letters in “monster.” So it just kind of stuck. The fact that I sometimes get into trouble has nothing to do with my nickname.

  It doesn’t.

  At all.

  I scowl at Milo. “If you weren’t my brother and I didn’t love you, I’d strangle you with your own jockstrap.”

  At that he laughs. “Yikes, someone’s had a bad day.”

  Oh, he doesn’t know the half of it.

  I dig into my backpack for a handful of pins and shove some into his hands. “Here, if you’re going to walk beside me at least help me pass these out. Save Amara!” I add, forcing a pin into the hands of oncoming attendees. “Revive her! She deserves better!”

  Most people take the pin and go on their way.

  My internet friend Harper designed them. She draws the best Starfield fanart and designs the coolest merch and apparently makes delicious hotel ramen. We’ve never actually met in IRL, never Skyped or FaceTimed, so I honestly can’t tell you what she looks like. But all that will change this weekend. We’re sharing a booth in Artists’ Back Alley, her selling her artwork and me hawking my petition and pins.

  It’s been fun imagining what Harper looks like, though. Her avatar has always been Starfield’s fearless Zorine, so I kinda picture h
er as the six-armed green-skinned lesbian Llotivan who could strike fear into your soul with a single vicious red-eyed glare. She’s so badass online that I’m pretty sure she is Zorine. And she’s talented on top of being rad. Harper is destined for greatness. Like my brother, Milo.

  Like literally everyone I know. Except for me.

  Milo quietly hands a passing Deadpool a pin before he says, “Okay, so I know this probably isn’t the best time to tell you this, but I saw him.”

  I give another pin to a guy in a Dragon Ball Z cosplay—Goku, and he’s definitely over 9000 on the hot-o-meter. “Saw who?”

  “He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named.”

  I try not to react when he tells me. I try not to look bothered at all. “What now?”

  “I saw him today. On the YouTube Gaming panel. He’s got some groupie following him around with a camera. You can’t miss him. He’s just exudes jerkoff.”

  “Oh,” I say. My voice is small.

  “You deserved so much better, Mo.”

  I really don’t want to hear this right now. It’s easy for him to say—he happened upon his perfect soulmate. They have the perfect relationship.

  I take off walking but he catches me in two quick strides. I keep handing out pins, trying to ignore him.

  “Look, Mo, I just wanted to tell you—”

  “And you did. He’s here. That’s great.”

  But it’s not.

  So, a brief history of Imogen Lovelace’s love life: I’ve only been in love once, and it was with—you guessed it!—He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named. We’d been dating for about a year. It was long distance. He lived in Ohio, I lived in North Carolina, but we saw each other almost every month on the con circuit and we just kind of…hit it off. We loved the same horror flicks and laughed at the same scenes on Galaxy Quest and played Overwatch together. We were supposed to go to the ExcelsiCon Ball last year (as the Tenth Doctor and Rose), and everyone knows what happened at last year’s ball, but because he didn’t show up I didn’t get to witness the most important moment of Starfield fandom. The moment Prince Carmindor—I mean Darien Freeman, the actor, the stud muffin, the legend—fell in love with one of us.

  A girl. A normal, everyday girl.

  And I missed it, sitting on the curb bawling my eyes out because some guy I thought loved me decided to ghost me. I’d actually gotten dressed up for him—makeup! Heels! I never wear heels, I never put on mascara. But I did for him.

  Because, stupidly, I thought I loved him.

  I always had it in my head that love was kinda like two people passing each other on opposite escalators at the front of the convention hall as you hurry to your next panel, they dressed as Link and you as Zelda…

  “Kick some butt, babe!” they say.

  “I’ll tell Calamity Ganon you’ll be there shortly!” I’d reply.

  That is love.

  …but maybe I’ve spent too much time on the internet.

  I reach into my bag and fish out a handful of pins for a group of Steven Universe gems. Milo quietly follows behind. We don’t talk for a long while.

  There’s a big Starfield display near the middle of the showroom. If I didn’t know better, it looks like the Prospero—the spaceship in the series. The back of it, with the cargo door down. Maybe it’s a photo op? To one side there’s an exhibit showcasing Starfield’s original costumes—one of the main reasons the original Carmindor (David Singh) and Amara (Natalia freaking Ford) are going to be here on Sunday, to talk about the original series and celebrate its twenty-fifth anniversary. On the other side is a larger-than-life Styrofoam mountain for a popular new fantasy TV series called Blades of Valor. All I know about it is that there’s a hottie in the main role. You know the kind: big blue eyes, windswept blond hair, and a raging poison sword of doom aflame in his hands, ready to fight the coming apocalypse.

  Exhibits rise up like skyscrapers from the art deco carpet. ExcelsiCon is known for its horrific hotel carpets, but the showroom’s is the literal worst. Coupled with the often zany but dazzling installations, I don’t think a year goes by that I’m not in awe of this place. People running around, arms full of swag and collectibles, trying to get to a panel or an exhibit or a restroom.

  That’s usually one of the longest lines. Which is why I went up to the second-floor bathroom in the first place.

  In hindsight, that was the worst idea I’ve ever had.

  I shiver, rubbing my hands across my arms. Jessica Stone was a total and complete b—

  I shake off my thoughts and break the silence. “Have you heard from the coach yet?” I ask Milo. “About the quarterstaff position?”

  “Don’t play dumb,” he chides, sending off a text and sliding his phone back into his jeans pocket. “It’s quarterback, and not yet.”

  I kinda hope the big oaf’ll get it. He’s been practicing like mad since last year, and when the current quarterback busted his leg jumping off a rooftop into a pool, the coach had his two backup QBs try out against each other. Milo’s going to be a junior, and he’s tortured himself on the field long enough. He deserves it.

  But I don’t tell him any of that. Instead I just raise my hands and say, “Yay, sportsball!”

  He laughs and elbows me in the arm.

  “Ow!”

  “Oh come on, that was barely a tap.”

  “I’m delicate.”

  He snorts. “Bull.”

  “Save Amara!” I yell, tossing a sexy Xenomorph a pin. She thanks me and hurries on.

  He flips over a #SaveAmara pin. “Can I ask you a question without you getting mad?”

  “Sure.” I lie because we both know I always get mad because usually it’s a clueless question, like “why do you dye your hair?” or “why didn’t you date that cute guy in your trig class last year?”

  “Why do you want to save a fictional character so badly?”

  I stop in the middle of the busy aisle and study him. I know he’s asking earnestly—my younger brother is nothing but sincere and well meaning. See? He’s perfect. All my life I’ve been in his shadow, and I can’t even hate him for it because he’s so nice and caring and thoughtful. I’d feel like a brat if I did.

  I can’t exactly say that I want to save Amara because I want to prove I’m not a waste of space. I’m not no one. I might not be good at many things, I suck at trig and chemistry and grammar. But even though I’m not vice president of the student body like Milo, or salutatorian like his boyfriend Bran, I can still be exceptional. I’m not just a raindrop in a pond but a comet plunged into the ocean, and I can make waves the size of skyscrapers because I’m not just here, I’m living.

  Just like Amara saying she didn’t want to be a princess. She was terrible at it. She wanted to do something more, to make her father, the Nox King, proud.

  So I started a hashtag and wrote articles and think pieces and put a #SaveAmara petition online that got over fifty thousand signatures. And I set money aside to split a booth rental. Last year’s ExcelsiCon was moderately attended, but this year Harper practically had to beg to get us a booth in Artists’ Back Alley. The movie just came out last month, and Starfield’s already broken almost every box-office record set by the Jurassic Worlds and Avengers of the world. It’s kinda incredible.

  Anyway, I want to save Amara to let her prove that she can be somebody outside of her father’s or Carmindor’s shadow.

  Like me, I guess.

  I can’t really tell Milo the truth, so instead I say, “I’m just sick and tired of princesses being either damsels in distress or the foil for a male character’s emotional growth, and I know people want her back.”

  I know because when I was Jessica Stone, no one booed me off that stage. Fans want to see her unfridged.

  Amara is important.

  Milo rolls the pin between his fingers, like he’s trying to find a good reply, but I’m a little afraid to hear it. Maybe he’ll think it’s stupid. Maybe he’ll not understand. Or, worse, maybe he’ll agree with Jessica Stone—that Amara should stay de
ad. And that’s the last thing I want to hear from my overachieving little brother.

  “Hi, Pretzel Henry!” I call as we pass near the back of Artists’ Back Alley, deciding to try to change the subject. An older gentleman—in his mid-fifties probably, with a peppery black beard to match his peppery black hair—looks up from a customer. When he sees us his eyes light up. He waves a salt-less pretzel.

  Milo waves back. “He’s literally here every year.”

  “Some heroes don’t wear capes,” I say, and shove another pin in the direction of a guy sipping a red ICEE. “Save Amara!” The guy scowls in disgust.

  I stick out my tongue at him after he passes.

  After a few more minutes of pushing through the showroom, the crowds finally break and the Nox King stands triumphantly above us.

  Under him is a booth displaying collectibles in glass cases and figurines still in their plastic packaging. Lounging on a throne made of FunkoPops is a gothic goddess of death, her bat-print dress spilling like blood onto the puke-green hotel carpet. She’s tapping her maroon claw on the box of a Hulk Pop, her glittery eyeshadow sparkling in the fluorescent lights.

  Minerva cracks open an eye when she hears us approach. “Ah, so my prodigious progeny returns,” she purrs, although there’s only one prodigious child between us, and it’s not me. “Did you save the world or did you get lost?”

  “Both?” I glance at Milo.

  “Both,” he agrees.

  “Both is good,” we say together. I sit in a chair while Milo dumps his Spider-Man bookbag in the storage area at the back of the booth. “Hello, Mummie. I see you finally finished your throne.” I point to the outlandish FunkoPop construction.

  “A queen must be properly seated,” she replies. “And don’t call me that.”

  “Mother dearest?”

  “The All-Mother, if you will—”

  “More like the lazy mother,” says my other mom, Kathy, who appears from behind the booth wall. “Milo, put your bookbag where I won’t trip over it, please?” She fluffs up her short frizzy orange hair, her patch-covered jacket jangling with metal pins. She’s so colorful, she could be the spokesperson for Lisa Frank, that old psychedelic line of kids’ school supplies. “Minnie, here I am doing all this work and you’re just sitting around letting your nails dry.”