“They are very delicate claws,” Minerva points out, pawing at Kathy like a cat. “And I was just resting.”
“Yeah, and I’m just breathing. I need you to put Captain America on the top shelf.”
Minerva tilts her head. “I could’ve sworn he belonged on the bottom.”
It takes everything I have to keep my mouth in a straight line.
When Kathy shoots her a long-suffering look, Minerva heaves another woebegone sigh and drags herself off her throne. It’s situated on a pedestal, a little higher than the table, and she has to gently ease herself down to avoid disturbing the Funkos.
As Minerva puts away the Captain America, Kathy turns to me and asks, “And where have you been? That was a mighty long bathroom break.”
“I kinda…”
“You said you’d be right back. We had a rush and really could have used you.”
I open my mouth to tell her the truth—that I’d accidentally wound up onstage impersonating Jessica Stone—but then remember the threat to never talk about it, ever, unless I wanted to be kicked out of every con known to humankind.
I don’t know if that’s even possible, but recalling her withering look shuts me up anyway.
“That was our agreement, that we would let you do your own booth thing with your friend for the rest of the convention—”
“It’s not just a booth thing, it’s saving a fan-favorite character from being fridged for the rest of her fictional life!”
“—if you would be here today and help us unpack at the beginning and tear down at the end of the con. Milo and Bran gracefully covered your shifts.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“So where were you?”
I open my mouth again, then close it—I suck at lying. Especially to my parents.
Which is weird because I lied so well as Jessica Stone.
“She came to the panel with me,” Milo interjects as he emerges from the back of the booth, pulling on a snapback hat. “You said we should do more things together, right?”
This answer seems to pacify Kathy. “I did. But I meant like school functions, not comic-con panels.”
“You should’ve specified,” Milo replies. But before she can chide him for back-talking, he turns and throws up his arms. “Bran! Right on time. We just got back, too.”
“Nice to see you, babe.” Bran Simons, Milo’s boyfriend, stands on the other side of the booth, laden with three bags of collectors’ items. He gives Milo a smile as bright as the sun, lighting a spark in his dark eyes. He is short, like me, and a little waifish, all ear-cuffs and close-cropped hair and bronze skin. He offers Milo the bags, careful not to disturb the meticulously stacked Sailor Moon collectible keychains. Milo takes them and heads to the back of the booth. Bran and Milo met last year in high school, in astronomy lab, but I think they spent more time studying each other’s astrological compatibility than learning about solar physics.
He slides behind the booth as Kathy attends to a customer. “So how’s your con going?”
“It’s going. You?”
Bran sighs. “I’m trying to convince your brother to go to a viewing of Demolition Man at three a.m.”
“Yikes. You know he likes sleep.”
“I’m hoping he likes me a little more. I like your hair by the way—is it fresh?”
“It is.” A brightly hued lock sticks out from my beanie, which I sheepishly pull off. My hair is normally a mousy brown, like Milo’s, but pixied. I dyed it just before ExcelsiCon. I like how the pink looks with my gray eyes. I don’t really resemble either of my moms, although Kathy carried both Milo and me. I look like the sperm donor, apparently. My brother has Kathy’s button nose, which I’m envious about.
Milo emerges again from the back, fixing his snapback. “Whoa, whoa, who’s contesting my love?”
“He is,” I say, pointing to Bran. “Demolition Man with your boyfriend at three a.m. or sleep?”
Milo wilts and looks pleadingly at Bran. “Uh, do I have to choose?”
“You can sleep in the theater.”
“Deal.”
My brother squeezes out of the side of the booth, nodding to a customer looking at the Dick Grayson/Nightwing collectible figurine—you know, the one with the really, really sculpted buttocks. Everyone who passes by looks at it. I look at it.
For hours.
Milo and Bran bid us goodbye, and my moms don’t even ask where he’s going or when he’ll be back. They never do. They always ask me, but then again Milo’s never in the wrong place at the wrong time, or delivering someone’s homework to a house party when the cops show up, or getting in a fender bender at one in the morning without a driver’s license, or—
You get the idea.
My phone dings and I take it out. To my surprise, it’s Harper.
HARPER (4:55 PM)
—Can’t wait till tomorrow!
—Should I wear a name tag? Dress in a certain color? Hold up a sign that says
—FANGIRL TRASH UNITE?
IMOGEN (4:57 PM)
—LOL I think you’ll recognize me!!
—AND I AM SO EXCITED TO SEE YOU!!
—Oh, I am also wearing your beanie so I’ll be really easy to spot~
—And thank you so much for handing out those pins today!
HARPER (4:57 PM)
—Well duh. I want to save Amara too!
—BUT OH! Speaking of Amara—did you hear what happened on the panel today?
I cringe and lean back against the booth’s table, which starts to wobble. A $300 Supergirl tilts precariously, but I save her in time and step away from the figurines. My moms are talking to customers, blissfully unaware.
IMOGEN (4:59 PM)
—Oh, no. What happened…?
HARPER (4:59 PM)
—Jessica Stone said she loves Amara—even though we all know she’s faking it.
—She must’ve gotten told off by her agent or something.
—It was weird.
IMOGEN (4:59 PM)
—You were there?
HARPER (5:00 PM)
—I got someone to cover my booth. Couldn’t miss it.
—Hey, suddenly got a line of customers—can’t wait to meet you!
Ha, yeah. Except you kinda already met me but just didn’t know it. I frown and stare at Harper’s texts. I mean, of course people would think Jessica Stone’s faking it, after she spent almost a year not caring one iota about Starfield or the fandom. I don’t know what she had to worry about with me.
It’s not like I can magically change her image.
Minerva sidles up beside me and gestures regally to the throne. “You should try it.”
I put my phone away. “Building a throne of toys?”
“Sitting on it. It’d be a waste for it to go unattended.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, maybe if I was ten. I have to go hand out some more buttons and help you with the booth and—”
Minerva stops me with a delicate maroon-clawed hand. “Monster,” she says lovingly, “breathe, slow down, take your time.”
But how can I, when everyone else is lightyears ahead of me?
“But—”
“Sit.”
I shoot her a look that I hope means I don’t want to sit, but she is unrelenting. Giving in, I climb onto the throne of boxes. It’s a lot higher than I thought. I can see a few rows down, past the banners and the shelving and the booths, almost all the way to the life-sized Prospero display.
It…isn’t half bad up here. Quiet. Not actually quiet, but kinda what it’d sound like if I was sitting on the Iron Throne, or looking out over Pride Rock to a kingdom where no kingdom should exist, here for four days and then gone.
This is my kingdom. This is where I grew up, where I cut my teeth on fan battles and shipper wars, and the sight fills me with…what?
Glorious, insatiable possibility.
Because I am a nobody, but I’m a nobody who wants to leave the world a little brighter than when she arrived.
/> Minerva was right, and she’s looking up at me knowing she was right. “So? How’s the view, Princess?”
Gloriously full of possibilities. I’ll meet Harper IRL tomorrow and avoid Jasper (aka He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named) for the rest of forever, get some kick-ass fan art and save Amara. I just know I will.
I hope I will.
I have to.
I sit up straight and languidly cross one leg over the other, then I quote Princess Amara in her familiar Noxian lilt: “The horizon’s wide and I have a kingdom to rule.”
Minerva cracks a smile.
THE STREETS BELOW ME THRUM WITH a strange Thursday night madness. It feels like the hours before a big concert, tension in the air so alive it’s almost electrifying. Except a concert lasts a few hours and I’m stuck at this con for four days.
Four whole days.
I don’t understand the allure of any of it. The crowds, the lines, the waiting. And I definitely don’t understand dressing up like it’s Halloween—cosplaying, as Dare often corrects me. Ethan’s in the bathroom changing out of his mock-cosplay; he’s shirtless, and sure he’s pretty cut, but my eyes don’t really linger. He’d be a catch if someone burns all of his nerd T-shirts and puts him in some jeans that actually show he has a butt.
As I sink onto the sofa my phone rings, startling me out of my thoughts. I quickly fish it out of my cross-body bag and check the caller ID.
It’s my agent. My heart leaps into my throat. Diana doesn’t call to ask about the weather, she calls when something has gone either terribly wrong or terribly right. She couldn’t have heard about the panel, could she? No one even realized it wasn’t me, did they?
Jess, breathe.
I answer the phone apprehensively. “Hello?”
A honeyed voice drifts through the speaker like a soothing balm, calm and collected like always. “Hi Jess, how’s your convention going?”
“Ah…good?”
“Good. I heard about the interview.”
Oh. In the stress of what happened at the panel, I’d forgotten about the interview. And Natalia Ford. “I—I’m sorry. It’s just that I—”
“Don’t worry, it’s fine. Natalia’s agent and I go way back. She explained to Natalia that you’ve had a difficult few weeks. Natalia is fine with it, but we have to make sure that when the interview releases, we have a statement prepared.”
I close my eyes and sigh. “I’m so sorry, Diana.”
“I know you’ve been stressed, and this is what I’m here for.”
I nod even though she can’t see me and anxiously worm a fingernail into my thumb cuticle. “I hate to ask but—have you heard anything about the indie film that I auditioned for?”
She gives a long sigh. “I was hoping to tell you after the convention, but I’m sorry. The shooting schedules for the Starfield sequel and The Red Grove compete too closely for the clause in your Starfield contract. You won’t be able to do both.”
Hearing that feels like a punch in the gut. “But I’m not in the sequel! As far as I’ve heard, the script’s not finalized yet—and even if it is, I can’t be in a lot of it, right? I’ll be in a—a flashback or a—a—something. I can do both. It’ll be easy—”
“Jessica.”
My rebuttal freezes on my tongue. I sink into a cold, dread-filled silence. After a moment I ask, my voice tiny, “That’s not the only reason, is it?”
Diana is quiet.
“It’s because of Starfield, isn’t it? Because it’s doing so well—”
She tries to interrupt, “You have duties to the sequel.”
“It is because of Starfield, then. Because it’s doing too well, or because I’m no longer an indie darling, or because—”
“The director thought you were no longer a good fit for the role,” Diana finally admits, and it feels like an arrow through my chest, puncturing my heart, and sliding out the other side, so painful I can barely breathe.
I feel my bottom lip tremble. The Red Grove was supposed to be my break back into real films, a lifeline to saving my artistic integrity. I’ve read the script. It’s decent. What’s more is that I know it’d be a lot better fit for me than playing some dead flashback princess in a subpar sequel.
“I know this feels like a huge setback, but I promise you’ll have other roles. Everyone adores you in Starfield. Conan O’Brien loved you when you went on his show! Jimmy Fallon! We’re even in talks to host Saturday Night Live. Amon thinks you were a great Princess Amara, Jessica.”
Well, tell that to the comments piling up on my Instagram and my Twitter feed, I think bitterly.
I only signed that contract because I was told it would be a one-off. A nice popcorn flick to populate my repertoire, to show off my action as well as my acting chops. Diana wasn’t wrong, but neither of us thought they would hold the sequel script this long without telling me my fate.
We never expected Starfield to be much of anything. And now it’s my entire world. One that I can’t seem to escape from, no matter how hard I try.
I’m about to spill everything—about the social media comments, the threats—when there’s a beep on her phone. She says quickly, “Listen, I have to go, but please don’t let any of this worry you. Try to have some fun! It’s ExcelsiCon! Talk to you soon!”
The line goes dead with a click and I’m left listening to silence.
You didn’t get the part, the self-deprecating voice inside me whispers as I drop the phone onto the bed. You didn’t get it because you’re Amara, and you’ll be Amara for the rest of your life.
Ethan’s been leaning against the doorway to the bathroom, adjusting and readjusting his smartwatch. He’s washed his face and put on a plain white T-shirt, tucked into his slacks. He doesn’t need to say anything for me to know that he heard—and understood—the whole thing.
Tears brim in my eyes, but I bite the side of my cheek to hold myself together. Ethan is my best friend, but Jessica Stone only cries when it’s scripted. Yet the longer I sit there and the longer he messes with his stupid watch, the harder it is for me to stop my lips from quivering.
“I think we need coffee,” he says, even though it’s almost 6:30 p.m. He grabs his wallet from the coffee table in the living room—yes, our hotel suite has a living room—and heads out. “I’ll be back in a minute. Chai?”
I nod.
It’s only when he closes the door that I take out my phone, log onto my socials, and read the comments. All the bad ones, because those seem to be the only ones that get through. They stick to me like glue, clinging to my skin—
what a joke
she’s the worst amara!! So glad she died
I can tell her where she can put those pretty lips
fixed her chest small titties lol [censored photo]
hope she chokes and dies on all the money she got
sell out
#notourprincess
That [censored] needs a cheeseburger
Jess’s so fat must be the stress getting to her
Go ruin some other franchise, faker!
They are endless. And I am so tired of them already. I begin my daily routine of reporting and blocking, reporting and blocking, but my thumb stalls on the screen. What’s the use? They’ll just come back tomorrow, and bring their friends, and I will still be one girl standing in the mouth of the Black Nebula as it opens wide and they wait for me to self-destruct.
I won’t give them that pleasure.
But I don’t know what else to do. The contract might be in the bottom of the trash, but I’ll still have to sign it. I’ll still be here.
I drop my phone and grab a pillow, pressing it against my face, and cry.
“JESSICA!”
I look up at the barista, who slides a cup across the counter. My heart skips a beat until I notice Brienne of Tarth pushing through the line to get her drink. I exhale and turn my attention back to my phone, where I’m sending another furious tweet to a Twitter troll who can’t seem to get his head out of his nostalgia hole. Jessic
a Stone didn’t ruin Princess Amara’s character, I want to type, but I know that if I reply to every one of these garbage cans, I’ll find myself in troll hell.
The barista approaches the counter with four drinks in a tray and squints at the name. “IHM-OH-GEN-NE?”
“Well that’s one way to say it,” I murmur as I elbow my way to get my order. Two hazelnut lattes, an iced caramel macchiato, and whatever the hell Milo ordered. My phone must have dinged twenty times—can’t he just be patient?
I shift the bag of vegan tacos to the hand that’s holding my phone and grab the tray with the other.
One-handed texting, here we go.
Oh my God, he’s not patient at all.
MILO (6:57 PM)
—Got the grub?
—Hey, hey you.
MILO (7:00 PM)
—HAVE YOU BEEN EATEN BY A WOOKIEE?
MILO (7:01 PM)
—DO I HAVE TO GO SOLO NOW?
MILO (7:01 PM)
—COME BACK TO THE HOTEL TO LEIA YOUR HEAD DOWN.
—PS - I got some MEGA SUPER ULTRA WTF STARFIELD news to SHOW YOU
MILO (7:07 PM)
—No like really where are you do I have to release the hounds.
Release the hounds is code for texting our mothers. Ugh, he’s more dramatic than I am. Tray in one hand, vegan taco bag looped around the other, I reply—
IMOGEN (7:08 PM)
—OMG CHILL OUT leaving now
—Also Wookiees don’t eat humans, they’d be too chewie.
MILO (7:08 PM)
—this is bran pls bring food faster
—milo is about to go full super saiyan he’s so hangry
IMOGEN (7:08 PM)
—OH MY GOD I’LL BE THERE SOON
—SHEESH
I better get these tacos to the hotel before Milo starts eating his own arm off. If there’s one thing about teenage boys that’s absolutely true, it’s that they are a freaking black hole of food. Like, I’ve never seen someone eat so much in my entire life.
The Princess and the Fangirl Page 4
