I start with the contacts first. I hate contacts. Fortunately, I’ve worn them enough for cosplays so I don’t need hours to put them in but, starflame!, that’s going to take some getting used to. It’s like condoms for my eyeballs.
Remember why you’re doing this, I think to myself as I blink the lenses into focus. You’re doing it to save Amara and—who knows?—maybe even Jessica Stone’s career.
True, I did not expect a sorta hot but bossy Slytherin (I still think he’s a burnt Hufflepuff) to hover over me like a helicopter parent the whole time, but I think there’s a way to fix that.
One thing at a time.
I wiggle the wig over my neon-pink pixie, flip it back, and comb my fingers through the brown strands. It seems like a pretty expensive wig. The hair feels real. Starflame, it might even be real. I smooth it out until it looks like my own hair—well, what I guess my hair would look like if I grew it out this long, though I never will. I hate the way it feels on my neck. Plus the whole bit about long hair being more feminine is Noxballs. Social constructs can go take a hike.
I gather a section at the front and braid it like Princess Amara’s hair in the thirteenth episode of Starfield, when Prince Carmindor first meets her. It’s a subtle nod, but fans will recognize it. I used to braid Minerva’s glossy black locks like this all the time when I was younger. Then I twist the braid behind my head, pinning it with one of the bobby pins in the bottom of the plastic bag.
But I still don’t feel like Jessica.
“Hey, uh, dude,” I call from the bathroom, realizing that I can’t remember his name. “Do I look enough like her now? I still feel a little weird. The wig doesn’t look too wiggy, does it?”
He looks up from his phone, clearly about to snark at me again, but whatever he was going to say falls from his lips. I shift on my feet, self-consciously.
He tries to speak, closes his mouth. Then tries again.
Wow, he must really love Jess—I mean, of course he does. He’s only babysitting me because he loves her so much.
Finally, he says, “Jess doesn’t wear her hair like that.”
I stand up a little straighter. “Then I guess it’s time for her to try something new. Besides, the braid hides some of the wiggy-ness.”
He eyes the braid, not liking it at all. “It will do.”
“Good.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
“After you,” I reply, flourishing a bow as he wrenches the door open. I grab Jessica’s purse from the edge of the bed and we head out down the hallway. Once inside the glass elevator, he pushes the button for the ground floor. As we descend, the mythical land that is the showroom floor slowly unfurls underneath the transparent elevator floor. People are already cosplaying, milling about in clusters on the three levels of the lobby. No matter how many times I see this spectacle, I am constantly in awe. So many nerds coming together to celebrate the things we love.
It’s magical.
Meanwhile, Ethan—Ethan! that’s his name!—clears his throat, startling me out of my thoughts. “Hmm?” I ask.
“I said, give me your phone number. In case we get separated.” I hesitate.
“You’re not leaving this elevator until you give me a number.”
“So you can keep track of me? Can I have yours, too?”
“I don’t see a reason why, I’ll be with you the whole time.”
That doesn’t seem very fair. With my phone number he can track my device if he wants to. Bran taught me about some of those programs. I take his phone and put in the number I know best—the local pizza joint back home in Asheville—and hand it back with a smile. “There.”
“Good, now—”
Before he can finish, the elevator doors open to the lobby flooded with fans and paparazzi and journalists. They turn their bright camera lights and cell phones to me.
“Jess, is it true?” someone shouts, and a camera flashes.
Ethan quickly takes me by the shoulder and steers me toward the door, but my lips are curving into a smile. Oh my God.
“Jess, I love you!”
“Please look over here!”
“Will you marry me?”
We’re only halfway across the lobby and all eyes are following Ethan and me like we’re the center of the universe. Is this what Jessica Stone comes out to every day? People shouting how much they love her? How much she matters?
Who would want to give up something like this?
“Miss Stone!”
“Jess!”
“Ah’blena!”
With each step, with each shout of her name, I fall in love. With the moment. With the feeling. With her life.
“Don’t listen to them,” Ethan whispers into my ear. But how can I not? It’s wonderful. “They’re trying to distract you. Let’s just get to the panel and—”
“Ethan.” I mimic Jessica’s voice so well that he jerks back in surprise. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
And then I do the most audacious thing I have ever done. I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it’s the wig, or the weird contacts that turn my eyes a sort of oceany blue, or the fans in the lobby or the paparazzi snapping photos or the journalists asking questions about the script, which is no doubt fake, right? Or maybe it’s that, deep down, I’m not only going to help Jessica Stone.
I’m going to save Amara. Not with petitions, not with pins, not with harassing Twitter trolls. But with my own words. My actions.
Jess’ll thank me later.
So I wink at my new assistant and boop his nose and head in the direction of my first panel of the day.
IMOGEN’S BOOTH IS WEDGED BETWEEN an artist hawking sexy pinups of burly men and a mustachioed gentleman selling carved wooden blocks with famous people’s faces on them—Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Edgar Allan Poe seemingly the most popular. Her booth is located toward the middle of the aisle and is decorated with glitter, with a display of fanart in saturated colors on the back wall.
I can only guess that belongs to Imogen’s friend—and then I realize her friend will know I’m not Imogen. Did Imogen plan this as some sort of humiliating stunt to—
A young woman ducks out from behind the artwork and sits down and my mind just—
Well.
It blanks.
My mind never blanks.
She is very pretty, with delicate features, brown skin, and natural hair pulled into twin puffs on the sides of her head. She’s wearing a yellow dress with some sort of star design—when I look closer I realize it’s the Starfield logo.
Can’t one person not like this franchise? Based on the fact that she’s Imogen’s friend, I want to think she’s Team Save Amara, and so she likes me—I mean, Jessica Stone. But what if she doesn’t?
What if she says she does but she’s really one of those people leaving hateful comments on my posts—
She gives a start when she realizes I’m standing in front of the booth like a weirdo. “Oh! Sorry! Wow, hi!” she says, putting down her breakfast burrito. “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person! It’s Harper—I mean, I know you know I’m Harper, but…This is so nice, you know, meeting in person. Anyway, I’m babbling!” She laughs, loud and sweet, and smiles at me, her hand outstretched. Each of her long fingers glitters with midi rings and normal rings, her nails a polished and pointed teal. “Hi.”
Oh.
Imogen and Harper have never actually met. That must be why Imogen wasn’t afraid of me meeting her. They’re internet friends. It’s like a balloon pops in my chest and I can breathe again.
I grab her hand and shake it. “It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m—I’m Imogen.”
She smiles, as if my hesitation is just nervousness. “I know.” She sits back down, and I take the chair beside her. “Burrito?”
“Um, no thanks.” I push up my glasses self-consciously.
“You sure? I got them from the Magic Pumpkin. I just had to see what it was all about. It’s pretty good, you know, for vegan.”
“Ah.” Dar
e’s girlfriend’s food truck.
“Oh! And I’ve given away a ton of your pins,” she adds, nodding to my side of the table.
“What?”
“Your pins.”
My pins?
That’s when I notice them on the table, along with an iPad to sign a petition and ribbons to stick on the bottom of your con badge, all sporting the same phrase: #SaveAmara.
A cold feeling grips my stomach. I grab the iPad and navigate to the petition page and feel myself spiraling. The Save Amara initiative.
“She started this…,” I whisper. Harper hears me and leans over.
“Oh yeah, you’ve got, like, fifty new signatures.”
I quickly flick off the screen. Imogen Lovelace is the creator of the Save Amara initiative and didn’t even tell me? It all makes sense though. Her giving me that pin yesterday in the restroom. Speaking out on the panel.
Wanting to be me.
Everything’s fine, I remind myself. Ethan won’t let her do anything. But the other half of my brain is screaming that my worst enemy is running around pretending to be me. And I can’t do anything about it. Not right now.
Because at any moment the next scene could be leaked, maybe a page with my name in the corner and an irreparable spoiler that will get me blacklisted from every studio in Hollywood. Not to mention that I’ll get sued for violating my NDA, doxxed by angry nerds. And I’m stuck here wasting time at her ridiculous #SaveAmara booth!
What if Diana drops me?
What if I never—
Stop. Breathe.
After she finishes her burrito, Harper looks over at me. “Are you okay? You seem a little…”
Weird? Different? Not who you thought your internet friend was?
I wonder briefly how Imogen and Harper met in the first place.
A pretty big clue is the copious amount of fanart of Princess Amara in the arms of various characters—men and women—that hangs on the corkboard behind us. The prints on the table tout pairings from Steven Universe and Voltron and Harry Potter and some video-game artwork with a guy in a twirly mustache and bull-looking humanoid creature. And me. Have I mentioned there are drawings of me? Well, me as Princess Amara, but still. I’m sure I don’t understand any of it. Why is everyone into these bizarre pairings?
“Okay, so fess up. You’re secretly a Caruci shipper, aren’t you?”
“A what?”
“Carmindor and Euci. The slash. Don’t play coy. I’ve been watching you check out my artwork. I thought you were a Carminara girl.”
A…what?
“Carine?” she goes on. “Zoruchi? Amaruci? Zomara? Oh please say it isn’t so.” And then, as if a secret question, “Sondara?”
Is she speaking in tongues?
“I…ah…”
“You can hide behind your Carmindor and Amara, but I see you.” As if that settles things, she pulls out a sketchbook and a mechanical pencil from her bag and then turns to a page with a half-finished drawing of two men in Sailor Scout uniforms. She looks up, her dark eyes rimmed with kohl and gold. I feel naked without my makeup. Unprotected.
Come on, you’re an Oscar-nominated actress. Play your role!
“I’m Carminara all the way,” I reply smoothly, pushing Ethan’s glasses up the bridge of my nose like I’d seen him do a thousand times when he’s confident about something. “I…stan Darien.”
I hope Dare never hears me say that out loud.
She laughs, and it sounds like honey.
I sit there for a few more minutes while people browse Harper’s art selection. A girl stops and looks at one of the prints, which shows Princess Amara and Zorine (Zomara?), her childhood best friend, holding each other in a loving embrace—with all six of Zorine’s arms. She points and asks, “How much?”
Harper says, “It’s ten for one, three for twenty.”
The girl scrunches her nose. “Ugh, never mind. I’ll just print it off the Web.”
“Hey, before you go,” Harper says. “Save Amara!” She grabs a pin from my side of the booth and hands it to her. “It’s free.”
The girl brightens. “I’d love to,” she says, and takes the pin.
The nerve of this girl!
Harper seems unbothered. “A lot of people do that.”
“And you just let them?”
“What can I do about it? Even if I offer my prints exclusively at cons, someone’ll scan them onto the internet and people will just get them that way.”
“Shouldn’t they want to contribute to the creators?”
Harper rolls her eyes. “Not when everything online is free,” she says sarcastically.
I lower my gaze to the print. I guess I can kind of relate. My signature being sold for hundreds of dollars, photos of my life being pawned to the tabloid with the highest bidder, my story confiscated bit by bit until nothing is mine anymore.
I look through a few of her fanarts and stop at one of me—the real-life me.
It’s from when I took that spill on the Oscar red carpet, and she has all of the details eerily perfect. The way I styled my hair into a half bun, the cut of my evening gown. My utter lack of grace has been GIF’d so many times I get sick to my stomach just seeing it. My hands flailing, the dress caught on the heel of my shoe—
Just looking at it makes me angry.
I had a bruised cheekbone for a week while I listened to everyone make fun of the disaster, as if my mortification was entertainment. I guess sometimes it is. I thought that was the worst that would happen to me. But then I became Princess Amara.
I flip the portfolio closed.
“Aren’t you going to hand out the pins?” Harper asks. There’s a few scattered on the table and another big box under my feet.
I pick one up and realize that I should, even though it pains me. Imogen is being me—and promised not to mention this pointless initiative—so I guess it’s the least I can do. Until I get a lead on the person who stole my script, and to do that I need to wait for another post.
I hold the pin out to a passer-by. “Save Amara,” I force out.
The person doesn’t even acknowledge me.
I try with the next group. “Save Amara!”
Again, they pass without even looking in my direction.
I frown and look at Harper. “Why aren’t they paying attention?”
“Because you sound dead, Mo,” she says with a laugh. “It’s like you’ve never done this before. Here, watch and learn. SAVE AMARA!” she cries, throwing the pin into the crowded aisle.
The next person—a World of Warcraft cosplayer—stops and takes one. “Oh, cool! I heard about this.”
“There’s a petition to revive her—”
“Although it’s not official,” I interject. There’s no way I could see the studio ever acknowledging something like this. Harper shoots me a strange look, so I quickly add, “But please can you sign it?”
“Sure!” They sign without so much as another word, buy two of Harper’s fanarts, and move on their way.
After they’re gone Harper says, “See, it’s easy. Just, you know, make it sound like you care.”
“I do care!” Not.
“Mmm-hm. Are you okay, Imogen? You seem a little—”
The phone in my pocket dings.
I set an alert for tweets by the person who stole my script. Another ding, and then another, and another, and people begin pulling out their phones. Even Harper takes out hers.
Frightened, I do too.
Another page from the script:
Looks like we’re in for some stormy weather;)
PS – Can you guess where I am? A surprise might be coming if you can find me!
I feel the urge to vomit. They’re taunting me.
[INT. THE NOXIAN COURT –– late evening]
A group of soldiers push CARMINDOR, tied up and beaten, into the middle of the council. CARMINDOR stumbles and collapses onto the dais. Blood drips from his mouth, where he has been punched repeatedly. The NOX KING’s throne sit
s empty, and beside it PRINCESS AMARA’s.
Her empty seat is bittersweet, and her voice in CARMINDOR’s head returns –
AMARA (V.O.)
Look how you’ve fallen, ah’blen. I warned you not to play with fire.
CARMINDOR struggles to his knees in front of the council.
CARMINDOR
Let me go or you’ll face the wrath of the Federation ––
MYSTERIOUS VOICE
Oh, my dear brother, can we not talk peace? We have both suffered such a tremendous loss at the hands of the Black Nebula.
CARMINDOR
(through gritted teeth)
You have suffered nothing of the same.
A figure steps out from behind the throne, clad in threads of gold that glow like the sun. At the sight of him, the council bows as if to a god.
CARMINDOR cannot believe his eyes.
CARMINDOR
You?
Now’s my chance. I have to find this trash human before the worst happens.
The script is being held up this time, the background is blurry. I squint, trying to focus it. It’s colorful, with lines? Drawings?
I can see people in the shot. The backs of heads, cosplayers—and then I see the World of Warcraft guy who just stopped by our table.
They’re here. In Artists’ Alley!
I quickly look around, but my peripheral vision is constantly blocked by these nerd glasses. I shove them onto my head but of course don’t see anyone suspicious. Everyone’s looking at their phones, gossiping about the script. I couldn’t care less. The only thing I care about is who is leaking it.
I don’t notice that Harper is looking at me until I’ve already decided to leave and look for the thief. She doesn’t stop me, and I lose her booth in the crowd.
The photo was taken somewhere nearby—that much I know. There’s the purple in the banner in the background, and the retro carpet, and the narrow aisles…
I spin around, trying to gauge where the thief would have been when the photo was taken. I pass another aisle, glancing down at the tweet, at the background around the script page, up at the sea of cosplayers and fans. I feel like I’m suffocating.
The Princess and the Fangirl Page 8
