The Princess and the Fangirl

by Ashley Poston

  Umbrella Guy shrugs. “He jetted as soon as she bit the floor.”

  “Typical.”

  I hate conventions.

  At this rate, I’m more likely to blow Imogen’s cover than find the jerkoff who stole my script, and that has me very annoyed.

  PS – Can you guess where I am? A surprise might be coming soon if you can find me!

  It’s like this person wants to be found, and I’m afraid if someone does find them, they’ll reveal that the script was mine. Do they want to publicly humiliate me? Sic every living Starfield fan on me and drive me off the internet à la Star Wars? They’re already on the road to doing that if my Instagram comments are any indication. I can just imagine some greasy dirtbag riling the masses to get me annexed because how dare I even try to live up to their dear, beloved Natalia Ford?

  Was that their plan all along?

  My fingers curl tightly around the ice pack. I can’t let these strangers see me lose it. Breathe.

  The broad guy with the curl of silver hair studies me. “So…it’s clear you’re not Mo…”

  “But she looks familiar, doesn’t she, babe?” asks Umbrella Guy, giving me a long look. He has a jade earring in his right ear and strikingly dark eyes. He twirls his umbrella around his wrist. “You know, if I didn’t know better, you kinda look like—”

  “I’m no one,” I interrupt.

  “No one’s no one,” replies the muscular guy.

  “Then it’s none of your business,” I snap and rise to my feet, gathering my strength even though my cheek is still throbbing and all I want to do is crawl back into my hotel room and watch reruns of Project Runway.

  Maybe all of this is just one horrendous nightmare, and I’ll wake up soon and not have to worry about any of it. The stars will align and I’ll be Jessica Stone again, hating Starfield but solid in my career. Or maybe Starfield will be the nightmare, and I’ll wake up—

  Someone touches my arm gently, and I whirl around.

  It’s the burly dude, looking worriedly at me. “Do you need help?”

  “Help?” I try not to laugh. “With what?”

  The two guys exchange a hesitant look, and I play with the idea that they know what I’m looking for, can magically identify who’s leaking my script, but I quickly shove that thought away. As soon as they “help” me, they’ll want something in return, guaranteed. Everyone always does.

  “Sorry,” I tell them, “but I don’t even know you. Thanks for the ice pack, I’m fine.”

  “Wait!” The one in the witch’s hat calls after me, and as I turn around to give him a really good tongue-lashing, he holds out Ethan’s glasses. They’re a little bent, but not broken. “You might need these.”

  I snatch them out of his hand, slide them on, and leave, the ice pack still pressed firmly against my face.

  * * *

  I FIND I’VE WANDERED TO THE other side of the showroom, where it’s a little quieter. I scroll through the Twitter timeline, trying to find a clue who the thief might be. But I’m at a loss. I’m just lucky they haven’t yet posted a page with my name on it.

  I sink down beside the bathroom near the corner, where a guy with a pretzel stand is humming the Starfield theme song.

  Of course.

  I can’t seem to escape Starfield, and looking at the latest tweet gets me angrier and angrier the longer I sit here. The Starfield side of the internet is exploding with news of General Sond as the new villain.

  Vance Reigns.

  His agent had been trying to set us up on a date for a while, and I guess now I know why. It’d look like a trading of the mantle, of sorts, from one Starfield villain to another.

  I’m being replaced—by a golden knight no less.

  Why do I care? I shut off my phone and drop it between my folded legs. Why do I care so much that Starfield announced their sequel villain? It wasn’t like I was holding out hope it would be me.

  That’s silly. I don’t want it to be me.

  I’m Jessica Stone, an Oscar-nominated teenager. I am a serious actor. I am cool, I am coveted, I am professional.

  I…

  What else am I?

  “You look like someone who could use a pretzel,” says a voice to my right. I glance up to see the pretzel vendor looming over me with an unsalted sample of his wares and a pack of cheesy goop. He motions to the ice pack still pressed against my cheek.

  “Oh.” I pat down my jeans and realize with a sudden jolt that I don’t have any money. Or ID. Nothing. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have at least my AmEx on me. “I, ah, I’m sorry, I don’t have any cash…”

  “It’s free.”

  “But I’m not that hungry—” My stomach growls and my cheeks get hot. I accept the pretzel. I can’t remember the last time I had one. I can’t remember the last time I ate in public without a storm of paparazzi on me. It feels surreal, a warm pretzel in one hand and a container of delicious plastic cheese in the other. I ask the man, “Is there any way to repay you?”

  “Nah. I don’t need the money.” He looks out across the showroom. His face seems familiar, but I can’t place from where. With that god-awful peppery beard, I can’t tell if he’s homeless or cosplaying as a lumberjack. “You know, it feels pretty peaceful on this side of the convention.”

  “I don’t understand these people.”

  He laughs and puts his hands in his pockets. “Haven’t you ever loved something so much, you introduced it to your friends?”

  I cock my head. “Does Groupon count?”

  He laughs again. “Sure, but any TV shows? Video games? Movies?”

  “I really liked Sailor Moon when I was little, but I grew out of it. These people,” I gesture to the crowds, “clearly haven’t grown up. Starfield. Stars Wars. Star Trek. Battlestar whatever. Firefly. I just—I think I’m a little too old for silly sci-fi shows.”

  “Or,” the man says, no longer laughing, “you aren’t old enough. Perhaps, young miss, you’re still trying to find out who you are, and seeing these fans so adamant about what they love makes you feel like you’re missing out on something, but you’re too headstrong to admit that maybe you want to be a part of it, too.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I slide up the wall to my feet and stubbornly push up my glasses. “Thanks for the pretzel, erm”—I look at his battered nametag—“Henry. I hope you get a lot of business. Bye now.” He gives me the Starfield salute. “Look to the stars!” he calls after me.

  Which gives me an idea.

  I whirl back around and ask him, “How many years have you been here?”

  “Enough,” he answers carefully. “Why?”

  I take out my phone, and he comes out from behind his pretzel cart. I show him the photo of the leaked script. “Do you recognize anything in the background?”

  He frowns and strokes his beard. “No, but…” He leans closer and squints at the image. “You know, that kind of looks like Amara’s dress. The one in the exhibit.” He points to the blurry image of purple glitter in the top corner of the photo.

  Holy shit. It does.

  Hope flickers in my chest. I return the phone to my pocket and with a swift “thank you” I’m speed-walking in that direction, clawing con-goers out of my way. I toss the melted ice pack in the trash and set my sights on the exhibit—the one with the fake Prospero ship you can take a photo in and the original costumes from the show.

  I keep an eye on the Nox King towering above the booths near the other end of the showroom, where Imogen’s parents supposedly are. As long as I stay away, I should be fine.

  People crowd inside the exhibit, taking photos of the costumes, murmuring to themselves how magnificent they are, how well kept after twenty-five years. Natalia Ford and David Singh are supposed to do a panel on Sunday to celebrate the anniversary—

  And I remember my mortifying run-in with Natalia and I wince.

  He’s here. I know the thief is here.

  I take out my phone once more and begin comparing the angles of cos
tume boxes. There are lines of people waiting to take photos with the costumes, and I think I’m photo-bombing the majority of them.

  But when I get to Amara’s costume, it makes me pause. It’s mine—well, Natalia’s. The dress that launched a thousand cosplays. From one angle it reminds me of Cinderella’s dress, but from another it’s all points and angles, metallic stitching on the shoulders and across the corset. The folds of the skirt are supposed to billow when the wearer walks—swirling around her feet, full of blues and purples and reds. It is a dress with an entire galaxy sewn into the seams.

  I stare a little longer than I should.

  And I think—I wonder…

  How was I ever supposed to live up to that?

  The thought startles me, and I hate how true it feels. So many people at this con are passionate about Amara, about the TV series, about the movie. They love it and connect with it in a way I’ve never connected with anything.

  In Hollywood there’s two types of films: popular ones and meaningful ones. Huntress Rising—the Oscar contender—was a gritty tour de force adapted from an obscure comic book. No one went into that film with any sort of emotional baggage. And even if they did, it was an art film on a low budget. They are award-worthy but not viewer-worthy. But being here, hearing these fans celebrate popular films and favorite characters, makes me second-guess that. What is it about those art-house movies that makes them better than The Last Jedi, Black Panther, or Starfield?

  I thought all I needed to do to be Amara was read lines and put on a pretty dress, but I failed to see how this princess transformed people’s lives in a way my Oscar-nominated role never will.

  There were so many expectations woven into this dress before I ever accepted the role.

  I tear myself away, angling the phone just so so that—

  “Here, kitty kitty,” someone calls behind me. I spin around and come face to face with—

  “Amon!” I say, startled, forgetting that I’m supposed to be Imogen.

  He glances at me briefly and then looks away. He’s rubbing the back of his hands, where there are angry red scratches. “Sorry, can’t sign right now. Have you seen a cat?”

  My own director doesn’t recognize me.

  It takes a moment to realize what he asked. “A cat?”

  “Yes, yes,” he replies impatiently. “Hairless? Looks like some ungodly demon spawn? Never mind. I’ll find it.” He resituates a stack of papers I assume is the con program under his arm and wanders off. Then I remember that Natalia Ford had a hairless cat when she walked in on my interview. Could it be the same one?

  But what would Amon be doing with her cat?

  Anyway, I don’t see the hairless nightmare or any sign of my thief. They’re probably long gone by now. But knowing they were here helps me feel a little better, even though this is beginning to feel like an impossible quest.

  I stand in the exhibit for a moment longer, my gaze finding Carmindor’s original uniform. Huh, Darien was right—it is a different shade of blue. This one, the original one, is deeper somehow, more plum than navy, so rich that even after twenty-five years it hasn’t lost its color.

  I bite into the top of my pretzel as I study the uniform when a kid comes up to me. He can’t be much older than nine, maybe ten, dressed as Carmindor, and he squints at me with a deep frown.

  “You look like Amara,” he says decidedly.

  My eyebrows jerk up.

  He turns to his dad and says, “Doesn’t she look like Amara?”

  At the sound of the character’s name, half the people in the exhibit turn to look at me, and I swallow my mouthful of pretzel with a dry gulp. “No, I’m not—”

  “Ah, your meta cosplay of Jessica Stone is amazing!” adds a woman, grinning at me as she takes out her phone. “You even have a SPACE QUEEN beanie on, that’s adorable! What do you call your cosplay?”

  I hesitate, knowing that if I flee they will think I’m—well—me, and if I play it off then…“Oh, this? It’s just Jessica Stone on Vacation.”

  The woman barks a laugh and snaps a selfie of us. “Love it! Look to the stars!” she adds as she leaves through the exhibit, shoving up the Starfield salute. I smile and nod.

  Right. Okay.

  Time to leave.

  Before anyone else can take a photo, I quickly disappear from the exhibit, looking for somewhere to sit and eat my free pretzel, but every bit of the wall is taken by tired con-goers. I shoulder my way to the back exit and out the side of the building, into what looks like a hotel courtyard—a barren space with grass and a sad-looking tree. I find an unoccupied bench and sit down in the quiet to snack on my pretzel and check the texts and emails I missed.

  Oh, Ethan texted me a few minutes ago.

  ETHAN (5:15PM)

  —Vance Reigns is playing the new villain, if you haven’t heard.

  —All’s fine here. Keeping her in check.

  —Do you have any leads yet?

  “I wish,” I murmur, putting my phone back into my pocket. I pry open the container of warm plastic cheese.

  About twenty feet away on the grass are two dozen or so cosplayers dressed as Princess Amara (all different kinds, even a Black Nebula version, who seems to be leading the horde). I’ve heard about these get-togethers—meet-ups, I think Ethan calls them.

  How many of them are like Imogen and want to save Amara?

  You don’t understand, I want to scream at these Amara cosplayers. What about me? How come no one is trying to save me? The negative comments on my Insta and Twitter are so loud, I can barely hear anything else in my life. The strangers calling me ugly are so much louder than my own parents telling me I’m beautiful. My mother once said the only thing that can ever truly be ugly about a person is how they act, who they are on the inside—whether they’re good or rotted to the core.

  It seems like there are a lot of people who’re rotten.

  I wonder if, to some people, I’m one of them.

  I twist my lanyard around my fingers, looking across the loading docks to the patch of green on the other side, and the gathering of Princess Amaras. The girl dressed as the Black Nebula Amara shouts the catchphrase “Look to the stars!” and the others shout “Aim. Ignite!” and thrust their hands in the air with the Starfield sign.

  I once asked Dare why he thought Starfield needed a sign—like the Vulcan “live long and prosper” salute, or the Sailor Senshi “I will punish you” hand signs, or that weird Naruto run—and he said because everyone needs a universal greeting sometimes.

  Starfield’s is “You and I are made of stars.”

  It’s a hand sign that says we are the same.

  What a novel thought. I wished I believed that.

  The cosplayers are part of a photo shoot, absorbing the best thirty minutes of the day just before sundown. They strike all the poses I’ve had to meticulously learn for the movie’s promo images while trapped in a studio in front of a green screen, a fan blowing at my face to feather out my bleached-and-dyed crimson hair as a photographer told me to push my shoulder forward, lean back a little bit. I hated every minute of it.

  Or I want to think I did.

  But there is this strange, small part of me that wants to know what it’s like to be them. These girls who love an image of Amara in their heads. Girls who don’t have to worry about conforming to a producer’s or a director’s or the fans’ image of her, or run in heels even though she lobbied—in vain—to wear boots.

  I want to know what it’s like to…

  It’s silly.

  I finish off my pretzel, scooping out the rest of the delicious cheesy goop and shoving it into my mouth. Not having a napkin, I brush my greasy fingers on my jeans. I turn to go back inside the con, but then feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, my mouth full of pretzel. It’s the girl organizing the photo shoot—Black Nebula Amara—and she smiles when she sees me.

  I recognize her now that I can see her face, even without her black glasses.

  “I thought that w
as you sitting on the curb,” she says and nudges her head back to the Amaras. “I know this is kind of weird, Jess. Don’t worry, I won’t tell”—she adds when I give a start of panic—“but would you mind taking a photo of us? I need one for an article I’m doing, and there’s no one here and the light’s almost gone…”

  The sunlight is beginning to dip below the Atlanta skyline. I should say no, because if any of those girls finds out that I’m me while I’m supposed to be at a photo op, but…

  I finish chewing my pretzel and swallow. “Sure. Let’s hurry before the sun sets,” I say, taking her camera.

  “Thank you!” She twirls around and hurries back to the group. They each strike a pose again and I lift the Canon to my eye, through the viewfinder, with the dusky light painting their glittering dresses and armored suits and polished military jackets in the perfect shade of blue, I think I see what Imogen was talking about. There are two dozen Princess Amaras smirking back at me, all of whom look different—different skin colors and body types and sexualities and gender identifications. Princess Amaras who have gone through the Black Nebula and those who led the Nox King’s military and those who fell in love with Carmindors and Zorines and Eucis. But they all have one thing in common:

  They love who they are as Amara. They love themselves.

  I click a few photos and quietly hand the camera back to the organizer. She fixes her crown before pulling the camera strap over her neck as the sun dips below the buildings.

  “Just in time—thank you so much. I forgot to bring my tripod and I was kicking myself,” she says with a laugh. “You’re a life-saver. Really, thanks!”

  “My pleasure, Elle,” I reply, and head back into the showroom.

  * * *

  I RETURN TO ARTISTS’ ALLEY. THE showroom hasn’t closed, but artists are beginning to pack up and the steady stream of attendees trickles away. I find the aisle with the purple Princess Amara banner and sheepishly walk up to the table.

  Harper slams her hand against her chest. “Oh my God, you came back!”

  “Um…yeah?” I push up my glasses again.

  “I thought for sure I’d run you off.” Her dark eyes linger on the bruise on my cheek, and I quickly look away. “Did something happen to you?”