Apparently she’s a monster—and not in the Imogen sort of way.
“Trust me, she’s sworn off cons for the rest of her life after what happened last year,” Cal assures. She lifts the fat wiener dog just enough for him to look at me with his pitiful beady black eyes. “And this sir here is Mr. Frank. He’s our model.”
Frank shakes his head, ears slapping the sides of his face, and sticks out a pink tongue. He tries to nose into Cal’s drink again, so she sighs and excuses herself, saying that he must be thirsty. “It was nice to meet you, Imogen.”
I smile and reply, “You, too.”
“Swing by our booth and we’ll give you a shirt. Oh, and honey?” She gently touches Sage on the shoulder. “Stay as long as you want, but I’m going to take this boy and retire to our room. This music’s too loud for both of us, I think.” Cal stretches up on her tiptoes and plants a kiss on Sage’s mouth.
I don’t mean to stare but their kiss is so simple and easy, like saying see you later, that I don’t think any thought was put into it.
I wish I knew what that was like.
We spend a few more minutes talking with Sage about her first year in college and her big plan for a clothing line—geeky with a dash of the eccentric. I’ve heard Dare talk about her a few times, but I never paid attention. Maybe I should have.
I never paid attention to a lot of things. It wasn’t part of Jessica Stone’s image.
I try to picture Harper in one of my settings, gilded parties and stuffy cocktails, but the image is blurry, like a camera lens that doesn’t want to focus. Meanwhile, I feel like a weed in a flowerbed, somewhere I don’t belong, afraid I’ll be found out and plucked away. Harper…she looks happy.
Happy.
I look away, remembering Ethan’s question.
Sage and Harper are gossiping about some YouTuber they both know, someone who is bad news, but I can’t get a read on why before Bran calls Harper’s name over the karaoke speaker. The entire room quiets, and she turns expectantly toward the stage.
Bran jabs his finger at her. “I challenge you!”
Harper puts her hands on her hips. “To what?”
He extends the mic and wiggles his eyebrows. “To a duet-off.”
She rolls her eyes. “You can’t handle my talent, Bran.”
“Chicken!”
“You know that’s a lie. I’ve already beaten you three times.”
Bran gives an aggravated sigh. “Then duet-off with your friend!”
This time Harper barks a laugh. “No way, she wouldn’t—”
“I’ll do it.”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
I’m not this bold, am I? No—yes. Maybe. Once upon a time. Before I had to fold myself into Jessica Stone. And now that I’m not, my bent edges are beginning to unfurl as slow and steady as a butterfly’s wings.
The view seen through the lens of Elle’s camera haunts me.
Are you happy? Ethan’s question reverberates in my head.
I want to find the answer.
I take Harper by the hand and pull her across the room to the karaoke corner, between a throng of cosplayers dressed as gender-bent Disney princes and princesses (Elsa is among them). Bran hands us two microphones.
“Are you sure about this?” Harper asks, hesitant. Her eyes dart around the room.
“Are you scared?” I challenge, and moment by moment, Jessica Stone unravels like a piece of yarn caught on a snag. The room is loud and I can hear all of the songs in my head—
No. One song.
Bran hands me an iPad; I quickly select the tune and hand it back.
Harper eyes me curiously. “What did you pick?”
I smile at her. “You’ll see.”
The sweet trill of a violin rushes over the karaoke speakers. The view through the camera lens sharpens. I’m not supposed to really know this song. I’m not supposed to care. I don’t, do I?
Her eyes glitter. “I knew you’d pick this.”
I want to believe it’s true as the words to a song filled with perfect notes begin to spin over the TV screen. I don’t need to look at the lyrics. They’re as familiar as the fit of Amara’s corset, and the pinch of her heels, and the heavy tiara in her hair.
As the music begins, I remember the Amaras posing on the grass, and the passion in Imogen’s voice as she spoke of saving a lost princess, and the familiar exuberance in Dare’s face whenever he talks about this stupid show…
Most people only know the opening thirty seconds of the Starfield theme song, “Ignite the Stars,” but in a secret all my own, I’ve turned up the song a thousand times in my dented bumblebee-yellow Volkswagon Beetle and let the lyrics spill out from the windows into the infinite expanse of sky and clouds and stars—
I’ve never seen the TV series, but I’ve most definitely listened to the soundtrack.
But what if someone finds out? What if someone is filming? whispers that voice in the back of my head, and I miss the first word, but Harper saves it, singing in that brash and bold way she seems to do everything. She glances over, daring me to join in.
At the first bridge, she mouths, “Chicken.”
Like hell I’m chicken.
When the second stanza starts, I catch the words first, singing about all of the constellations and stars in the night sky, and being brave, and seeing your friends until the end of the line. Living boldly. Burning bright and lighting a way in the dark.
Igniting the stars.
I mean, I wish I could tell you it’s like High School Musical where we absolutely slay karaoke but…well. By the end of the song, we’re almost in tears because neither of us can sing and we’ve about broken everyone’s eardrums, but we howl the last note and mime the slick drum solo at the end—
And then the song dies, and the room crashes into silence. I’ve never done that before—just let myself have fun. Be uncool.
I’m wheezing so hard, I can’t even laugh anymore, holding my sides because it hurts to breathe.
“That was SO BAD!” Bran cries from the crowd. “You should feel ashamed!”
Harper presses two fingers to her lips and blows a kiss to the crowd. I mimic her and we drop our microphones, quickly vacating the stage before someone throws something at us. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand as we escape to the balcony and close ourselves outside.
“We were horrible!” she gasps, unable to stop laughing.
“But it was worth it,” I reply.
We’re grinning like two idiots.
Oh God, how I want to just be a part of this strange universe.
But you are Jessica Stone, says that voice in the back of my head, and I wish I could shove it into a box and bury it. There is no universe where this exists.
But then the other half of me, the part that remembers the look of all those Amaras through the camera lens, the contagiousness of Dare’s enthusiasm before each take we filmed, the passion behind Imogen’s eyes when she talked about saving Amara…
The view of letting go. Of being yourself.
That part of me whispers, Or this could be the best idea of your life.
“Imogen,” she says quietly, and goosebumps prickle up on my skin because, even though it’s not my name, she means me. The real me. Not the me behind the veneer of Jessica Stone. I like the sound of it.
And I like the sound of us.
My phone dings, and at first I try to ignore it. But then it dings again.
“Are you going to get that?” she asks.
“It’s just Twitter,” I say dismissively, and then I snap out of my daze.
It’s Twitter.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and check the notification. Oh no. I think I might just vomit.
The thief posted another screenshot of the script.
@starfieldscript337
I’m happy you guys are loving this. Tomorrow, we’ll show you how legit it is. #ExcelsiCon
GENERAL SOND lifts CARMINDOR’S chin. CARMINDOR struggles against his
bindings. A video screen comes to life behind them.
GENERAL SOND
That is Velaris Six, one of your colony planets on the edge of the Federation.
About six million people, wouldn’t you say?
A beam of black and purple light hits the planet. Then Velaris Six fractures apart.
CARMINDOR stares at it in shock.
CARMINDOR
NO!
GENERAL SOND
And now there are none.
The Council politely applauds.
CARMINDOR
You killed them all of them.
GENERAL SOND
Every one of them. Their leaders refused to conscript to the Path of the Sun, and so I gave them my judgement. This will happen, again and again, thanks to the powers given to me by the Black Nebula – no, gifted to me. Every planet that refuses to conscript will be terminated.
(pauses)
Unless the Federation Prince shows them the way.
CARMINDOR
You want me to become a mindless follower?
GENERAL SOND smiles, and it’s so deceiving because it is earnest.
GENERAL SOND
I merely want to save you, my Prince, because no one else will.
My hands are shaking. Somehow it feels like a threat. No, I know it is. And this time there’s no clues, no signifiers. It’s just a cropped photo of the script. Whoever the thief is, they’re learning—and that means I have even less chance of finding them.
I’m ruined.
Harper lays a concerned hand on my shoulder. “Imogen, are you okay?”
I look up and I want to scream that I’m not Imogen. That I’m about to be no one, the girl who leaked the Starfield sequel script and no Hollywood studio would ever work with her again. My career will be over.
But I can’t tell her that because she thinks I’m someone else.
She says softly, surprising me, “Are you hungry?”
“I don’t have any money with me,” I reply tightly. I can’t look at her.
“Lucky for you I am also very, very broke. C’mon, we haven’t had dinner yet.”
She takes my hand—her fingers folding between mine—and drags me in from the balcony and out of the Stellar Party, knowing before I even said anything that I was trying not to fall apart.
* * *
HARPER FISHES AROUND IN HER BACKPACK for her keycard and lets us in. We aren’t even in the same hotel anymore, but one adjacent to where I’m staying. It’s a modest room, like most are, I guess; there are two double beds and a minifridge and a pretty outdated TV on a dresser. I can tell from the suitcases strewn across the room and the bathroom full of shampoos and straighteners and toiletries that she’s rooming with three other women, but they’re all gone.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she says as she dumps her purse in the doorway and walks over to her suitcase.
I don’t exactly know what kind of food is supposed to be in a suitcase until she unzips it to reveal a jumbo-pack of those ninety-nine-cent ramen noodle cups. She asks me to fill the coffeemaker carafe—after washing it out—so I do that while she pulls the desk out from the wall and sets it up as a table, the edge of one of the beds serving as a bench.
My mind is still buzzing with the new script leak. I don’t want to think about it—can’t think about it. If I do, I fear I may lose all hope.
This is impossible. Why am I here? Pretending to be Imogen? It doesn’t make sense anymore. I’ll never find the thief. But I don’t want to be Jess again yet.
I pour the water into the coffeemaker and turn it on.
“Make yourself at home,” she tells me, but I’m not exactly sure how to do that. I feel like strange sharp edges right now, catching on everything I rub against. So I just sit down at the table that she prepared. “Do you want anything to drink? We have…” She pops open the minifridge and assesses the contents. “Bottled water, sparkling champagne—but oh, you’re underage, aren’t you? Seventeen, right?”
“Nineteen,” I say without thinking, and then bite my lip. I shouldn’t have corrected her. I should’ve just said yes, but…
“Oh!” She laughs and shoots me a look. “Eighteen.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but it’s weird. Since I’m so, you know, internet famous quote-unquote,” she says, “because of my trash Tumblr, everyone expects me to be thirty or something. It’s like we can’t be successful young.”
“Or if we are successful young, it’s through a fluke or luck or happenstance and not hard work—and yeah, some of it is luck or a fluke, but not all of it. You have to have at least a little talent, too.”
“Unless you’re a Kardashian,” Harper deadpans.
I snort, having met the youngest of them. “I’ll have a Diet Coke if you have one?” I say instead.
She hands me one from the minifridge. The coffeemaker begins to hum and drip hot water into the pot. She tears open the noodle cups and picks out chopsticks and a plastic fork from her bag, arranging them on the table in front of me. She’s so thorough. I could watch her for hours.
I pick up a teal teddy bear, one of its eyes missing.
“Oh, that’s November. I never go anywhere without him,” she says. “He’s my travel companion.”
“We always need one of those. Mine’s—” I catch myself before I say Ethan, because Imogen doesn’t have Ethan, Jess has Ethan. “Mine’s a good book,” I finish lamely.
She laughs. “Different ones or the same?”
“Same. It’s my favorite. Dog-eared and spine cracked. What kind of books do you read?”
“Manga mostly, some French comics. There are some great webcomics out there—I’m also a sucker for a fanfic. There’s this one General Sond fanfic that I shouldn’t like but starflame do I ever. The author, ThornyRose, is ridiculously good.”
“I can’t say I read much fanfic.”
“Really? I could’ve sworn you said you read her.”
“I mean, not lately,” I quickly deflect. “I’ve been busy, you know. With the Save Amara stuff. Do you always bring ramen to the con?” I try to change the course of the conversation, shifting uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.
Harper laughs. She didn’t notice. Good. “Do I ever! Con food is way too pricey, and I’m a poor starving artist so I don’t have money for all the fancy restaurants around here. My friends say I make the best hotel ramen in the world, and I had promised you I’d make it for you if we ever met in person, and here we are.”
“Here we are,” I echo distantly, trying not to feel upset that it wasn’t a promise made to me, but to Imogen. Why am I upset over something like that? I try to wrestle control of my feelings. I am a professional actress. I’m fine. “You know, that’s pretty high praise. I’ve had a lot of good ramen.”
She holds up a finger. “But you’ve never had my ramen. Passed down from coupon-savvy Hart to Hart, we have perfected the art of the ninety-nine-cent ramen. Observe!”
With a flourish, she takes the carafe and pours steaming water into both cups, closes the lids, and puts our chopsticks on top to keep them down. Then she sets her phone timer for seven minutes.
“Seven minutes in heaven,” I murmur aloud. Aloud. I slap my hands over my mouth, mortified. “I didn’t, that wasn’t what I—”
Harper laughs, and her eyes crinkle, and my heart flutters. “It’d definitely kill some time.”
I can feel my ears getting red, heat and mortification rushing to them. “I—I didn’t mean it. That just reminded me, is all.”
She tilts her head. “My first kiss was a seven-minutes-in-heaven thing. I was at a birthday party in middle school. It was…terrible.”
“My first kiss was…” On the set of Huntress Rising, but I can’t tell her that. “He was older and I was, like, fifteen. His stubble was scratchy and it gave me a rash—and he smelled like weed. He’d been smoking all day.”
“Ugh, that sounds awful.”
I look down at my hands, picking at the cuticle on my thu
mb. “It definitely wasn’t what I had in mind for a first kiss.” But it was my job, and I didn’t have a choice. That I chose not to tell Harper. “It doesn’t really matter. I’ve had a few good kisses since then.” Including Dare. He was one of the better ones, actually.
Harper tilts her head when she looks at me. “You know, Imogen, you’re nothing like how you act online.”
My heart jumps. Oh no. “How so?”
“You’re just not,” she says as she sits down beside me, folding one leg under the other. She smells like lilac body lotion, and I try not to breathe too deep and drown in it. “It’s almost like you’re a different person.”
“Maybe I am.”
And she smiles at that, because she thinks I’m being coy.
I swallow, staring into her dark eyes, the color of angry clouds and midnight skies, and I find myself threateningly close to liking them a little too much. I shake myself out of it and clear my throat, averting my gaze to the cup of noodles. “So, why seven minutes?”
“Because ramen is best al dente,” she notes, still giving me the same look that makes my skin hot and cold at the same time, “and seven minutes is the perfect amount of time. What would you do in seven minutes?”
“In heaven, or here?”
She grins. “Here.”
Oh—oh I am in trouble.
Because I think I have a crush on this girl with curly dark hair and ink smudges on her brown fingers and trouble tucked into her maroon-colored lips.
Her cell phone beeps. The seven minutes are up. She takes off the lids and stirs the noodles with her chopsticks, and I do the same.
“Bon appétit,” she says.
MY RELATIONSHIP WITH He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named ended this way:
He didn’t call, he didn’t text, he didn’t even say, “Sorry, babe! I lost my keycard and got stuck in an elevator and I had to fight off some Hydra agents with nothing but a shield and my superior good looks!” Although we both know I wouldn’t have believed him. The point is, Jasper didn’t even make the effort to do any of those things. He just didn’t show. He ghosted me hard—and I don’t think he even felt bad doing it.
The Princess and the Fangirl Page 14
