The Princess and the Fangirl

by Ashley Poston

“Pff, I don’t need backup.” She puts up her arms and flexes them. “I got these deadly weapons.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. “Do you always resort to jokes during serious conversations?”

  She lets her arm flop down and sighs. “Yeah, it’s kinda a natural defense.”

  “You must be great at funerals.”

  “Oh, I’m dead serious,” she says with a straight face, and for a moment I can’t tell if she’s joking, but then she snorts a laugh and shrugs. “I’m just silly. I can’t help it.” She glances back at the booth where she and Vance were sitting. “Trying to be you was a lot different than I thought it’d be.”

  That amuses me. “Because my life is so perfect?”

  “As if.” Then she slowly turns her eyes to mine. “Because you’re a real person.”

  Oh. I quickly look away.

  A group of Starfield cosplayers comes in and sits down at the opposite end of the restaurant. They barely even glance over at us, chattering about the latest Starfield news and the leaking script, discussing rumors about Amara’s return—and lack thereof.

  “I don’t think I want her back,” says the Carmindor cosplayer. A genderbent Euci glares at him. “Don’t start again.”

  “I think she’s whiny and too perfect. I mean, she can pilot a Starkadia without any training and resist General Sond’s conscription? Come on,” he scoffs, “she’s a Mary Sue. She doesn’t even do anything, and the actress who plays her isn’t even hot.”

  “Shut up, Mike,” says a General Sond cosplayer, snapping open his menu, “and stop being a sexist asshole.”

  Imogen watches them thoughtfully, and I wonder—what were the odds of running into Imogen in the first place? What were the odds of meeting Harper? Of stumbling on that Princess Amara meet-and-greet? Running out in front of Natalia Ford’s car?

  Maybe this is the impossible universe after all.

  “You know, I thought I could hashtag Save Amara all by myself,” she says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “I mean, I did everything. I started petitions, I made buttons, I spearheaded the movement, I collected all the signatures. I even thought that if I were you, I could actually change things…” She shakes her head. “But, after everything that’s happened, I realized that I never stopped to wonder why you didn’t want to be Amara anymore. I never realized that the only part of Starfield you ever saw were the bad parts—and I’m sorry. I was looking at my fandom through rose-tinted glasses, and in the end I was kind of more the bad part, wasn’t I? To you, at least.”

  I shrug. “Lot of fans want to save their favorite characters or TV shows.”

  “Usually the actors also want to, you know? I didn’t even think about why you didn’t. If it’s because of fans like the guy in the meet-and-greet…I can understand why you’d hate Amara.”

  “Mo, I don’t hate Amara,” I clarify. I drop the fry into the basket and wipe my hand on my napkin. Then I log into Twitter and turn on my phone to let her read the comments.

  Slowly, her mouth falls open.

  “I once told Dare that as actors, all we can do is embody a character for a while and play them as best we can. I remember like it was yesterday—we were sitting on set and he was so incredibly nervous to play Carmindor.” I grin at the memory, drawing stars in the condensation on my glass of water. “He looked up to the fictional Federation Prince. I didn’t understand why then, but I do now. Sometimes the best heroes are the ones in your head—but that doesn’t make them any less real. I remember telling him that it didn’t matter whether you were the Val Kilmer Batman or the George Clooney Batman, you were still valid. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that.”

  Imogen turns off my phone, and there is a crease between her brow, a little like worry and a little like anger. “Oh Jess…I didn’t know it was this bad. I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too. I’m sorry I lied to you at the beginning. The truth is, I messed up pretty badly too. I was so intent on not being Princess Amara that I didn’t stop and look to see what I had right now. Just because Natalia Ford has a dead-end career doesn’t mean I will.”

  Imogen’s eyebrows furrow. “Dead-end? But…she went on to do other things, you know. She’s—Natalia Ford is one of the most prominent TV showrunners in Hollywood. If a network needs a series course-corrected, they bring her in. She’s won three Emmys for her work.”

  I blink. “No, she hasn’t.”

  “Yeah. She definitely has.”

  “Then why haven’t I head of her?”

  “Well, she goes by N. A. Porter—”

  I give a start. “As in Blades of Valor N. A. Porter? The Sunrise Girl N. A. Porter?”

  “Yeah, Jess. You didn’t think she made all of her money from syndication, did you? They got paid peanuts for Starfield,” Imogen scoffs.

  This information settles into the soft matter of my brain like pebbles at the bottom of a pond. When I complained about being typecast, about always being a foil, Natalia Ford told me to change things. Like she had as N. A. Porter.

  She told me to change things because it isn’t as impossible as I’d thought.

  Imogen slides out of the booth to return the mop to the bucket and then rolls it over to the waitress before coming back to sit down again. She takes off the brown wig, her pink pixie sticking up every which way, and steals one of my fries.

  “Oh starflame—HOT!” She gasps as the hot sauce zings right to her nose. She grabs my water and chugs half of it. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  I shrug and pop another fry into my mouth. “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “Oh that’s going to burn for a while,” she says, fanning her open mouth. “All right. If we’re going to find this script, we need to figure out who stole it.”

  “We?”

  “You don’t think I’m going to let you do this alone, do you? We’ve still got time. There’s three hours until our last panel at ExcelsiCon, and what better place to reveal who the script belongs to if not at that panel?”

  “I can’t ask you to help me—”

  “I want to. Friends help each other, yeah? I mean, I’ve lived in your shoes for almost forty-eight hours, I think I know you better than I know my brother.” And Imogen smiles at that, because she knows Milo better than she knows herself, I think. “So, tell me everything you know about this thief.”

  “Well, they’re at this convention, and they always seem to post when some big Starfield thing has happened or is about to happen.”

  “That makes me think it’s someone associated with the film. Another actor?” Imogen leans back in the booth and frowns. “But then wouldn’t they have their own script?”

  “No. My agent said I had the only one.”

  “So, it has to be someone on the inside, someone who doesn’t like you. A fan wouldn’t know things that are going to be revealed, and the thief posted that General Sond excerpt before Vance was announced. Starflame!” She gasps and jerks ramrod straight, the color draining from her cheeks. “Right before I shoved Mr. D-Bag out of the booth and poured two malts on him, he told me that Princess Amara doesn’t have happy endings and that I’ll never get a second chance—because he already knew.”

  She looks me dead in the eye, and we say together:

  “Vance Reigns.”

  I push my fries aside, my appetite gone. A waitress comes to take the basket, but Imogen snags one with as little hot sauce as possible and eats it. I say, “It makes sense. No one in Hollywood likes him because he’ll do anything to get ahead. He even pitched a fit on the set of Blades of Valor. His poor PA quit after that. No one likes working for him. He’s hungry for fame. If he frames it so that he finds out I’m the one leaking the script…”

  Imogen nods. “That would definitely boost his standing in the Starfield fandom. Girls are already ovulating over him—have you seen the shitposts on Tumblr? Some of those people need to be hosed down they’re so thirsty. And Vance is staying in our hotel. So he could’ve been the one to fish your script ou
t.”

  I don’t want to get my hopes up, but my heart is beginning to beat in my ears. It must’ve been Vance. I just didn’t recognize him because I’d never seen him outside of awards shows. I didn’t think he would be a suspect.

  But honestly I’m not surprised.

  “All right—yeah—okay. So what now?”

  “Now,” Imogen says, grabbing her bag and scooting to the edge of the booth, “we have to prove it. What do you say, partner?” She sticks out her hand.

  I smile and accept it, and she pulls me to my feet. “This might sound a little weird,” I say, “but I feel like I know you. Aside from the whole we-traded-lives part.”

  At that, she smiles widely and says, “Welcome to the fandom life, where you never know anyone but you always know everyone.”

  “Like Harper,” I say before I can stop myself. “Which,” I look away in embarrassment, “you might have to explain some things to her. I kind of ran out of the convention when she figured out that I wasn’t…that I’m…And she’s so great and nice and perfect—she didn’t deserve all of the lies I told her.”

  Imogen crosses her arms over her chest and studies me, as if I’m some plot twist in a story she hadn’t expected to like, and then she leans in and asks, “Do you like her?”

  “W-what?” I sputter, and a blush spreads across my face. I grab the receipt and hurry to the cash register, and she follows me like a Baskerville hound.

  “You do!”

  The cashier rings up the order. I dig around in my purse for exact change and hand it to her, my cheeks so hot they’re searing. “I—it’s—”

  “Then you don’t like Ethan?”

  I nab my receipt and whirl around. “Ethan? Oh God no. Wait—” I narrow my eyes, cross my arms, and imitate the same scrutiny she gave me, which causes her to lean backward a little. I don’t even have to ask the question before her ears begin turning pink and she whirls to hurry out of the diner.

  “You like him!” I accuse, following close on her heels. “Rule six! It was a rule for a reason!”

  She shoves open the door and steps out into the muggy Atlanta afternoon. This is the photo I promised the paparazza, and I put on a smile as she snaps pictures while Imogen and I make our way down the street. Imogen is so flustered and lost in her own head that she doesn’t even notice. “I thought you made the rule because, well, you liked him.”

  “I definitely do not. I just didn’t want to see him getting hurt, especially since you’re so cute in all the ways I’m not—and in all the ways he likes.” Her ears are growing redder and redder, and she can feel it too; she quickly arranges her hair over them. I catch up to her as we cross the street, leaving the paparazza behind. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

  “Not on purpose! And you hurt Harper!”

  “I didn’t mean to!” I say defensively. “But I want to apologize. I screwed up.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Ahead of us in the streets is a parade—all types of people dressed in cosplay sashay down the avenue to the tune of every fantasy and sci-fi theme the marching band behind them can play. There are Vulcans and mechas and Jedis and Labyrinth goblins, anime demons and zombie pirates and dragonborns and sailor scouts and dark elves—heroes and villains and everyone in between. Whatever apologies we were about to make to each other for messing up our friendships fall away as we’re caught up in the magic. I’m filled with the memories of stargazing on hotel rooftops and singing the Starfield theme off-key with a bunch of strangers I didn’t know but understood and seeing all of those radiant Amaras through the viewfinder of a camera—

  And all of the stories I want to tell.

  Only when the parade has passed and the street clears do I turn to the girl who could have been me in another impossible universe, and I say, “I want to save Amara.”

  WHILE JESS IS GROVELING TO HER ASSISTANT, since he clearly will never want to see me ever again, I fix my pink hair—wig no longer needed—and march straight into ExcelsiCon to gather reinforcements. The moment I flash my badge, my badge, to the attendant and ride the escalator up to the showroom, I feel like myself again, and I breathe in the con stink as if it’s fresh air.

  I need to find Milo and Bran. They’re the only ones who can help me with two parts of Jess’s plan, which rides a little on the side of batshit but, to be fair, some of the best ideas do.

  “If we’re going to save Amara, we need to prove she exists,” Jess had told me.

  I didn’t expect the plan she laid out next. It will take an impossible amount of luck to pull it off, but ExcelsiCon has always excelled at the impossible. I just hope it can work its magic one more time.

  At some point I also need to text Harper and tell her the truth. I don’t know if she’ll ever want to be my friend again—especially after I purposefully hoodwinked her into hanging out with someone else—but I can’t not try. Harper and I have been internet friends for years. She’s the one person who believed in my Save Amara initiative when no one else did, and I’ve been the ultimate crappy friend to her.

  I just hope Milo and Bran are at my moms’ booth and not at some movie screening. There isn’t enough time to hunt them down, and with my luck they’d be missing.

  Instead, when I turn the corner, I find Harper at the booth talking to Milo. They both notice me at the same time—my pink hair does kind of stand out—and their conversation instantly dies.

  Welp. There’s nothing quite as uninviting as ruining good conversation.

  My moms are on the other side of the booth, by the FunkoPop throne, assisting a customer buying that gorgeous Nightwing figurine—you know, the one with the really nice butt?—and I hurry over to Milo and Harper sporting my best apologetic smile.

  Harper watches me wearily as I approach. “So, you’re Imogen.”

  “Hi, Harps,” I say painfully.

  She doesn’t look as surprised as I thought she would. Even worse, she looks disappointed. “So the other person really was…”

  “It’s a long story. I’m sorry—”

  “Sorry?” she interrupts with a scoff.

  I wince. “I know. But trust me, we didn’t think—” But I realize that whatever excuse I have doesn’t account for how long we lied. “I’m sincerely sorry, Harper. But it’s so nice to see you in person.”

  She sighs. “This is so messed up. Because I…” But then she trails off and shakes her head. “It’s just messed up.”

  “So why’re you here and not Jess? Did she get bored?” Milo asks.

  I sneak a look at our moms. “Can we go behind the booth for a moment?”

  From the back of the booth, Bran pops his head out. “Ooh, are we about to learn some secrets?”

  “You deserve the truth,” I say. “All of you.” I look at Harper, and she nods decisively.

  While our moms are distracted, I corral Harper and Milo into the storage space with Bran. Milo has to hunch over to squeeze inside the small space, and we all barely fit. I take a deep breath, and then I tell them what Jess told me. About the script, and the thief, and the internet comments trolling her mercilessly.

  “Why are they saying it’s her fault that Carmindor dies?” Harper asks. “That doesn’t make any sense. Amara died—ohh-hh. They’re blaming her for dying, which is why Carmindor is dying.”

  “That makes about as much sense as their usernames,” Bran says. “LukeSkywanker69. Huh. Nice.”

  “Babe,” Milo chides.

  I take my phone out of Bran’s hands and deposit it in my back pocket. “So will you help us? Jess and I need to track down the thief who’s posting these excerpts. We think they’re going to post who the script belongs to and out Jessica during the panel in two hours.”

  Bran shakes his head. “That isn’t a lot of time.”

  “We think we know who it is—Vance Reigns—we just need to prove it. That’s where you come in. We were thinking, Bran, that since you’re our tech wizard genius, you could hack into the thief’s Twitter account and then
hack into the phone, and when we give you the cue, make the phone light up or something and—”

  “Imogen, I appreciate that you think I’m a tech wizard, but I’m not that magical,” he interrupts. “And that’s illegal.”

  Well, crap.

  Everyone’s quiet.

  Then Harper asks, “Can you hack into the account?”

  “I mean, that’s the easy part,” he replies. “Still illegal, but yes.”

  “Then could you get the phone number linked to the account and call it?”

  “Oh yes, I can definitely do that.”

  “Harper, that’s genius,” I say and then turn to my brother. “And now for the other part of the plan…”

  Milo quirks a bushy eyebrow. “There’s another part?”

  “Jess needs your help to steal the Princess Amara dress from the exhibit. That’s going to be the hard part.”

  My brother blinks and then leans in to me. “Excuse me, what did you just say?”

  “You are going to steal the one-of-a-kind, ultra special, super important Princess Amara ballroom gown on display in the exhibit. With Jess.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s what I thought you said.”

  “And Harper’s going to help too,” I add, nodding to my friend, who doesn’t seem too keen on the idea. She will, won’t she? She’s been with Jess this whole time, so I’m sure she won’t mind. I put my hand in the middle of us. “Okay, who’s with me!”

  Milo and Bran exchange a look—communicating in a second that this plan is about as bulletproof as Princess Amara driving a spaceship into the Black Nebula—but they put their hands over mine anyway, three-fourths to completing our friendship circle. “Harps?” I say, glancing to the last person on our team.

  Her brows crease, and she sighs and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve been pulled along in this scheme long enough. I gotta get back to my booth. Good luck, Monster.”

  Then she pushes herself between Milo and Bran and heads back into the showroom, and my stomach sinks. Of course. I want to run after her and stop her, but what right do I have to do that?

  If we were really friends, I wouldn’t have lied.