The Princess and the Fangirl

by Ashley Poston

  Please, I pray. If impossible things do happen here…

  I raise the megaphone to my mouth again to call her name—

  On the fourth floor, a balcony door is shoved open and out steps Harper in her pajamas, a purple silk headscarf around her hair. “What are you doing?”

  What am I doing?

  I have absolutely no idea.

  I hold the megaphone up to my mouth. “My name is Jessica Stone,” I begin, because I am not sure where else to start, “and for a few days I pretended to be someone else. I thought I would just play a part, like I always do, and then move on, but…” I lick my lips, my voice wavering. There are hundreds of people gathering around me as I stand on top of this ridiculous food truck, the closest I can get to Harper. “I didn’t expect to meet you,” I continue, my heart thundering in my ears.

  “You lied to me,” she shouts down. “Why?”

  “Because…” For a split second I think I might lie to her again. Take the easy way out and blame the script and Starfield and the fans. But I think I know her well enough to know that she’ll see right through me. What kind of person would I be if I lied about why I lied to begin with?

  She deserves the truth.

  “Because I—at first I just needed to play the part of Imogen, but then, as I got to know you, I just became scared that…that you wouldn’t like me once I told you who I was. People always expect Jessica Stone to be the person she’s made out to be in the media and in magazines, but it felt so nice to just be me around you. And that was selfish and I’m sorry. I don’t deserve a second chance, and I understand if you never want to see me again. But…” I gather my courage as hundreds of eyes judge me, wondering why I care so much about someone I just met.

  And honestly, I couldn’t tell them. I think there are people who come into your life, and you just know. For however long or short a time or however impossible it might seem—they’re important. Like a guiding star amid a storm.

  I take a deep breath and continue, “But I’m not lying now when I say that I—I think I like you, Harper Hart. Will you go to the ExcelsiCon Ball with me?”

  Four stories up, Harper doesn’t say anything, and the longer I wait the colder my hands feel. My heart begins to pound. What if she’ll never forgive me? What if this isn’t enough? Will anything ever be? Could anything be?

  Could I be?

  Maybe we are like ships at sea, sailing in opposite directions—together and then gone. Maybe Harper loves someone else. But even if she does, I’ll still have the memories of ramen, and stars, and how her lips twitch up when she’s happy—folding them into a part of me I’ll never let go, shaping me from the inside out. And I will carry on. Because, in the end, I am not a princess waiting to be saved.

  I will do my own saving.

  I am Jessica Stone. I am many things: a daughter, and an actress, and a fan of astronomy and the stars and the wide finite universe. I love strawberries on hot summer days and the way the moonlight shines so softly across Harper’s face tonight. I am an explorer of my own sexuality. I am a kaleidoscope of hope and dreams and wonder in the shape of a girl. I am not a porcelain doll. I am not empty. I am worthy.

  I am enough.

  Harper leans over the balcony railing, and she smiles and tilts her head and shouts down, “Are you really Romeo and Juliet-ing this right now?”

  I press the megaphone trigger and reply. “You bet I am. And if you say no I’ll sing the Starfield theme until you come down and pry this megaphone from the fingers of my lifeless corpse.”

  “GOD PLEASE DON’T MAKE HER SING!” someone in the crowd shouts. Oh look, my legacy from last night’s karaoke.

  Even from way down here, Harper’s smile is blinding. “Gimme a few minutes.”

  The crowd around me—which I had forgotten about—erupts into chaotic applause. I turn around and look down at the sea of people who followed me out of the convention hall, people in geek T-shirts and cosplay, toting art prints and nerdy collectibles, some of their phones aimed up at me. A Luke Skywalker cosplayer thrusts his green lightsaber into the air.

  My cheeks begin to hurt and I realize that I’m smiling. Really, truly, stupidly smiling. So wide that the muscles in my face begin to ache. Because for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am happy.

  Ridiculously, wonderfully happy.

  In front of the truck, a familiar redheaded girl heaves herself onto the hood, followed by Sage. She motions to the megaphone. “May I?”

  “Oh, sure,” I say, and I hand it off.

  Elle tests the trigger and then raises it to her mouth. “Attention, my favorite weirdos and nerds, thanks to an anonymous donor, each one of you now has a ticket to ExcelsiCon’s notorious ball in the Grand Ballroom. Please check your lightsabers, spears, bows, and warhammers at the door. Now let’s go party!”

  The crowd erupts into another cheer and turns in the direction of the con.

  Elle giddily turns back to me. “I’ve always wanted to use one of those!”

  I laugh. “I take it Dare’s the anonymous donor?”

  Her grin widens. “Actually, it was Natalia Ford.” The surprise must show on my face because Elle adds, “She was at the panel, and she told me to tell you that she has an offer for you. She said to call her later.”

  “And,” Dare adds, coming up beside her, “Amon is on the phone with the executive producers right now.” He’s looking very intently at his nails. “They’re having quite a discussion—”

  “Jess!” someone shouts.

  I quickly turn toward the sound of my name. Harper is waving from the entrance of the hotel. Jess.

  She called my name—mine!

  I hurry to the front of the food truck, where Sage helps me onto the hood and her girlfriend Cal helps me to the ground. Their chubby wiener dog sits in the front seat of the truck, pink tongue dangling, and howls at all the noise.

  The crowd parts like a Rebel ship colliding with a Death Cruiser at lightspeed, and on the other side is an impossible moment. A girl with lightning-flecked brown eyes and a warm smile, wearing a sequined dress decorated with the Starfield logo, and I didn’t think I could like her more.

  Somewhere in the middle, Harper and I meet, and though I had words with the megaphone, they’re all lost on me now and I don’t know what to say. What can I say? How do I start?

  So I do the only thing I can think of.

  I give her the Starfield salute—You and I are made of stars—and I hope that’s enough. She smiles and presses her hands to mine in the same pose, and then slowly, finger by finger, they fall together—

  And she kisses me.

  She kisses me and the world is too small and my skin is too tight and the universe is impossible and Harper Hart is kissing me. She tastes like cherry soda and maroon lipstick and stardust, and I lean into her like a sunflower to the sun. I want to memorize the shape of her mouth and the softness of her lips and the sound of the crowd humming Amara’s Waltz from the movie.

  And it is perfect.

  And I am happy.

  And I am enough.

  Then she smiles and squeezes my hand. “Let’s go dance our tiaras off, ah’blena,” she says. And as Harper pulls me into the crowd of people I’ll never know, geeks and fangirls and nerds and friends, I can’t imagine anywhere else I’d rather be.

  DAY FOUR

  SUNDAY

  * * *

  “What a strange life we lead, ah’blen. I can’t say I’d change it for all the stars in the sky.”

  —Princess Amara, Episode 41, “Worse Than Death”

  I SCOOP THE REST OF MY #SAVEAMARA PINS into the cardboard box and close the lid. Slowly but steadily, the showroom is shutting down. In thirty minutes, the con will be empty, and everyone will wander back to their hotels, or to farewell parties, or home. My moms and I won’t leave until tomorrow, when we pack up the U-Haul with all the figurines and hit the road back to Asheville, and by then all of this will have been a dream.

  A pretty frakkin�
�� sweet dream.

  Every time I close my eyes, I remember the ExcelsiCon Ball—the colorful lights spiraling down onto the cosplays and nerd shirts, the music, the conga line that Milo and Bran started around the entire dance floor. The spectacle of Darien and Elle dancing, like legends returning from the depths of Reddit threads and Tumblr rumors, the Starfield waltz that followed. The moments Ethan glanced over at me, and took me by the hand, and spun me around to “Ramble On” by Led Zeppelin, laughing because I can’t dance and neither can he, this strange tension radiating off us like Super Saiyan energy. It made my skin feel tingly and my heart flutter.

  And then I blink and I’m on the couch in Jess’s hotel room, with Ethan and Harper, sharing midnight pizza and watching the best Amara episodes of Starfield. I barely paid attention to the episodes at all—even my favorite ones!—because when Ethan shifted on the couch beside me all I could feel was the warmth of his elbow against mine and the way he slowly began to slouch until he fell asleep on my shoulder.

  I quickly slide my box of pins off the table, trying not to let my embarrassment get to me.

  This is the worst feeling ever. Knowing that Ethan and I wouldn’t work—we’re like a PS4 console and a Nintendo Switch controller. Incompatible.

  Which is why I haven’t seen him all day. I mean, we don’t even have each other’s numbers. I wish I hadn’t given him the number for my favorite pizza joint instead of my real one. Stupid me.

  But then, I guess it would hurt a whole lot more if I waited for him to text me and he never did. I don’t think I could go through that again.

  Attendees make their final rounds through Artists’ Back Alley, and I hand out a few last pins. Harper’s phone buzzes on the table, and she reaches for it and smiles.

  “Jess?” I ask, although I already know.

  Harper responds to the text. “She’s in a meeting.”

  “Another one? Because of what happened yesterday?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I hope she isn’t in trouble,” I murmur. I’d feel bad if she was, even though she did everything of her own accord.

  Harper waves off my concern. “It’ll be fine.” Then she closes her sketchbook and stands, her arms outstretched. “Next time, don’t send someone pretending to be you,” she says. We hug tightly.

  “Agreed.” Then we release each other and I pick up my box. The pins rattle alongside all of the artwork I bought today. “How’s your sister, by the by? Did she get into med school?”

  “With scholarship,” Harper replies proudly. “And your brother? How’s the football thing?”

  “We still haven’t gotten word whether he’s quarterback or not.”

  “Well, if I don’t see you again before you leave, tell him good luck and I’ll catch you on the internet?”

  “Always, and safe travels! Oh, one thing. It’s kinda been bothering me.”

  She begins to open her sketchbook again, but then closes it. She looks up at me. “Okay, shoot.”

  “Did you really think Jess was me this whole time? I mean, we know each other pretty friggin’ well and, starflame, she’s a world different from me and…Anyway, just curious.”

  She taps her mechanical pencil against her nose. “Yeah, totally.”

  Uh-huh.

  I leave the booth. “See you next year!” I call over my shoulder as I make my way through the crowd toward the towering Nox King.

  I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scanning the crowd for raven-black hair and brown eyes and that insufferable disapproving frown, but the con is almost over and I’m beginning to realize that so is the magic. It must be the sleep deprivation, but my chest hurts a little at the realization that I’m just Imogen Lovelace again. And in the grand scheme of things, I’m not a part of Ethan’s life.

  When I get to Figurine It Out, Milo is slouched on the throne, and he sighs as I approach. Our moms are busy trying to sell as much stock as they can, knocking all of the prices down by thirty percent—which is a steal for some of the bigger pieces. They’re helping a middle-aged woman as she tries to decide between two Sailor Moon poses.

  “What’s up, bro?” I ask, setting my box down on the foundation of the throne. “You look blue.”

  He gives me a long look before he says, “Just waiting for the rest of my life.”

  “Ah. Move over,” I say, slapping his leg. He pulls himself to sit up and I squeeze in beside him, pushing the armrests out to make room. While the back and sides are strictly figurine boxes, the seat is just a hard plastic tub. It buckles a little with both of us sitting on it.

  Together we look out over the closing showroom.

  “You know, I don’t think I’m all that perfect,” he begins.

  I groan and begin to pry myself up, but he puts one beefcake hand on my shoulder and easily pulls me back down. “Miiii-lllooooooo, I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “I do, though. I need to. Because, I don’t want to get sentimental or anything, but I’ve always thought I was in your shadow.”

  I give him a deadpan look. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re so smart, Mo!” he says, and begins counting my virtues on his fingers, “and you’re funny, and you’re good, and you bake the best chocolate murder cookies, and you’re personable and you amassed fifty thousand signatures on a petition to save your favorite fictional character. Everyone loves you the second they meet you.”

  “But—but you—”

  “What about me? I walk in and just try not to stumble over my own two feet. Everyone at school, all of our teachers, they take one look at my name and say, ‘Oh, you’re Imogen’s brother,’ because you leave a legacy so freakin’ long that I’ve got little to no chance of the teachers actually remembering my name.”

  “Bullshit. You’re a great football player! And you have the perfect boyfriend, and you’re vice president and—”

  “Yeah,” he interrupts, rolling his eyes, “because that’s the only way I can get out of your shadow.”

  I blink, my mouth opening and closing like a fish gobbling water, trying to think of some kind of comeback. Milo feels like he’s in my shadow? I would ask if he’s joking, but there’s a crinkle between his brows that he always gets when he’s being honest. It’s so absurd that I begin to laugh, and so does he. I’ve been so bent on trying to get out from under his shadow, and he’s been trying to get out of mine, that we just made everything impossible for each other.

  “Okay, okay, let’s make a deal,” I say as I wipe the tears from my eyes. “Let’s come to each other if we’re feeling this way. And talk it through.”

  “Gross, like siblings who support each other?” He makes a face, and I punch him in the arm.

  “Yes, like siblings who support each other—”

  His phone begins to blare the Power Rangers theme song, and he digs it out of his pocket, checks the number, and shoots me a look of alarm. “It’s Coach Evans.”

  “We’ll finish this conversation later—”

  “—or never—”

  “Go answer it! Good luck!” I add as he scrambles off of the throne and closes himself in the storage area for privacy. I’m not going to say that I’m not nervous for him, because I am. I want him to get quarterback—I think he would be an amazing addition to the first yarn or whatever it’s called.

  I’m really hoping things work out.

  “Is something wrong, Monster?” Minerva asks as Kathy checks out the Sailor Moon customer. Minerva’s wearing her hair in a fishtail braid that slithers like a stroke of black ink down her shoulder, blending in so seamlessly with her black lace dress that it almost looks like it’s part of the outfit. “Your aura is very gray today.”

  “Earl or Dorian?”

  She laughs and kisses the top of my head. “You know we’re going to have to talk about what happened this weekend.”

  “Ah.” I sigh. “Which part? The part where I impersonated Jessica Stone, or the part where I assaulted her costar?”

  “You assa
ulted her costar? Which one?”

  Kathy finishes with the customer and walks over to us. “We’ll definitely talk about that later, but first we need to discuss this.” She takes out her phone, which is open to Twitter, and shows me what I already know.

  Early this morning, after I’d slipped out from beside Ethan and crept out of Jess’s room, because I’m terrible at goodbyes, I deleted my Twitter as I rode the elevator down to my floor. The #SaveAmara initiative—everything. I’m sure it’ll live on in other people’s hashtags and other people’s accounts, but I’m no longer the one spearheading it. I also deleted the online petition and its fifty-thousand-odd signatures (not before saving a copy, though).

  I give my mothers a shrug, unable to look at either of them. “I think I’ve done everything I could, and the petition reached who it needed to. I don’t want to be one of the people riling up the masses and spreading toxicity, and Twitter isn’t the best place for nuanced conversations. I want to save Amara, but I don’t want to do it at the expense of Jess, you know?” My last word wobbles, and I know it’s because I’m on about four hours of sleep, so I bite my bottom lip to keep myself together.

  “Oh, Monster.” Kathy folds me into a hug. Minerva wraps her long arms around us both, and we exist there while I try not to cry, sandwiched between the two people who love me most.

  It’s not so bad being Imogen Lovelace. I’m not a movie star, and I don’t attract swaths of adoring fans, and my voice is tiny—but my dreams are big and I don’t mind being me.

  The fantastical is almost over, but it isn’t over yet.

  I have a boy to meet at the top of the escalators for one last time, and I have a bone to pick with him.

  We break from our hug, and I dry my eyes and tell my moms I’ll be back to help pack up after the floor closes. Milo’s still in the storage closet talking to the coach.

  I hope that’s a good sign.

  It’s a quarter to five when I arrive at the escalators at the front of the showroom floor. I used to think that love was two people passing each other on these very escalators, heading off to different panels and different meet-and-greets, apart but together. Maybe we’d be cosplaying as Carmindor and Amara, and not Link and Zelda, and maybe we’d flash each other the Federation salute instead.