Except I didn’t think I wanted to go to school for costume design anymore. These costumes I was making and selling now—these were to help that guy, Anthony.
The numbers added up. This was legit. Somehow I’d made twice the amount I’d been aiming for in under twenty-four hours.
How was that possible?
I wasn’t a BNF (Big Name Fan) anymore. Surely my fellow cosplayers hadn’t been checking my site every day to see if it was back up and running, waiting to snatch up my stuff . . . had they? These orders weren’t in my head. The receipts were proof enough.
There was a knock at my door. My aunt peered in. “Is everything all right?” Immediately her eyes snagged on the boxes and the mess of costumes across the floor. She looked horrified. “What are you doing?”
“Making and selling things.”
“Those costume things?”
“Um . . .”
“You know I’m not a fan,” Aunt Anne Marie said.
“Why?”
“Because they’re demonic.”
“Uncle Bryan said they’re not.”
“I . . . don’t agree. Halloween, people worshipping the devil . . .”
“But this isn’t for Halloween,” I said. “They’re for conventions.”
“Still, it’s bad.”
“But why?”
Aunt Anne Marie frowned, folding her arms over her chest. No good answer would come from this, if any at all. “I just don’t like it. You’re creating things for gain. Out of greed.”
Yeah, and you’re really reaching with that one.
“It’s not for profit.” Not this time, at least. I hesitated. I couldn’t just outright say I was listening in on confessions. I knew better. So instead, I said, “Somebody told me about someone who’s in a lot of trouble, and I want to help.”
My aunt paused. “Trouble?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Someone who’s in debt. It’s not their fault. I thought I could put a dent in it.”
My aunt’s expression changed. She walked in the room, looking at the packed boxes. “Are you keeping any of the proceeds for yourself?”
I hesitated before saying, “Yeah. I always save some just in case. It could help pay for community college.”
“Community college? But your mother said you were probably going to a big school for fashion design. That you could get scholarships.”
“Costume design. I was going to major in costume design. I didn’t get far enough in the process to find out about scholarships.” I quirked my head as I looked at her. “I thought you’d be glad I wasn’t going to major in your demonic whatever.”
“That’s education—”
“—for me to get a job in costuming.”
My aunt stiffened. She was caught in a contradiction, and she knew it. “You don’t think costumes are demonic,” I said. “Not really.”
“Let’s not belabor this,” she said, which is the kind of thing someone says when they don’t have a better rebuttal. She gestured around the room. “How much did you make?”
“Over two thousand dollars.”
“That much? In a day?” My aunt stared at me in awe.
“I’ve never had that happen before,” I said. “I’ve had an online shop for the past couple of years, but I closed it after—”
Stop. Slow down. For a moment I thought I was going to spill everything. I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I guess . . . people saw it reopened and got excited.”
Isn’t it obvious? the voice in my head said. They think you’re coming back.
Shit. It was right.
Aunt Anne Marie looked impressed in spite of herself. “You could almost live off that.”
“What about greed?”
My aunt froze. I couldn’t fight the smirk on my face. Another contradiction. Then she asked, “Why did you stop making costumes?”
Shit. I’d made a mistake. I’d cornered her too much. Now she was on the offensive.
I shrugged. “Something happened.”
“Things happen for a reason. The Good Lord has a plan for everyone. He just wants people to pay attention and not deviate.”
I was pretty sure he also wouldn’t want me to get lectured if this was part of the plan.
She stooped over to pick up one of the new cosplays I’d sewn for Bo Brightshine, the powerful heroine from Attack Girl Tokyo. I’d made a matching one for Dr. Steevius, her arch nemesis and—plot twist!—her creator. “You made this?”
“Yeah. Last night.”
“It only took you one night?” She brought it close to her face to take in every detail. “The quality . . . the lining . . . this is . . . this is incredible, Alexis.”
I warmed on the inside, rubbing the back of my neck. “Uh, thanks.” It had felt good to sew something again. Muscle memory returning and everything.
She moved to another costume, turning it over in her hands, admiring each stitch. “All for a stranger?”
“They’re in a lot of trouble.”
“How do you know they’re not lying?”
“I just . . . do.”
My aunt looked at me with glazed eyes. She embraced me tightly. “I think I was wrong. You’re doing the Lord’s work with these costumes. These don’t look like devil worship. The craftmanship is too fine.”
Well, I guess it was a good thing that before she came in, I’d already packed up a costume for Highway 666, a horror video game that was like Us meets Silent Hill. The costumes in that one were super creepy, as was the series, but there was something I loved about how disturbing and wrong it was. Boy-me flirted with danger, embraced the idea of edginess.
Note to self: lock door before working on or selling cosplays for stuff involving demons.
My aunt lingered in the room. “You’re an impressive young woman.”
I tried not to flinch. Because even though I wasn’t a young woman today, the compliment felt genuine. I needed to take what I could get right now.
My aunt stepped back. “I’ll go to the post office for you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“You’re doing the Lord’s work, helping others in need. The least I can do is take all this to the post office, so you have more time to sew.”
“Thanks, Aunt Anne Marie.” I wondered if this was her way of finding a loophole, latching onto a reason to like something she’d vehemently opposed. “I was serious before,” I added. “At dinner. Maybe sometime you can teach me some more about sewing?” She looked like she was about to cry again, nodding instead of saying anything as she left the room.
Why was my mom so worried about me staying here? I was doing good deeds, and my aunt and uncle seemed genuinely well intentioned. Sure, some of the stuff they believed was a bit out there. But, well, Aunt Anne Marie was at least open-minded enough to revise her opinion of my costume making. That seemed like an encouraging sign. She didn’t strike me as a totally unreasonable zealot.
A horrid thought came to my mind—what if the problem wasn’t them, but Mom and Dad? What if they were the ones who’d distanced themselves from my aunt and uncle instead of the other way around? What if they’d been too quick to judge? What if they’d kept me away from my aunt and uncle intentionally?