I glare at him as he approaches. “I told you not to call me that in public.”
His grin widens. “Why, because it’s true?”
It isn’t true. I mean it kind of is, but only when there’s one cheese-stuffed garlic roll left on spaghetti night. That last one is mine. I will spork your eye out for it.
Our moms began calling me Monster because, when I was little, my favorite pajamas were a T. rex onesie that I refused to change out of—ever. I went to kindergarten with it on, that’s how much I loved it. I would stomp around and roar, and whenever someone asked my name, I’d tell them that I was a monster.
I guess my four-year-old self kind of trolled me from an early age. It doesn’t help that Imogen shortens to Mo, which is, you guessed it, the first two letters in “monster.” So it just kind of stuck. The fact that I sometimes get into trouble has nothing to do with my nickname.
It doesn’t.
At all.
I scowl at Milo. “If you weren’t my brother and I didn’t love you, I’d strangle you with your own jockstrap.”
At that he laughs. “Yikes, someone’s had a bad day.”
Oh, he doesn’t know the half of it.
I dig into my backpack for a handful of pins and shove some into his hands. “Here, if you’re going to walk beside me at least help me pass these out. Save Amara!” I add, forcing a pin into the hands of oncoming attendees. “Revive her! She deserves better!”
Most people take the pin and go on their way.
My internet friend Harper designed them. She draws the best Starfield fanart and designs the coolest merch and apparently makes delicious hotel ramen. We’ve never actually met in IRL, never Skyped or FaceTimed, so I honestly can’t tell you what she looks like. But all that will change this weekend. We’re sharing a booth in Artists’ Back Alley, her selling her artwork and me hawking my petition and pins.
It’s been fun imagining what Harper looks like, though. Her avatar has always been Starfield’s fearless Zorine, so I kinda picture her as the six-armed green-skinned lesbian Llotivan who could strike fear into your soul with a single vicious red-eyed glare. She’s so badass online that I’m pretty sure she is Zorine. And she’s talented on top of being rad. Harper is destined for greatness. Like my brother, Milo.
Like literally everyone I know. Except for me.
Milo quietly hands a passing Deadpool a pin before he says, “Okay, so I know this probably isn’t the best time to tell you this, but I saw him.”
I give another pin to a guy in a Dragon Ball Z cosplay—Goku, and he’s definitely over 9000 on the hot-o-meter. “Saw who?”
“He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named.”
I try not to react when he tells me. I try not to look bothered at all. “What now?”
“I saw him today. On the YouTube Gaming panel. He’s got some groupie following him around with a camera. You can’t miss him. He’s just exudes jerkoff.”
“Oh,” I say. My voice is small.
“You deserved so much better, Mo.”
I really don’t want to hear this right now. It’s easy for him to say—he happened upon his perfect soulmate. They have the perfect relationship.
I take off walking but he catches me in two quick strides. I keep handing out pins, trying to ignore him.
“Look, Mo, I just wanted to tell you—”
“And you did. He’s here. That’s great.”
But it’s not.
So, a brief history of Imogen Lovelace’s love life: I’ve only been in love once, and it was with—you guessed it!—He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named. We’d been dating for about a year. It was long distance. He lived in Ohio, I lived in North Carolina, but we saw each other almost every month on the con circuit and we just kind of…hit it off. We loved the same horror flicks and laughed at the same scenes on Galaxy Quest and played Overwatch together. We were supposed to go to the ExcelsiCon Ball last year (as the Tenth Doctor and Rose), and everyone knows what happened at last year’s ball, but because he didn’t show up I didn’t get to witness the most important moment of Starfield fandom. The moment Prince Carmindor—I mean Darien Freeman, the actor, the stud muffin, the legend—fell in love with one of us.
A girl. A normal, everyday girl.
And I missed it, sitting on the curb bawling my eyes out because some guy I thought loved me decided to ghost me. I’d actually gotten dressed up for him—makeup! Heels! I never wear heels, I never put on mascara. But I did for him.
Because, stupidly, I thought I loved him.
I always had it in my head that love was kinda like two people passing each other on opposite escalators at the front of the convention hall as you hurry to your next panel, they dressed as Link and you as Zelda…
“Kick some butt, babe!” they say.
“I’ll tell Calamity Ganon you’ll be there shortly!” I’d reply.
That is love.
…but maybe I’ve spent too much time on the internet.
I reach into my bag and fish out a handful of pins for a group of Steven Universe gems. Milo quietly follows behind. We don’t talk for a long while.
There’s a big Starfield display near the middle of the showroom. If I didn’t know better, it looks like the Prospero—the spaceship in the series. The back of it, with the cargo door down. Maybe it’s a photo op? To one side there’s an exhibit showcasing Starfield’s original costumes—one of the main reasons the original Carmindor (David Singh) and Amara (Natalia freaking Ford) are going to be here on Sunday, to talk about the original series and celebrate its twenty-fifth anniversary. On the other side is a larger-than-life Styrofoam mountain for a popular new fantasy TV series called Blades of Valor. All I know about it is that there’s a hottie in the main role. You know the kind: big blue eyes, windswept blond hair, and a raging poison sword of doom aflame in his hands, ready to fight the coming apocalypse.
Exhibits rise up like skyscrapers from the art deco carpet. ExcelsiCon is known for its horrific hotel carpets, but the showroom’s is the literal worst. Coupled with the often zany but dazzling installations, I don’t think a year goes by that I’m not in awe of this place. People running around, arms full of swag and collectibles, trying to get to a panel or an exhibit or a restroom.
That’s usually one of the longest lines. Which is why I went up to the second-floor bathroom in the first place.
In hindsight, that was the worst idea I’ve ever had.
I shiver, rubbing my hands across my arms. Jessica Stone was a total and complete b—
I shake off my thoughts and break the silence. “Have you heard from the coach yet?” I ask Milo. “About the quarterstaff position?”
“Don’t play dumb,” he chides, sending off a text and sliding his phone back into his jeans pocket. “It’s quarterback, and not yet.”
I kinda hope the big oaf’ll get it. He’s been practicing like mad since last year, and when the current quarterback busted his leg jumping off a rooftop into a pool, the coach had his two backup QBs try out against each other. Milo’s going to be a junior, and he’s tortured himself on the field long enough. He deserves it.
But I don’t tell him any of that. Instead I just raise my hands and say, “Yay, sportsball!”