He laughs and elbows me in the arm.
“Ow!”
“Oh come on, that was barely a tap.”
“I’m delicate.”
He snorts. “Bull.”
“Save Amara!” I yell, tossing a sexy Xenomorph a pin. She thanks me and hurries on.
He flips over a #SaveAmara pin. “Can I ask you a question without you getting mad?”
“Sure.” I lie because we both know I always get mad because usually it’s a clueless question, like “why do you dye your hair?” or “why didn’t you date that cute guy in your trig class last year?”
“Why do you want to save a fictional character so badly?”
I stop in the middle of the busy aisle and study him. I know he’s asking earnestly—my younger brother is nothing but sincere and well meaning. See? He’s perfect. All my life I’ve been in his shadow, and I can’t even hate him for it because he’s so nice and caring and thoughtful. I’d feel like a brat if I did.
I can’t exactly say that I want to save Amara because I want to prove I’m not a waste of space. I’m not no one. I might not be good at many things, I suck at trig and chemistry and grammar. But even though I’m not vice president of the student body like Milo, or salutatorian like his boyfriend Bran, I can still be exceptional. I’m not just a raindrop in a pond but a comet plunged into the ocean, and I can make waves the size of skyscrapers because I’m not just here, I’m living.
Just like Amara saying she didn’t want to be a princess. She was terrible at it. She wanted to do something more, to make her father, the Nox King, proud.
So I started a hashtag and wrote articles and think pieces and put a #SaveAmara petition online that got over fifty thousand signatures. And I set money aside to split a booth rental. Last year’s ExcelsiCon was moderately attended, but this year Harper practically had to beg to get us a booth in Artists’ Back Alley. The movie just came out last month, and Starfield’s already broken almost every box-office record set by the Jurassic Worlds and Avengers of the world. It’s kinda incredible.
Anyway, I want to save Amara to let her prove that she can be somebody outside of her father’s or Carmindor’s shadow.
Like me, I guess.
I can’t really tell Milo the truth, so instead I say, “I’m just sick and tired of princesses being either damsels in distress or the foil for a male character’s emotional growth, and I know people want her back.”
I know because when I was Jessica Stone, no one booed me off that stage. Fans want to see her unfridged.
Amara is important.
Milo rolls the pin between his fingers, like he’s trying to find a good reply, but I’m a little afraid to hear it. Maybe he’ll think it’s stupid. Maybe he’ll not understand. Or, worse, maybe he’ll agree with Jessica Stone—that Amara should stay dead. And that’s the last thing I want to hear from my overachieving little brother.
“Hi, Pretzel Henry!” I call as we pass near the back of Artists’ Back Alley, deciding to try to change the subject. An older gentleman—in his mid-fifties probably, with a peppery black beard to match his peppery black hair—looks up from a customer. When he sees us his eyes light up. He waves a salt-less pretzel.
Milo waves back. “He’s literally here every year.”
“Some heroes don’t wear capes,” I say, and shove another pin in the direction of a guy sipping a red ICEE. “Save Amara!” The guy scowls in disgust.
I stick out my tongue at him after he passes.
After a few more minutes of pushing through the showroom, the crowds finally break and the Nox King stands triumphantly above us.
Under him is a booth displaying collectibles in glass cases and figurines still in their plastic packaging. Lounging on a throne made of FunkoPops is a gothic goddess of death, her bat-print dress spilling like blood onto the puke-green hotel carpet. She’s tapping her maroon claw on the box of a Hulk Pop, her glittery eyeshadow sparkling in the fluorescent lights.
Minerva cracks open an eye when she hears us approach. “Ah, so my prodigious progeny returns,” she purrs, although there’s only one prodigious child between us, and it’s not me. “Did you save the world or did you get lost?”
“Both?” I glance at Milo.
“Both,” he agrees.
“Both is good,” we say together. I sit in a chair while Milo dumps his Spider-Man bookbag in the storage area at the back of the booth. “Hello, Mummie. I see you finally finished your throne.” I point to the outlandish FunkoPop construction.
“A queen must be properly seated,” she replies. “And don’t call me that.”
“Mother dearest?”
“The All-Mother, if you will—”
“More like the lazy mother,” says my other mom, Kathy, who appears from behind the booth wall. “Milo, put your bookbag where I won’t trip over it, please?” She fluffs up her short frizzy orange hair, her patch-covered jacket jangling with metal pins. She’s so colorful, she could be the spokesperson for Lisa Frank, that old psychedelic line of kids’ school supplies. “Minnie, here I am doing all this work and you’re just sitting around letting your nails dry.”
“They are very delicate claws,” Minerva points out, pawing at Kathy like a cat. “And I was just resting.”
“Yeah, and I’m just breathing. I need you to put Captain America on the top shelf.”
Minerva tilts her head. “I could’ve sworn he belonged on the bottom.”
It takes everything I have to keep my mouth in a straight line.
When Kathy shoots her a long-suffering look, Minerva heaves another woebegone sigh and drags herself off her throne. It’s situated on a pedestal, a little higher than the table, and she has to gently ease herself down to avoid disturbing the Funkos.
As Minerva puts away the Captain America, Kathy turns to me and asks, “And where have you been? That was a mighty long bathroom break.”
“I kinda…”
“You said you’d be right back. We had a rush and really could have used you.”
I open my mouth to tell her the truth—that I’d accidentally wound up onstage impersonating Jessica Stone—but then remember the threat to never talk about it, ever, unless I wanted to be kicked out of every con known to humankind.
I don’t know if that’s even possible, but recalling her withering look shuts me up anyway.
“That was our agreement, that we would let you do your own booth thing with your friend for the rest of the convention—”
“It’s not just a booth thing, it’s saving a fan-favorite character from being fridged for the rest of her fictional life!”
“—if you would be here today and help us unpack at the beginning and tear down at the end of the con. Milo and Bran gracefully covered your shifts.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“So where were you?”
I open my mouth again, then close it—I suck at lying. Especially to my parents.
Which is weird because I lied so well as Jessica Stone.
“She came to the panel with me,” Milo interjects as he emerges from the back of the booth, pulling on a snapback hat. “You said we should do more things together, right?”