“You forgot skyway to the hotel for lunch,” Imani says drily.
“Imani! You were listening to the orientation!” I tease her, but it’s all in fun. Imani is excited to be here; she just didn’t need the floor-plan prepping.
“Last but not least, third floor!”
“No con activities! Go up for extra bathrooms if there’s a big line!” Siggy says.
“Excellent! You pass with flying colors,” I say.
Directionally, Siggy is hopeless. She couldn’t find her way out of a paper bag, but she’s as ready for this con as I can get her, and anyway we’re using the buddy system today.
We step off the escalators on the second floor and walk to the ballroom lobby area, funneling into a pack of people moving into the ballroom for the opening session.
ZombieCon! is being opened officially by Hunter Sterling.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” Siggy instructs me as we catch a glimpse of the huge screen hanging over the stage. Hunter’s character, Clay Clarke, stares out at the audience.
“Who needs to breathe when you can see that face?” I reply.
“Imani, slow down, June is hyperventilating here,” Siggy calls to Imani in front.
I’m not, but I did just bump into Imani because I was looking at the screen instead of where I was going.
Once we’re through the doors, the ballroom buzzes with voices and excitement. There’s row upon row, easily twenty or thirty, of padded metal chairs set out in three sections facing the stage.
Imani doesn’t stop to get her bearings or scan the rows of chairs for a group of three seats; she just walks immediately to the left, and then straight up the farthest of three aisles toward the front of the hall.
I don’t even question it. After practically my whole life with Imani as my best friend, I can say without a doubt: that girl always knows where she is and where she’s going. It’s like she has a built-in compass or GPS. And she never gets vertigo or dizzy either; even when we rode the World-Famous Zip at the county fair she just laughed and laughed and walked right off it like it was no big deal.
Meanwhile I was stumbling to one side or the other like a person with an inner-ear disorder who had just ridden a ride that should only be used for astronaut training.
I follow Imani through the ballroom, which is already almost half full with audience members, people with the same idea as us: get here early.
I spot a clump of other kids from school as well as our English teacher, Ms. Guillory. Judging by the bright red shirts just past them, there’s also a bunch of college students from Georgia State here.
A zombie-fied group of cheerleaders, six guys and girls in ripped and stained cheerleader clothes and zombie makeup, stand on their seats in front of the red-shirts and lead a UGA cheer.
I’m surprised at how close Imani is getting us, and I turn and stare across the room at the other two sections of seats, which are fuller. Will our view be blocked? Why are these seats not as crowded?
Imani gets us in what feels like the thirteenth row, not bad at all, especially when you consider that the first five rows of each section are reserved for VIP badge holders and official photographers.
“Wow, Imani, got magic much?” Siggy says as we sit. “How’d you know these seats were here?”
“Disney trick,” she says, flashing a shy smile at us. “Always cut left as far as you can.”
Imani’s family is amazing. Her mother, Naomi, is an aerospace engineer, and her dad, Sejun, is a history professor. Because of the nearby army arsenal and all the civilian contractors that work with them, they moved up here for Naomi’s job from Florida when Imani was a baby. But when they lived in Florida, they fell in love with Disney World. And I mean, they are fanatics—they go at least once a year. Their house is this faintly ridiculous but also cool combination of museum reproductions and Disney World figurines.
Naomi is African American and is gorgeous like Imani—but Naomi has darker brown skin and wears her hair in a tight, short afro. She looks like a high-fashion model, too, with her style. Vibrant colors and what she calls “accent pieces,” which means the most perfect-looking, distinctive piece of jewelry you ever saw. She’s an amateur genealogist and has traced one branch of her family back to Kenya, so she’s collected a lot of jewelry from there: beautiful, bright beadwork or carved wood pieces.
Imani’s dad is just as good-looking, for a dad. He’s Korean American, and currently teaches at Emory. He’s an avid video gamer and it was probably through watching play-throughs with him that Tishala got into her sci-fi cosplays in the first place.
Fortunately, Imani’s dad thought that the cosplay stuff was amazing, and he gave Tishala her first camera setup. Now Tish constantly works on her photos, planning them, building the costumes, props, and looks, and pestering anyone around (usually Imani) into helping.
Next to me, Siggy flops into her seat.
“These seats are great! See, I didn’t ruin everything!” Siggy says, and she smiles at me and Imani, a happy, relieved-of-guilt look in her eyes.
“Well, it was a close call,” I grumble. Because really.
Siggy leans into me, then puts her head on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Maybe. Since you’re cute.”
Which, hand to God, she is. And she’s so narrow. As in her actual bone structure is slender.
Elfin. She’s built like a twig.
A really cute twig.
“Why were you late anyway?” Imani asks Siggy, across my lap. “Did Mark hear about the early decision?”
The big drama of Siggy’s life currently is whether or not she and Mark will end up at the same college next year. They’ve both applied early decision to Oglethorpe. Siggy is sure to get in. Mark . . . maybe not.
Siggy shakes her head. Instead she sits up and pulls on a lock of her hair, stroking it while tipping her chin down and looking at us through the tops of her eyes. Her eyebrows waggle.
“Forget I asked,” Imani says. Her tone more resigned than annoyed.
She has more patience than me when it comes to Mark and Siggy.
“Seriously?” My voice is harsh, because now I’m a bit mad.
Annoying Mark Annoying Carson.
“Yeah, but when you fall in love, you’ll understand,” Siggy says, immediately defensive.
Imani puts a hand on my shoulder as she feels me bunching up.
“It’s okay,” Imani says. “She didn’t mean it that way.”
Siggy immediately turns doll-wide eyes at me. “Did that sound bad? I didn’t mean it like that!”