Be Dazzled

by Ryan La Sala

  My replacement.

  The betrayal is made worse by the fact that they did a good job. A really, really good job.

  Fuck.

  “Raffy, there are kids here.”

  Sometimes I don’t realize that I am swearing out loud.

  “My nose,” I say.

  “Fuck your nose?”

  “No. Stop. My nose is coming unglued. There’s spirit gum in the bag. Can you reapply?”

  May hastily unscrews the small amber bottle and brushes the adhesive onto the portion of my facial prosthetic that’s peeling off. It’s entirely due to the grimace I let contort my mouth just now. She holds it in place for a few minutes, and we’re forced into silence, which helps me clear my head.

  “Did you know what they were wearing?” I finally say.

  “No, they kept it a secret. But Inaya posted right before they arrived. I wanted to tell you, but you were so focused.”

  “Let’s just hang out here,” I say. “Then we can get to prejudging early.”

  May nods. She knows I’m not okay, which is why she does me the courtesy of not asking.

  Most cosplay shows have two parts. The actual show, and before that, prejudging. Prejudging is a chance for the judges to see the cosplays up close before you walk across the stage and get your actual score. The stage part is more for the audience—a performance—whereas prejudging is all about craft and deliberation. Usually the prejudges ask questions, flip seams, look at the undergarments. The goal is to see the work up close, like it deserves.

  This year, they’ve asked every team to show up at once for prejudging. It’s taking place in a closed-off hall, and we need to show our official competitor badges to even get in. Cosplays from every universe mill through the room, friends catching up as they recognize each other beneath layers of plastic, makeup, feathers, and armor. I see none of it. I’m scanning for Luca, but he’s not here yet.

  “Are they going to do prejudging in front of everyone?” May asks.

  “Fucking better not,” I say. Usually it’s more private. Just you and the judges. But this is more like a mixer than a competition. Everyone knows Controverse likes to change it up, but are the twists already starting?

  “Just relax, Raffy,” May is saying. “If you cry, you’re gonna lose your contact or something. And if you start sweating now, you’re gonna be totally ripe by the time the judges get up close and personal.”

  “Gross, May,” I say, but she’s right. I do need to get it together. I’ve already wasted precious moments letting Luca distract me. I can’t give him another second of my time.

  I used to tell myself that over and over: Don’t let him waste your time. But he did it so easily, and he did it so well. And for a time, I loved letting him.

  I suck in a deep breath and hold it, something I’ve watched my mother do when she’s about to lose her cool. I don’t know what she imagines, but I imagine that the breath is cooling within me, condensing into a spinning fog, then a crystal of ice. I embed the crystal between my lungs, pushed against my spine, cooling me from the inside out. This isn’t a place for emotions. This is competitive arts and crafts. It’s serious.

  “I’m cool,” I tell May.

  “Good, because I think I just saw Irma.”

  “Irma? As in Irma Worthy?”

  “Yes. Irma as in Irma Worthy.”

  Irma Worthy is the head of Worthy’s Craft Club. A crafting legend who took over the few Craft Clubs in Massachusetts and turned them into a national chain sprinkled from coast to coast, like sequins strewn across a map. She’s the mastermind behind Trip-C, using the competition as a vehicle to advertise for her stores, and she is my idol. My everything. The woman I am determined to grow up to become, then overthrow.

  When Irma enters the room, half the people start to scream, and the other half go silent in reverence. She’s in her sixties, with a face that looks like it was made to break into laughter. Dormant wrinkles give soft outlines to big cheeks, a big chin, big eyes.

  And her hair is humongous. It’s rumored to be a wig—a sort of meta-advertisement for the wigs sold at Craft Club—but no one has ever had the nerve to verify that. If it is a wig, it is masterfully styled and expertly imperfect, better than anything a casual cosplayer could manage. In a way, it affirms her authority. We cannot actually tell if she’s in cosplay, costume, drag, or just her Sunday best.

  Like fish, we slide into a school that follows her down the length of the room until we’re gathered in a tight circle. Irma talks with a few of the con staff, then turns her starry eyes to the room full of cosplayers.

  “Well, well, well, look at you. I do love getting everyone together.” She beams. “I figured I’d say good luck before everything got cutthroat, but looks like we’re already feeling a bit monstrous, am I right?” She claps for us, and the crowd cheers back.

  Irma can barely get her next sentence out as the cheers threaten to overflow the room. She’s not shouting, but her voice carries with the clarity of a lady who knows how to put on a show.

  “This year marks the sixth annual Controverse Cosplay Championships, or Trip-C, as you all call it. As it does every year, Controverse has chosen to partner with Craft Club to bring the competition to life, and we couldn’t be more excited about all of you, our fantastic cosplayers. We’ve also got an incredible panel of judges to reveal.”

  Reveal? She carries on while we murmur.

  “And, of course, we have our fabulous coordinating staff: clubbers from local Craft Clubs in the Greater Boston area. I’ll hand things off to the professionals in a bit,” she jokes, jerking her huge hair at the cluster of nervous-looking adults with tablets and earpieces, “but I just couldn’t help popping in to get a look at all your work. Now remember: measure twice, cut once, and give up never.”

  Irma exits to riotous cheers, and I’m breathless. I’ve been coming to Controverse for years, and I’ve been sneaking into her store for many more years, but I’ve never seen her. I wasn’t even sure she was real. Seeing her in all her dolled-up, constructed glory actually makes her seem less real, yet so much more important.

  The clubbers take over from there. A representative from Craft Club is always in charge. This year, it’s a tall brunette lady with a pixie cut and massive circular glasses. She peers down at us with bird-like apprehension.

  “Hello, everyone. My name is Madeline, and I’m the head of marketing for the northeast division of Craft Club. I’ll be handling operations and logistics with the clubbers these next few days. You all should have received the official rules and guidelines upon acceptance of your applications,” she says, doing away with all of Irma’s warmth. “If you haven’t had a chance to read the rules, I encourage you to spend your waiting time making sure you have what you need for today and tomorrow. Anyone who isn’t ready to compete won’t compete.”

  “Yikes,” says May as several competitors turn to their partners.

  Madeline covers the ground rules with the efficiency of a NutriBullet. I zone out. I know these, anyway. Controverse is known for twists, but the basic structure of the competition is always the same. There are two days of competition—Friday and Saturday. On Friday, today, there’s the qualifying round. On Saturday, there’s the primary round for the finalists. Quals, then Primes. Simple. Each round involves private prejudging so the judges can see the details and then a stage show so the general con population can cheer for their favorites.

  You get most of your points in prejudging, but the shows matter. Sometimes, a show can win you the title, if you do something awesome and the crowd loves you enough. That’s why people love Controverse and Trip-C—anything can happen, no matter who you are.

  And of course, people love the twists. Usually the twists are something like an absurd budget restriction or a strange material everyone has to incorporate. This year’s twist? Quals has a theme, Double Creature Feature, wh
ich explains the paired-up monsters all around us. There’s no twist for Primes yet, but we’re all expecting something to shift. It’s just the way Irma runs her shows.

  No matter the twists, Trip-C requires its teams to produce four separate cosplays. It’s a lot, even for two people. And May, while awesome, isn’t much for crafting, so it’s been mostly on me. I don’t mind the work, though. In the months after Luca broke up with me, work was all I had, all I wanted to do. In a way, it was the work that pulled me up, put me back together, and got me here.

  Still, now that I’m here, I can’t help feeling like something is missing. May is great, but my monster was supposed to be Luca.

  Madeline finishes her explanations. The clubbers pass around tablets with even more paperwork. After we sign, we’re told to wait until our names are called. I still don’t understand why they’ve kept us all together until May says, “Look, Raff. Cameras.”

  Sure enough, there are camera crews sweeping into the room, setting up. For a moment, staring into the dilated black cyclops eyes of the camera lenses, I’m reminded of my setup back at home. I feel the excitement of looking into that lens, that digital oblivion, knowing that someone is watching me back. Someone is noticing me.

  I don’t know who’s on the other side of this lens, and I don’t really care; tons of people are going to be photographing us. Still, the quality of this crew piques my curiosity.

  “Are they allowed to film us like this?”

  “Raff, there’s a photo release in the application. Our parents had to sign it.”

  “Oh, I forged that.”

  “And we just signed another thing on those tablets. Did you even read it?”

  I’m too scattered to read just now. I just punched through the pages and signed, passing the tablet off to May.

  Then the judges enter. I don’t recognize them like I expect to. They have a small meeting with the clubbers before calling out the first couple’s team name. I barely pay attention, because I’ve just now pinpointed where Luca is. He’s at the back of the room, and he’s watching me.

  Luca used to play this game with me. We’d be watching a movie or working, and he’d just look at me. And he wouldn’t look away until I finally looked back. I used to be so enamored by this; I loved looking up and seeing him smiling at me.

  But he’d do it all the time. At shows. While I was driving. While I was talking to someone else. And I realized after we broke up that it wasn’t about me. It was about him. He wasn’t admiring me; he was giving me a chance to admire him admiring me.

  I feel his stare now. As the judges call May and me, I let my robes billow, and I make Luca look upon what he’s lost.

  “Which one of you is Raffy?” one of the clubbers asks. I raise my hand.

  “I follow you on Ion. I’ve been looking forward to seeing this in person. And it’s—”

  Another clubber hushes the first. The judges whisper to one another at their table, then indicate that we should begin. I start talking right away.

  “For the Double Creature Feature, it was important that we pick a pair that was symbolically similar but not redundant in technique. We wanted to create a companion build that showcased needlework, and so we came up with the Spring Keeper and the Pinehorn from—”

  “From Deep Autumn? Holy shit,” one of the judges says, recognition hitting the panel. They sit back, awed as they mentally compare our grotesque appearance with its cutesy origin.

  I begin my rehearsed breakdown of the materials I used, the techniques I incorporated, and the time I spent. You have to be quick—most prejudging only lasts about five minutes so the judges can get through everyone and still have time to eat bad con food. To help them, competitors also bring build books, printed-out guides to their work with reference photos, progress pictures, and detailed notes.

  The judges get to ask questions, too.

  Where do you get your supplies?

  Did you drape the robe, pattern it, or a mix?

  How did you build the Pinehorn’s stilts?

  Did you design the embroidery pattern on the robe?

  Who did what?

  I’m prepared for all of this, especially that last bit.

  “We worked together. May is a talented illustrator. I’m good with sewing. It was a team effort.”

  “Well,” says one of the judges, “for a team, you certainly do a lot of the talking.”

  This shakes me, but I just give her a bow. “I’m the Spring Keeper. The forces of the deep forest are mine to command and care for, corrupted or not.”

  The judges are visibly impressed, both with the costumes and my in-character retort. They thank us, and we thank them. A hush falls over the other competitors as we walk back into the crowd of costumes. Everyone is staring now, and I let them, reveling in the weight of their attention.

  I finally glance at Luca. He is the only one looking elsewhere.

  Four

  Then

  Thirteen months ago

  I, Raphael Odom, a.k.a. Raffy, a.k.a. Crafty Rafty, have died and ascended to heaven.

  And by heaven, I mean Craft Club on a Sunday morning, when the rest of Somerville is still asleep and I have the whole place to myself. I practically hear the harp music sweeping over me as the doors rush open, pulling me into the bright, funky-colored universe—my favorite place, forever and ever.

  The store in Somerville is Craft Club’s unofficial headquarters. It wasn’t the first store, but it is the largest, at least for now. Craft Clubs are popping up all over Massachusetts, bringing an astounding variety of crafting supplies to a craft desert near you. They have it all: paints, papers, pens, fabrics, flowers, frames, scissors, sheers, cardboard, glue guns, heat guns, staple guns, and increasingly, cosplay supplies like thermoplastics and wig wefts.

  I’m here to grab more rhinestones, and since I came all this way, I might as well pick up a few other supplies, too, right? I could get a lot of my supplies online, but there’s something so inspiring about being surrounded by such abundance. So much material! So many projects in so many parts, just waiting for the right hands to assemble them.

  I like being here. And besides, I hate ordering stuff to the house. Evie has a camera on the stoop, and she’s nosy. It’s better if I just get what I need here and smuggle it in. For the same reason, I use cash. Untraceable, dirty cash. When it comes to Evie, the fewer questions, the better.

  Evie is…a lot of things. Just a lot in general. But most of all, she is a Very Serious Art Person. She despises anything crafty, and she especially hates Craft Club. In fact, it’s a hobby of hers to sit at Jurassic Perk, the coffee shop next to Craft Club, and bemoan the state of art as shoppers walk by, loaded down with bags. It’s because she hates accessible art. And the people who partake in casual creation? They disgust her. Hobbyists, she calls them, pronouncing it like it’s a four-letter word. Like if she sees one more DIY tutorial on Facebook, she’ll fall into a self-imposed coma. To a woman who is defined by her taste and curation, the very idea that people dabble in art without lofty intent is, by default, sacrilege.

  So that makes Craft Club the equivalent of a satanic temple. And here I am, her son, breathlessly rushing inside first thing on a Sunday, ready to go absolutely bananas in aisles full of horrifically accessible art supplies.

  I float through the store, turning into the seasonal decorations aisle instead of walking down the central one, where clubbers (the employees, dressed in branded, bright-magenta polos) hand out promo cards. (I have my coupons on my phone, like a professional.) I walk through shrines of glittering gourds and life-size robot witches cackling over cauldrons. One of the witches has been knocked over, and her top half has dissociated from her legs. As her head turns this way and that, it looks like she’s writhing on the white tiles. She is, quite literally, cackling her ass off.

  “Same, girl,” I say as I step over the twitch
ing witch and into the kids’ section. Surrounded by watercolor kits, I pause to review my list.

  I need:

  • Gems—Sea Foam Dream #6

  • Adhesives—E6000 x 2

  • Adhesives—glue gun sticks

  • Fabrics—netting for trawl shawl, 3 yards

  • Fabrics—crochet cotton lace (eyelash edges), 1.5 yards

  • Foam—clay

  • Foam—bevels

  I push my sunglasses farther up my nose. I’m sneaking—in disguise. I pop the collar of my coat like a cartoon spy, and I get to finding.

  Most of the list is easy. I fly through the fabrics first, knowing that’ll take the longest. When a clubber asks if I need help, I say, “No, just browsing,” as kindly as I can, and they drift off.

  I pick up some new scissors, since my fabric ones are pretty worn. I also get a few fresh box cutter blades. Then I start looking at respirators, since the ones they have here are much nicer than what you can get online.

  “Basket, Raffy?”

  I jump; the clubber talking to me is much closer than I realized. She registers the surprise on my face, and the skin of her nose crinkles, amused. She’s got a basket for me, and I smile thankfully before I dump the many items I’ve collected into it. The clubber gives me a wink before she goes.

  I heave my basket to the gem aisle, knowing I’ve already stayed too long. Am I really here so often that they know me on sight? I’m thinking about this when I accidentally clip another shopper with the corner of my basket.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, keeping my eyes down. I pass the individual packets, then find the bulk gems. I’m annoyed that the store is slowly filling up, and I’m annoyed that my palms are itching as I begin to overheat from carrying around this basket, which I’ve filled with too much stuff. Stuff I don’t need. Nonessentials. Indulgences. And now I’m rushing to find the one thing I actually really need—these idiotic stones. I pull the label from my pocket, checking the name, and begin searching for the exact color.