Be Dazzled

by Ryan La Sala

  “Sea Foam Dream, right?”

  It’s a clubber helping another shopper. The person I just bumped into.

  “Ah, here they are. We’ve got a few sizes. Anything else you need?”

  The clubber looks at the shopper, who is looking at me, but I am looking at the stones. The exact stones I myself am here to buy.

  “This is what you were looking for, right?” asks the clubber.

  “No. I mean, yeah. Thank you, I’m all set,” says the shopper. He’s as young as me, by the sound of his voice. But he sounds unsure, even embarrassed, and I don’t know why. The clubber goes away, and then it’s just me and this guy looking at the same jar of Sea Foam Dream rhinestones. As with almost all product labels at Craft Club, the face of Elizabeth Worthy, founder of Craft Club, mother of current CEO Irma Worthy and iconic wearer of ringlet curls, stares back at us with a warm smile. We return her inviting smile in silence, until:

  “Raffy, right?”

  I nearly drop my basket. What is happening? Why does everyone know my name? Instead of sprinting away, I face him. The first thing I register is that this guy is soaking wet. And then I register his smile, and the strangeness of his appearance is immediately eclipsed by the realization that I have never, ever, ever seen a more beautiful face.

  He’s got dark hair and dark eyes. He’s in some sort of sports uniform, his shorts revealing tan thighs brushed with grass stains, and slumping white socks pool around his narrow ankles. His tank top is tie-dyed with sweat. The tank clings to his muscular body, and he plucks at it bashfully.

  “It’s Luca. From bio?”

  At first, the image of this boy doesn’t fit, and then it does. Luca Vitale.

  “Oh, I didn’t recognize you. You’re so…wet.”

  “I play soccer. I had practice this morning. It’s why I’m gross.” He shrugs, and I force myself to blink rather than stare for another second at the sheen on his exposed shoulders. “I’m not usually this gross. Or wearing cleats. Or, I guess I do wear cleats a lot, and I guess I play soccer a lot, but, like…” He rocks on his feet, rambling, and I hear the click-click of his shoes on the tile floor.

  “Usually I shower right after practice,” Luca says definitively.

  “But today you went shopping?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “At Craft Club?”

  “Yeah.”

  “For aquamarine flat-back rhinestones.”

  He shrugs. I look at the wall of glittering plastic gems and pearls. I look at Luca, who appears to be uncomfortable in front of me but unaware of how out of place he is here in general.

  “So, I’m Luca,” he says again, smiling.

  I roll my eyes. “I know.”

  “And you’re Raffy.” A playfulness threads his brow, like he’s guessing. Is he flirting? He’s not flirting. People don’t flirt with me.

  “Sorry if I stink,” he says, but he’s not sorry. I know because he gathers his big arms across his chest, flexing so that the small muscles near his elbows jump. His skin glows. I’m blushing.

  “Yeah, I’m Raffy. And you’re fine,” I say.

  I’m used to guys like this categorically avoiding me, as though interacting with me is going to leave them exposed to whatever gay contagion I suffer from. This guy is doing it all wrong. He’s doing his best to connect with me. And he seems…interested. I’ve never received attention like this, but I’ve seen it in movies. By the way Luca leans in, I think he’s seen the same movies.

  I scramble for a question to ask him. I come up with: “What are you making?” I know I need to go, but I’m not sure when else in my life I’m going to have such a distinct upper hand. Here in Craft Club, I’m on my own home turf.

  “What?”

  “What are you using the rhinestones for? I’m looking for this color, too.”

  “I’m not making anything,” he says quickly. “I’m picking them up for someone else.”

  I’m a little let down. I liked the idea of Luca bedazzling something, like…a shin guard. I grin at this idea as I scoop up a bag for myself and then a bag for him.

  “You can buy a smaller package, but in my experience, they don’t go far. You’re better off having a little extra than not enough. Otherwise you’ll have to come back here all over again.”

  “I like it here,” Luca says. “It’s…fun. What about you? What are you making?”

  I am not about to tell this boy that I’m working on a lifelike version of a zombified mermaid who haunts a nuclear submarine. Instead I say, “Just a small project.”

  “For school?”

  “No, for something else.”

  “What kind of else?”

  “A super geeky else.”

  “What sort of super geeky else?”

  “A video-game-related else.”

  “What game?”

  I sigh. “It’s called Wake. You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s not, like, Call of Duty or something.”

  “Maybe I have heard of it,” he says. “Maybe I’ve even played it.”

  “Have you played the secret bosses on Death Mode? ’Cause if not, you’re not gonna know what I’m talking about.”

  His eyes narrow. He smiles smugly, like he’s got me right where he wants me.

  “Plasma Siren.”

  I give him the gratification of my shock. I haven’t even made it that far in Death Mode. I’ve just watched other people do the boss battle on Ion. Who is this person?

  “Wait, you’ve played against her?” I ask.

  “Nah, I’m just familiar.”

  He’s smiling like he’s got a joke I’m not in on. I find myself adjusting my basket, heavier every second, like I’m about to make a break for it.

  “I’m gonna go explore a little bit. Want to come?” Luca asks me.

  “No,” I say right away. “I mean, no thanks. I’ve got to go.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. See you tomorrow?”

  “What?”

  “At school. Remember?”

  “Right.” I return his fist bump. It is the most bizarre thing I have ever done with my hand, which, for a seventeen-year-old overly into arts and crafts, is truly saying something.

  As I pay, I keep my face down. I do this because I don’t want to be recognized again. I also do this because I cannot seem to stop smiling. I’m Elizabeth Worthy’s face on those labels, my cheeks drawn back into an eternal, glowing grin. Then, right before I rush out of the store, I turn. The doors sweep open, the warm air breathing into the cooled store, bringing with it the smells of dust and grass and water evaporating off pavement. I look back at the milling shoppers and the bright pink clubbers, realizing too late that I’m looking for one last glimpse of Luca. As soon as I understand this, I stop. I turn. I leave.

  “Hey.”

  I’m an inch from the door, and he’s there again.

  “Striker,” he says. “It’s my position in soccer.”

  He grins again, taking in my shock with satisfaction. Striker9 was the name of the person who bought me those stones.

  “You think you’re gonna need more of these?” he asks, holding up his bag. “Or are you good?”

  “I think I’m good,” I manage.

  “Cool,” he says. He smiles. I smile. The door tries to close, impatient, and then jolts open again.

  “I’m going,” I say.

  “So go,” he says.

  And, still smiling, I do.

  Five

  Now

  Con food can be rough. Usually at Controverse, May and I leave the con grounds to hit up a pizza place in Southie, a few blocks down from the convention center, and take photos in our cosplays as Southie residents look on in horror and text their group chats. But this year we’re competitors, and they tell us everyone’s got to stay put in the back hall, so we don’t e
ven get bad con food. People protest, but clubbers ignore questions as they separate us into smaller groups and take turns leading us out a back door, away from the main con floor.

  Luca and Inaya are in the first group. May and I are in the second group. The third group is kept in the prejudging room.

  We’re told to wait in a darker hallway and not talk as clubbers trade notes with the film crews. Whatever the other group is doing, it takes about an hour. May is allowed to remove her helmet, and people sit down. Then the clubbers are back, getting us up and walking us through the dark; the only light is the bloody glow of the exit signs. We pass by the first group of cosplayers going the other way, and all of a sudden, Luca jumps out at me. He whispers, “Be ready, Raffy.”

  Then Inaya drags him back and he’s gone, and my head is spinning with more shadows than the ones in the hall around us.

  Finally, we reach a door that says QUIET, SHOW IN PROGRESS on a whiteboard, and we go silent.

  “You two—you’re first,” whispers a clubber, pulling May and me forward through the door.

  May and I exchange a concerned look as we’re ushered into a dark passage beyond.

  We are about to be murdered, aren’t we? I ask her with my eyebrows and a downturned smirk.

  If so, let death take me swiftly—it has been a good life, she responds with a shrug and a dignified nod of her head. She puts on her mask.

  “Now,” the clubber whispers, pushing May and me through a curtain. “Good luck!”

  Then, like cannonballs hitting placid water, spotlights crash over us. We are on a stage in front of a crowd that responds to our baffled expressions with ecstatic cheering.

  “Can we do that once more, but this time, can we get the monster to enter second?”

  The voice is huge, blasted at us from speakers above the stage. The crowd murmurs, agitated. How many people are here? It must be more than a hundred, bigger than any Quals audience I’ve ever seen. Then, when nothing happens, I realize they’re talking to us. To May, the monster.

  A hand pulls us back behind the curtain. Someone counts down.

  “Three…two…”

  I think quickly, adding the clues together like materials. The film crew. The fact that Irma showed up personally. The huge crowd, the cheering, and the staged production. Controverse has a twist this year, all right, and the twist is that Quals has gone from being a con sideshow to the main freaking event.

  “So this is what that release form was for,” May whispers as I think, So this is what Luca meant. She elbows me, and I remember that no matter what surprises we’re thrown, we’re here to win.

  “One.”

  I’m ready.

  We enter, confident this time, moving across a wide stage. Cameras are trained on our every move. On instinct, I find myself posing. May follows my lead.

  The crowd screams until a voice booms over the racket: “Good. Now approach the judges.”

  The judges—new judges—are seated on a raised platform at the end of the stage, watching us with blank faces. And I realize that the performance portion of Quals has started. It’s happening right now. And if they’re doing all this for Quals, what are they planning for tomorrow’s Primes? I shut down my apprehension, determined to make it through Quals so I can find out.

  “You ready?” I say.

  “Fucking Controverse,” May says back, but with a tone of resolve that I know means she’s ready to rock this.

  Just like we rehearsed, we drop into a low hunch, then stagger upright suddenly so we look contorted by the corruption eating our skin. While May hisses and jabs at the crowd, I reach inside my robe for our secret weapon, a totally awesome prop I’ve been saving for the Quals show. It’s a hanging incense burner like a priest might use in a real temple, except I’ve fashioned this one to look like a hanging orchid plant on chains wound with ivy. As I swing it, the small vaporizer I’ve installed starts up, and we’re surrounded by undulating vapor and floating petals. In the lights, it’s nothing short of pure magic.

  Our illusion grips the crowd by the throat. They’re cheering “DEEP AUTUMN!” as we hit the raised platform, and the judges are grinning with appreciation. I’ve never felt cooler.

  We bow, letting them know that we’re done with our antics. Things quiet down. For a moment, I think we’re in trouble, and then that voice returns.

  “Good. Thanks. Person in the monster outfit, take two steps to your right, and then cheat left so we can see the wings. No, your other left.”

  Somewhere among the cameras, someone is directing us. They make a few more minor adjustments to where we’re standing, and the room goes quiet as we wait. Someone is giving notes to the crowd, instructing people to turn and face the front, rearranging so that certain faces are in the shot as the cameras zoom in on our outfits.

  Finally, finally, the judges come to life. It happens all at once at an invisible cue, like animatronics at a theme park. They beam and cackle at one another like old friends, and I’m able to see them clearly for the first time as the lights find them. They aren’t the people from prejudging. These are new, camera-ready judges, and I realize I recognize several of them from the cosplay big leagues.

  “This? We haven’t seen this yet today. This is fun,” says a man with bright blue hair and bright blue nails. They click as he flutters a hand up and down. “This is everything we come to this competition to see, am I right?”

  He’s Waldorf Waldorf, a famous designer. I recognize his inch-long nails, and the iconic contrast of his electric-blue hair, crowning the cool brown of his face. I just watched him get those nails applied on Instagram a day ago. He was in LA then. Why is he here? How is this real?

  “But is it fun enough?” asks a lady in thick-rimmed glasses. When she talks, she cocks her head to the right so that she’s looking at us down the angle of her pale, wide cheekbone. Her frizzy bangs bounce as she shakes her head critically. “Can you be an expert in fun? We’re looking for experts here. The best. And while I appreciate camp—Waldorf, you know I love camp—can this be considered fun next to some of the cosplays we just saw? I’m still thinking about that Bambi look. How can I care about this when I’ve seen that? That was fun.”

  “I’m not sure how you can care about anything other than finding scissors to cut off those bangs, but okay,” Waldorf Waldorf shoots back. The crowd whoops as the lady leans over, swatting at him. I expect her to karate chop his throat, but she’s laughing. They’re friends.

  “Raphael, which one are you, under all that makeup?”

  This is from the second-to-last judge, an older woman with warm, tan skin, who is in an outfit seemingly made entirely of loops and loops of crochet. Her hands gleam with rings as she points at me, her eyes on her tablet. I think her name is Yvonne. She’s got a super popular crafting channel on Ion.

  “I’m Raffy,” I say. I suppress the urge to curtsy.

  “And you’re the mastermind behind this look?”

  I glance at May, inscrutable behind her helmet.

  “We both designed it.”

  “You both did?” She looks at her tablet again, frowning. “Designing isn’t executing. Who built it for you, then?”

  “Raffy built most of it,” May jumps in, but her voice is barely audible.

  “I love it,” says the last judge, a man with the least amount of neck I have ever seen on a person. His head is mostly embedded in the mass of muscle that makes up his hulking back. Next to the lady with the rings and crocheted outfit, he looks like an interloper from an entirely different universe.

  And I know exactly who he is: Marcus the Master. He’s a famous cosplayer specializing in metalwork and armor builds. He’s known for winning Controverse years ago with a Viking-inspired reimagining of Optimus Prime, and he makes a living running armor workshops at cons.

  “Still there, Raffy? What about the moss? You’ve done a goo
d job of distressing it, but it looks a little muddy from far away. Some of that lovely, rich green is getting lost,” says the lady with the glasses. “There are higher-quality materials you could have used, I think.”

  I point at the moss on May’s shoulder armor. “Hypnum cupressiforme, a sheet moss.” Like we rehearsed, May drops into a perfect hunch and holds it as I go through the blooms rustling on her back.

  “Asiatic lily. Celosia. Alstroemeria. A few varieties of roses. Yarrow. Gypsophila. They’re all fall-blooming flowers. We planted them in the spring. The moss was easier—you can blend it up and paint it onto the fabric, and then it grows under the right conditions. We thought about airbrushing it for a better green, but we liked the idea of keeping it real.”

  “You grew those flowers?”

  “Not all of them. Some are made of satin that we airbrushed.”

  May strides to the edge of their platform to give them a good look, saying, “We grew the fungus, too. The itch is very authentic. Want to touch?” The tension of the room breaks into laughter, which breaks into applause. In a flash, Waldorf Waldorf has descended from the judging table, spinning me around to inspect the blossoms on my shoulder.

  “Fascinating,” he says. “Exquisite! I can’t tell what’s real and what’s artificial.”

  “That’s the point,” I tell Waldorf.

  “So how are they staying on? Does the moss grip them?”

  I smile. “No, sometimes we in the cosplay world just need to use a little hot glue.”

  Waldorf Waldorf claps for the small joke, and I take what feels like my first breath since walking onto the stage. I don’t relax yet, though.

  Someone offstage calls the judges, who nod in acknowledgment but never actually turn toward the cameras. The lady in the glasses is smiling deviously as Waldorf returns to his seat. May and I begin to leave the platform, but she stops us.

  “Now, you said you both spent the summer on this build, am I right?”