by Ryan La Sala
Christina appears, handing Inaya a large heart-shaped pillow, which I’m sure is meant to represent Sailor Moon’s iconic brooch. She holds the pillow aloft like it really is magic until Christina pulls some sort of string and the pillow explodes into confetti and ribbons. They pour over Inaya, creating a beautiful mess on the stage, and Christina does her best to gather up the excess and throws it into the air. It’s bafflingly silly. It’s amazing.
And then, the finale. On a musical cue, Inaya hits the front of the stage. Christina gets behind her, grabbing hold of the back of the pink costume. She pulls, and a seam along the chest pops open, revealing white underneath. She pulls harder, and all at once, the pink suit tears from Inaya, revealing the costume I first saw her in. Eternal Sailor Moon, who wears a simple white leotard and multicolored skirt. There’s no wind, no light show, no special effects, but in that moment, we are all standing before the moon princess herself, enchanted. Breathless. Chanting along as she transforms before our eyes.
And it’s not over. Christina produces sleeves, which she slides onto Sailor Moon’s arms. Then she ducks down to pick up something from the back of the stage—giant white wings—and I see it before she does. It’ll be impossible to get both wings into the rigs at the same time, like she wants.
I race onto the stage to help, reaching Christina just as she reaches Sailor Moon. At first she’s surprised, and then she’s angry. But then she sees what I’m helping her do, and she passes me a wing. Together, we spin toward Sailor Moon, sliding the wings into the rig at the exact same time as the music’s big finish. And Sailor Moon—or Inaya, lost in her character—seems weightless as she sweeps across the stage, as though the wings have released her from gravity’s grip. I clap as loud as anyone else, proud to be part of something so epic.
We’re asked to return to the stage in pairs, and the judges ask questions about what we’ve built, why, and how. It’s not like the barbed exchanges of Quals, though. It’s friendlier. More celebratory. I find myself actually listening to the other teams instead of rehearsing my own explanations and defenses.
When it’s our turn, Marcus the Master starts our judging with a standing ovation.
“You boys did that in twelve hours? I’m blown away,” he bellows. “The detail alone gave me chills. But the wings? Awesome work.”
Waldorf Waldorf takes over. “Luca, Raffy, this is quite the ambitious build. Did the two of you plan this out ahead of time?”
“Nope,” Luca says. “We didn’t even know we were a team until this morning.”
“But you worked so well together,” adds Yvonne. “Did you know each other coming into this?”
“Something like that,” Luca says with a smirk.
“How did you meet, then? School?”
“Actually, bedazzling,” I say. “We met bedazzling.”
There’s a rolling laugh in the crowd that doubles when neither Luca nor I indicate that this is in any way a joke. Luca takes my hand, riding the wave of excitement, and plants a kiss on my hairline. Camera flashes go off, and I have the distinct memory of seeing Luca for the first time a year ago at Craft Club with a wall of gems flashing before us as his smile changed my life.
When Waldorf Waldorf gets the crowd back down to a simmer, we’re asked questions about how we did what we did. Luca nudges me. “Tell them.”
I do.
“We split up the work. The wings promised to take the longest, and they needed time to dry, so we started with the feathers. It’s all done in foam, with a bone base of PVC pipe that slides into some plumbing equipment on a board in the back. The rig is made from a sheet of thick plastic, some nails, and those bendy U-shaped things you use to fasten pipes to…other things.”
Luca turns, and I point at the parts as I talk. Belatedly, I recall the name: “A two-hole strap!”
Luca does a scandalized gasp. “My name is Luca, thank you very much.”
I go red. Not blush-red, but candy-apple red. Heat-coil red. Magma red. I am amazed my skin stays grafted to my radiating bones. The crowd, of course, loves this. The judges politely pretend they don’t get the joke, which is fair. I have no idea what this show is rated, but whatever it is, I’m sure Luca just changed that rating.
I rush to slide off the wings, taking the reins back from Luca so I can show how easily the costume breaks down.
“Well.” Marcus sits back. “I think we know who the crowd favorite is.”
“But this isn’t about favorites,” Waldorf Waldorf interjects. “It’s about crafting and creation and, of course, overall cosplay. We’ve got a tough decision ahead of us, don’t we?”
There are nods across the panel. It’s time for the judges to deliberate, so we’re led into the crowd for up-close-and-personal photos with the fans. While a reverent line of selfie-wanters waits for Luca, Ginger grabs me for an interview. She brings me to the beading and bedazzling section of the fake store, framing the shot so that I’m surrounded by a wall of gilded strands and glitzy baubles.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod. Ginger stands next to me and cues the camera. There’s a pause, and then the cameraman counts her off.
“I’m backstage with Raffy Odom,” Ginger says. I plaster on a smile and wave. It’s very similar to streaming in the sense that no one waves back.
“Raffy, you’ve just shown us what you can do in just twelve hours. That’s both a long time and no time at all. How do you feel?”
“Proud,” I say right away. “Most builds take fifty-plus hours at least. There’s a ton more we could have done for this look, but we wanted to make sure we’d have something to present. I can’t even believe we managed to finish an entire look.”
“You sure did! You and Luca worked very well together. Is it true that you didn’t form a team until right before today’s competition began?”
“That’s right. I actually arrived thinking I was going to compete alone.”
“Why?”
“My original partner, May, has a booth in the Art Mart today. She’s a super-awesome artist. Her comic, Cherry Cherry, is going to be big.”
Ginger gives a dumbfounded gasp. “Big enough to give up a chance to compete live, on Ion, for the title of Controverse Champion of Cosplay?”
“Some of us have lives, Ginger,” I shoot back.
“Cannot relate, my dear, cannot. Though I guess we can’t all be beloved arts and crafts prodigies! Speaking of lives outside of Controverse, I was talking with some people in the crowd while you were working. There seems to be a rumor going around.”
I don’t let my face show it, but a bolt of panic travels up my spine.
Ginger’s eyes glint, like she knows she’s spooking me. But instead of putting up my wall, I breathe out and tell myself to loosen up. I can handle whatever she’s got coming. And because I’m paying close attention, I see the playful edge to her grin.
“Some of the spectators say that you and Luca have great chemistry. You knew him before this, right?”
My panic subsides, but it leaves me no time to think of anything clever to say. I end up going with the truth: “I thought I did.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means…”
What do I mean? Why did today with Luca feel so familiar, yet so foreign? I feel that same vertigo again, like I’m watching myself from the past. And it’s past Raffy that I address with my answer.
“People can surprise you,” I say. “I’ve known Luca for a while, but I learned a lot about him today. I learned a lot about myself, too, actually. I guess we just needed to be put in the right situation to…”
“To what?”
“To make it all work,” I say definitively.
Ginger laughs. A wide-eyed, shocked laugh. “Well, that’s quite the statement, coming from a master creator such as yourself. Is there anything you can’t make? Don’t answer that—we n
eed to save some content for our VIP subscribers. I have a feeling this isn’t the last collab we’ll see between Raffy, Luca, and Craft Club! But I do have one last burning question before you go. What’s next for the two of you?”
How can I answer this? How could I know? I used to think I always knew what came next. I used to think that my plans were as good as destiny, but that’s never been true. I’ve just always been determined, and lucky, and determined to be lucky. But you can’t design a future and expect it to just happen. Like art, you can only start with intent. Your hands build the rest.
What’s next for the two of you?
I’ve been asking myself this, too, in the very back of my mind. But I know better than to try to answer it for Ginger, or for myself. This whole time, I’ve been focusing on the broken pieces of my world, the shreds and scraps that fell away when Luca and I couldn’t figure things out. I’ve lived in that ruin for a long time. Only now am I seeing a new truth: that sometimes the broken bits are just the pieces you need to create something new, something better, something remarkable.
I have my intent. I have my hands. I just have to get to work.
Ginger is still waiting for my answer.
What’s next for the two of you?
“I don’t know,” I say, which is honest. “But if I know Luca, probably pizza.”
The joke is the right way to button off the interview, and Ginger beams with energy as she wraps up. She knows my social media well enough to rattle it off, and I throw a thumbs-up to the viewers.
“Keep an eye on this one, folks,” Ginger implores. “Maybe two eyes, if you’ve got ’em.”
The camera dips. We’re done.
“Good work,” she says. She gives me a hug. “We’ll reach out soon. Don’t quote me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if powers that be at Craft Club ask you for some follow-up content. Paid, of course. Keep an eye on that inbox, okay? And good luck.”
I barely feel the ground beneath my feet as I’m led back to Luca and the other competitors, who are being arranged onstage for the final scoring.
“Hey,” Luca says as he takes my hand. “You good?”
I give his hand a squeeze. I’m so far beyond good, it’s not even funny. “Want to get pizza after this?”
“Can’t,” he says. “You can’t either. We’ve got dinner waiting at my place, remember?”
I totally forgot about my silent vow to Luca’s mom. My nervousness must show, because Luca shakes my arm a bit and says, “Don’t worry. We got all the newness out of the way. After this, you’re basically going to be treated like family.”
The judges take their seats. Silence—or as close to silence as a convention hall ever gets—falls over the massive room. When the judges speak, their voices are amplified through the speakers, filling the vast heights with reverb as they tell us that we’ve each done a great job.
There is, of course, plenty of obligatory plugging for Craft Club. Irma is onstage with us now, too, holding a set of massive checks facing toward her so that we can’t see the names.
“Now, Controverse, I present to you your winners,” says Waldorf Waldorf. “In third place, we have Stacy and Liv with the Piranha Plant dress!”
Taco Belle and Snow White Castle, who I guess are named Stacy and Liv, jump up and down. I clap for them, because that dress was incredible (and that failed headstand? Chef’s kiss).
The room goes quiet in anticipation of second place being announced. It could go any way. It could be anyone. I hope it isn’t us, that we’ve pulled through to first. I cross every finger I have and a few toes, too. I want this. Badly. I want it for Luca, who gave so much just to compete. I want it for May, who’s screaming her face off in the crowd. I want it for Evie, who understands so little about me. And I guess I want it for me, too. I want it because I deserve it, because I’m a damn good cosplayer and crafter.
“In second place…”
Please, I pray.
Please.
“Raffy and Luca with Pantheon Oblivia!”
And just like that, we lose.
Twenty-Eight
Then
Five months ago
The morning of Blitz Con, I wake up from my first real sleep in ages. It should feel awesome, but the moment I’m conscious, I know something is off. The room is too bright and too quiet. How long did I sleep? Why did no one get me up? And why am I alone?
Pillows form a puffy crown around where Luca was asleep beside me. Inaya’s bed is empty, too, the covers peeled back precisely. Her little Totoro slippers are present, but not her.
“Guys?” I call out. Nothing. I check the bathroom, and it’s dark and cool, containing just the telltale humidity of an early-morning shower.
Who raptured Inaya and Luca? This is what I wonder as I try not to freak out, which is to say that I begin to freak out despite my best efforts. I text them both a bunch of question marks. I brush my teeth, because it feels like the normal thing to do. I watch my phone the entire time, jumping through the roof when it finally buzzes.
It’s just a calendar notification, letting me know that today is Blitz Con.
“Thanks, I know.”
I sit on the bed. I stand up. I sit down, this time on Inaya’s bed. That’s when I see the note. In sloppy, rushed handwriting on hotel stationery, Inaya has written: Breakfast.
The note was shoved under my phone. I just didn’t see it in my worrying.
I immediately feel relief, but then I reread the note.
Breakfast. With a period.
And why not just text me? Why are we suddenly in a period piece from the eighties?
The momentary relief has recalibrated me enough that instead of feeling panic, I feel intrigue. I dress quickly—not in cosplay, because the con won’t start for another hour or so—and put on my shoes. Then I make sure I have my key before ducking into the quiet hotel hallway and riding the elevator down to the lobby, where I know I’ll find Luca and Inaya sprawled out on the lobby couches, surrounded by a buffet of Dunkin’ Donuts.
Except I don’t. There are many people I can identify as con-goers in the lobby—they have absolutely no reservations about sitting on floors, it’s very funny—but not my con-goers.
I check the Dunkin’ Donuts. It’s busy, but they’re not in there.
I check the lobby again. I sit on the couches for a while. I send them another text on our group thread. Restless, I walk toward the con. Maybe they went for a walk, too? It’s a cool morning, but still warm enough to be in short sleeves, and Providence’s wide blue sky promises a beautiful day. My eyes seek out every potential hiding spot around me.
I make it to the Providence Convention Center, where crowds of people are already gathering against the barriers, their badges around their necks. I’m not wearing my own badge, and I’m directed toward the check-in booth for pick-up. I don’t protest, because an open spot is calling to me, and my con persona kicks in. I march up, unshowered with messy hair, and hand over my ID. I make small talk with the lady giving out badges. When she hands me mine, I ask, “Can you tell me if my friends are already checked in? They’re from Canada, and their phones don’t work in the U.S., and I don’t have Wi-Fi.”
She gives me a pitying smile, then glances to her coworker on her right.
“We can’t,” says the coworker, who I’m guessing is some sort of manager. “There’s an official meeting spot designated on the floor map, though. If they have a guide, that’ll be where they end up. Or at the Dunkin’ Donuts, god only knows why.”
“It’s the cinnamon sugar pumpkin spice latte,” says the person who checked me in helpfully. “It’s addictive.”
I thank them and wind toward the crowd. Just as I get there, the con must open, because a roar goes up, and everyone races through the barriers as they’re peeled back by smiling staff. Shit. My controlled crowd of two hundred people quickly d
isperses into the booths and the floor, and I’m lost in a sea of excitement, clutching my badge. I haven’t even put it on.
I walk around for as long as it takes me to convince myself I’m allowed to freak out. As I call Inaya, I realize I have already freaked out. I have freaked right out of our hotel, into the con, in civilian clothes and bedhead.
She doesn’t pick up. Luca doesn’t pick up, either. Inaya doesn’t pick up again, and this time I’m sent right to voicemail.
That’s about when I lose it, right near the beanbag chair booth. A worker offers me a free “sit” on a beanbag, and I accept the flyer and plunge into the pillowed interior of one of the chairs. I stare at my phone and commit to spiraling.
Something is wrong. So wrong. I was right. It was too much to imagine that everything could come together, that I could hold it all together and get us through this con. All the tension that’s risen up between Luca and me, all the disaster that’s come from our relationship and our partnership, is here to collect. I can’t hold it back any longer, and it found us in the night.
No, I realize, it found us yesterday. That call Luca had with his dad. I rewind to that exact moment and remember Luca hanging up quickly in the hotel hallway. He smiled too fast, trying to stamp out the frustration that was overtaking him. Trying to show me he wasn’t mad. A trick.
I push myself out of the chair and leave the booth, ignoring the person trying to sell me the chair. Anger thrums in me, because I know I messed up. I let myself be convinced everything was okay, that we’d get away with this, and now Luca is missing, and Inaya is missing, and I’ve been abandoned on the con floor. I had a chance to fix this, and I didn’t take it. I let my guard down.
I’m outside the con in seconds. Then I’m back at the hotel like I’ve teleported. Minutes have passed without my detection, lost in my fury. I ignore the chatty teens around me as I slam the elevator button.