Darien Freeman puts his hands on his hips, cocking his head. It’s not adorable. It’s really not. “I came to ask the second-place winner for a dance, but I think I’m a little late, Princess.”
“It’s Princess Amara to you,” I snap back. “And yes, but I’m taking a moment. Alone.”
He puts up his hands. “All right.” And, miraculously, he turns to leave.
I close my eyes again, thankful for the moment of silence. Dad would love this ball. He’d love everything about it, even the crappy pop music. He would love the costumes, the intermingling of species, the heart and soul of people being something else for a little while. But I don’t feel like Amara right now. I feel exhaustedly like myself.
“Hey, that costume’s pretty amazing,” someone says.
Two minutes of peace—all I ask for is two.
“The details are so sweet. Was it expensive? Who did it?”
My eyes snap open. I glance up at whoever’s asking. He’s my age, dressed in one of the most ostentatious cosplays you could choose. Black robes, large shoulder pads, makeup that looks like scales. The ends of his adhesive ears blink purple and blue almost in time with the music. The Nox King.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean, what’s the name of the guy who made it?”
“It couldn’t have been a girl?” I ask.
“You know, I didn’t think I’d seen you around a con before,” he replies, as if that’s some sort of explanation. “Darien Freeman fangirl, right?”
“What?”
He scoffs. “Come on. You’re too cute to play dumb.”
I stare at him, suddenly very aware that Darien Freeman isn’t as far away from this conversation as I’d like him to be. I set down my punch, trying to work out the right words to say.
“For your information, the costume was my dad’s before he died, and my friend and I did a few alterations to it.” I don’t include the part where it almost got destroyed. “Actually, a few other cosplayers helped too, so you could say it was a cosmic effort.”
“Knew it.” The Nox King looks way too happy. “There’s no way you could’ve made that.”
“Oh?” I cock my head. “And why’s that?”
“Chill out, I’m not trying to be offensive.” He laughs. There’s a spot of black lipstick on his teeth, but I’m not about to tell him. “You just dressed up to get some attention and hey, it worked—”
“Excuse you.” I jump to my feet. “Starfield is one of my favorite shows of all time and—”
“You don’t have to try and explain yourself to me, okay? Fake geek girls like you always win.”
He turns away but in I grab him by that stupid tattered cape—why does the Nox King have a cape, anyway? I never understood that in the show—and jerk him around. He’s surprised for a moment but quickly turns angry. I guess no one touches his costume without permission. Well no one calls me a fake, either.
“You’re right, I don’t have to explain myself anyone, but especially not to some left-testicled Nox like you. Do you think you’re funny? You couldn’t even cosplay as Euci! You’d bring shame to every slapstick secondary character in the omniverse!”
“Yeah, coming from someone who’s just here to play princess, that’s a little rich, isn’t it? What’s wrong—couldn’t think up anything more original?” He shakes his head. “Poor little fake cosplayer—”
“Excuse me.” It’s Carmindor—Darien—back in his wrong-blue uniform.
“Stay out of it,” I snap.
Darien arches an eyebrow. “Easy, Princess.” I make a hmph sound, but he keeps talking. “I was just going to ask what episode you’re from, sir?”
The Nox King scowls, lipstick smearing over his teeth even more. “Episode sixteen.”
“Huh,” says Darien.
“What’s it to you?” The cosplayer crosses his arms.
“Nothing.” Darien shrugs. “Just that the Nox King doesn’t wear a cape in episode sixteen.”
“Yeah, so?” Nox King says. “I improvised.”
“Cool, cool.” Darien frowns, then taps his own shoulder, then gestures to the shoulder guard on the cosplayer. Now that he points to it, I realize what’s wrong.
“But what about the insignia?” Darien says. “Because I seem to remember it on the other side. In every episode. And it’s not a small detail. It’s pretty big, actually. How can your followers kiss the symbol of their religion if it’s on the wrong shoulder?”
The cosplayer opens his mouth, then closes it again.
“That is why you didn’t win,” Darien Freeman goes on, “because you were careless. Not because you’re a ‘real fan.’ We’re all real fans. This girl most of all.”
The cosplayer advances on Darien. “Yeah? Then who the hell are you? Her boyfriend?”
Carmindor Darien simply smiles in the face of the Nox King—how I wish that the movie revolved around that plot arc instead—and stands his ground. Shoulders straight but easy, his chin slightly inclined, a smirk tucked into the side of his lips.
I don’t mean to stare—and I’m not staring, I’m merely looking—but for a moment, in the dim light of the disco ball and the fog machines and the glow from the sconces on the walls, he actually looks the part.
Like…
“I’m Federation Prince Carmindor to you,” Darien Freeman replies, and the irony isn’t lost on me, “but also just a fan. Like you. And no, she isn’t my date, but now that you mention it”—he extends a hand to me—“I wouldn’t mind some fresh air, would you?”
I freeze, until I remember I’m part of this whole thing and not just watching from the wings.
Darien’s eyebrow arches higher over his eyelet mask. “Well, Princess?”
My gaze raises from his outstretched hand to the coy look glimmering in his eyes, asking me to play along. Okay, I’ll play along. I take his hand. “Only if I don’t have to walk through a Black Nebula.”
“Once is enough,” he jokes, and leads me out onto the balcony. “Let’s get on with our meet-and-greet, shall we?”
I DON’T STOP UNTIL WE’RE OUTSIDE on the small veranda connected to the ballroom. Two Vulcans are making out by the peach tree (everything in Atlanta is peach themed, apparently), so I lead her to the other side. Beyond the balcony, the city stretches out like a map of lights.
Princess Amara unravels herself from my arm, leaving a strange sort of hollowness. I brush it away.
“You didn’t have to step in and save me, you know,” she begins, retreating to the bench. “I can save myself.”
“Self-rescuing, are you?”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“I’m not disappointed at all.” I sit down beside her. “It’s just one of my pet peeves is all—someone accusing a fan of being a fake. I know about that way too well.”
She chews on the inside of her mouth. “Look, about that blog post…I didn’t—I didn’t think…”
“Please, you know you thought I was only in it for the money,” I tease, and her cheeks redden even more.
“I didn’t know you,” she replies. “I mean, I don’t know you, but—”
And there’s the problem. That’s always the problem, isn’t it? Nobody knows me. I should go back inside. I should tell Gail that we need to go. The meet-and-greet is over. I’ve done my part. I shouldn’t linger here long enough for people to snap photos and begin making assumptions, selling the gossip. Maybe she’ll get some TV host or DJ to pay for an interview. Cash in and get her five seconds of fame, like Brian.
But this girl seems nothing like him. And neither did Elle.
I clear my throat. “You probably know enough about me. I’m sure you’ve read a few interviews, watched a few talk shows.”
“The dunk tank one was really good.”
I grimace. “Yeah, that was a good one.”
“But…” She hesitates. “That’s not really you, is it? I don’t mean to be blunt. I just—I just don’t believe that the guy who stuck up for me back
there is Darien Freeman.”
“I assure you I am, Princess.”
“But that’s not Darien Freeman. That’s not—”
“The guy you wrote your blog posts about?” I finish. “Great pieces of journalism, by the way. All incredibly searing. Each one hurt worse than the last.”
She winces. “Okay, I deserve that. I feel like a complete jerk for it, and I’m sorry. But if you’re not that guy…” She starts to braid a piece of hair behind her ear, like she’s nervous, which is kind of adorable. “…then who are you?”
“Who am I?” I echo, surprised.
She nods. “We could, um, call it an exclusive? I’ll even redact the other posts.”
I shift uncomfortably, thinking of Elle and of what Brian said. In all our texting, I hadn’t been truthful to her—not once—because I was lying by omission. If I really valued her, cared about her, would I have at least told her the truth?
Maybe I can get a second chance.
“I don’t think you got me wrong at all,” I tell the princess.
“Try me.”
“Honestly? I’m…” I take a deep breath, looking down at my feet. “I’m no one.”
She tilts her head toward me as the eyebrows behind her golden mask scrunch together.
“I always thought I was no one too,” she replies. “But we’re wrong. We’re anyone we want to be. Anyone we can be.”
“Yeah? Do you think I could be a good Carmindor?”
The couple snogging in the other corner giggle, pulling each other to their feet. They stumble inside to dance out Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” and silence settles between the princess and me. We’re the only two people on the balcony. It’s so quiet we could be the only two people left in the world.
“My dad said that anyone could be Carmindor,” she says. “That anyone can be Amara. That we have bits and pieces of them inside us. We just have to shine them off and let them glow.”
“He sounds like a great guy.”
“The best. He…he died when I was little.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t…”
She ignores my apology. “This was his cosplay, you know.” She fondly touches the starwings on her lapel. “And my mom’s. They used to come to ExcelsiCon dressed as Carmindor and Princess Amara every year. ExcelsiCon was Dad’s brainchild. He had all these big dreams for it, you know? He would’ve loved to have seen this ball. He used to talk about it after Mom died. I miss that the most, I think, how much he talked about this con and this ball—a masquerade of stars, he’d say. I didn’t think he meant literally.” She elbows me in the side.
A ghost of a smile begins to tug at the edge of my lips—the first real one I can remember in a long time—and she begins to mirror it, but then it falters.
She looks away. “I know I wasn’t the best cosplayer at that contest. Did I get second place because I’m the old con-director’s daughter?”
I chuckle to myself, shaking my head. She can’t even begin to understand the irony in all this.
She frowns. “What’s so funny?”
“Princess, I voted for you because when you walked out on that stage you made me believe it.”
“Believe what?”
“What your father said—that anyone can be Carmindor and Amara. You just gotta find that piece of them inside you and let it glow.”
A flush rises in her cheeks. She looks down into her lap, where her fingers are weaving the ends of her hair into a million braids. Why does she seem so familiar? Not from the blog. Not from the office. From somewhere else. I’ve heard these stories before, played out at a slower pace, like a waltz unwinding.
I begin to open my mouth to say something when she jumps up from the bench and spins around to me, hand outstretched. “Do you want to dance? With me, I mean. Would you want to dance with me?”
Do I?
“Only if you lead, Princess,” I reply. I take her hand and she pulls me to my feet.
Her smile broadens. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
I LEAD HIM—CARMINDOR, DARIEN FREEMAN, WHOEVER—INTO the ballroom, into the crowd, straight to the epicenter. The DJ spins a new tune and the crowd disperses until only couples remain.
His fingers curl tighter around mine. The song is soft and slow, and with a shiver I realize it’s the Starfield theme song. Darien seems to notice at the same time, and he grins. “What good timing.”
“Sometimes the universe delivers,” I say, and then realize it’s true, though only in other universes.
“Maybe we’re secretly in a movie,” he mock-whispers.
“Maybe the universe just likes playing tricks.”
People around us turn to watch. Their eyes fall on us like laser pointers, as hot and focused as the moment I stepped onto that contest stage. My skin tingles, as though every move I make is the wrong one.
He lowers a hand to my hip and we begin to sway slowly. My cheeks get hot as the music soars. It’s full strings, the woodwinds, and the swell of an orchestra rising, rising, whisking you across the galaxy. It’s the sound of Dad dancing Mom through the living room, around and around, as she laughed and stumbled along. It’s the sound of Dad waltzing me through the living room after Mom’s turn is over, telling me about a grand ball, this dream of his, where for a moment—a breath of time—you’re the person you always dreamed you could be.
Like the Federation Prince, unafraid of anything. Like a daughter, living up to her father’s memory. Like a self-rescuing princess, dancing with…
My eyes flicker back up to his, and I swallow hard. “Do you even know how to dance?”
“Do I know?” He laces his fingers through mine, pulling me closer. He smells like cinnamon rolls and coat starch. “I am Carmindor.”
As the orchestra crescendos into the second verse we step out in unison, catching the note in one fluid movement; the ballroom becomes a whirl. We spin across the dance floor, around swaying couples, our feet in sync in this strange sort of cadence, as if I know every step he’s about to take—or he knows mine. Flickers of light twinkle around us, cutting through the fog that swirls in our wake. It feels like the entire universe orbits us in an impossible moment.
An impossible moment in an impossible universe.
What would it be like to dance with my Carmindor? The one I’ve bared my soul to? Would it be anything like this?
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking into Darien’s masked face.
“For what?” He leans closer.
“For tonight. For—for everything.”
“I thought you said you were self-rescuing,” he jokes, grinning.
“Even self-rescuing princesses sometimes feel like no one.”
We’re so close I can feel his breath on my lips, and my heart is tugging, telling me to kiss him even though I don’t know him. Even though my heart, battered and bandaged and taped together, is still rattling from the text a few hours before. But there’s something familiar in the cadence of his words, the way he phrases sentences, the way he articulates thoughts, like a voice I’ve heard before.
Closer, closer—
Then, as always happens in the impossible universe, the moment disappears. Someone grabs me from behind and spins me around. Suddenly I’m face-to-face with Chloe.
And she is not happy.
IT’S THE BEAUTY VLOGGER FROM BEFORE. She grabs the arm of Princess Amara—jeez, what’s up with me not knowing anyone’s name? Ever—and jerks her away.
“You!” the vlogger girl sneers.
“Chloe,” Princess Amara whispers.
The vlogger girl—Chloe—looks her up and down with disgust. “You did steal it,” she hisses. “I knew it. I knew you took my dress!”
A wave of murmurs ripples across the crowd. The music carries on but this Chloe is impressively loud, and the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise.
Princess Amara wrenches her arm away. “I didn’t steal anything, Chloe.”
“Of course you did! And now you’re dancing with him!”
She jabs a finger at me.
I hold up my hands. “Whoa, now—”
“Stay out of this!” Chloe snaps at me. I step back. Okay. She glares at Princess Amara, her pretty made-up face warping with fury. “You got everything, you know that? You had everything. And just for once—for once!—I wanted something too.”
“Chloe, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Don’t you?” she advances toward Amara, who steps back defensively.
I look around for a security guard—where’s Lonny when you need him? “Can we get some security over here?” I say behind me, but that only serves to enrage the girl even more.
She glares at me. “Don’t bother. Once you find out who she really is, you’ll run for the hills.”
“Stop it, Chloe,” Amara replies. “I’ll leave.”
“Oh no! Stay all you want! I just think you need to tell him the truth, yeah? How you’re an orphaned, friendless little worm whose father was a loser geek who liked weird space crap more than his family!”
Amara’s eyes widen and she freezes. Her mouth falls open. “Wha—what?”
The crowd begins to thicken, murmur.
“Oh come on,” the girl says with a laugh. “Your dad was weird and you know it. He was the cream of the crop in weird! He treated you like you were so special, just because you were bizarre like him. Like you were his only daughter. But did we hold that against you? No. And what do you do? You steal my dress. I worked hard for that!”
Amara snaps. “Liar!”
“You stole it! I’m sorry if you messed up your life, but don’t mess up everyone else’s. And now you think you can get with Darien Freeman?” She snorts. “Dream on, Elle. You’re no one.”
Elle?
I stand in the crowd, growing cold.
Her name is Elle?
The text message, Amara’s puffy eyes, the costume—oh man. She can’t be my Elle. She can’t.
“And,” Chloe adds, advancing on Elle, who, like a flower in winter, curls up, shrinking, “you never will be anyone—”
“Stop it.”
Chloe turns a wide-eyed gaze to me, not believing I’d take her side. Elle’s side. A part of me can’t believe it either, but not for the same reasons.
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