I pull up pictures of Quentin, searching and searching for the one side of his outfit I just can’t seem to find: the back. The buyer wants Quentin from Wolverine and the X-Men, volume 1, and there are only a handful of pictures online.
In comics there are so many versions of the same characters spread across different issues and universes. You can’t just put on a black catsuit and call yourself Catwoman. Not if you want to do it right. Do you add the exaggerated stitching like Catwoman from Batman Returns, or do you go with the Darwyn Cooke comic version? The one where she wears sports goggles and a big belt?
I like to get as detailed as possible. Unfortunately, the same few images of Quentin show up no matter what search terms I apply. And all of them are from the front. This is my problem.
My problem that was never actually a problem until we moved down here. I can’t order that specific issue of X-Men online; it would never arrive in time. I need to actually go and buy it ASAP, which means going back to Atomix and facing the bro brigade. Suddenly the workroom is hot, too hot. Stifling.
* * *
Dad is hip-deep in a pile of weeds, socks pulled up to his calves, his floppy straw sun hat bobbing up and down with every yank. His happy place. We got our workspace; he got to retire and tend to his dream garden. It’s early summer and most of his plants are still young. No real produce yet, but more salad than I can stomach.
“Need a hand?” I call out to him, but I know he won’t hear until I get closer. It’s weird to watch your parents get older, and ours were already getting up there when we were born. Now they’re pushing sixty. Sometimes I wish that they had us when they were younger. Then again, Cooper and I might not have each other if they hadn’t waited. I pop a neon-yellow nasturtium blossom into my mouth—peppery and fresh—and wave to get Dad’s attention.
“There she is! Can you believe all these weeds? The nerve,” he jokes.
“So rude.”
The garden is a mess: tools everywhere, two huge piles of dandelions and morning glories, their roots already starting to tangle together into one huge, villainous, monster plant. The dirt underfoot is beige, dry, and hard as rock. Dad has his work cut out for him.
“Is that the mail?” I reach into his wheelbarrow and grab a pile of catalogues and envelopes.
“Is it? Heh, I must’ve forgot to bring it in.” He smooths his mustache with his thumb and pointer finger in one swift motion, leaving a smudge of dirt on his cheek.
“Oh my God, it’s for the National Portfolio Review. Dad, you can’t mulch my mail!” I turn the envelope over and over in my hands.
“Is that the thing?”
“The thing?”
“You know, the thing with that Jacqueline woman? The designer?”
“Dad!” I shout, frustrated. I’ve explained this to him dozens of times; I don’t know how he doesn’t understand it yet. “Her name is Gillian Grayson, and she’s a teacher at CalArts. She’s going to review all my work and—”
“Right, right, I remember now. She’s a designer too, though; I thought you said—”
“Yes. She’s both.” I rip into the envelope and let it fall to the ground.
“Isn’t it a bit early for that?”
“It should just be the requirements. So I can prepare and stuff.” I scan the letter with shaky hands. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks, checking the program’s website over and over so I could be the first one to get an update. This is the first, and it’s a doozy.
Dear Ms. Birch,
We are looking forward to your attendance at the National Portfolio Review on August 27th. Reviews begin at 11:30 a.m. and continue throughout the day with a short break for lunch. Representatives from 15 colleges will be in attendance, so budget your time accordingly. Your portfolio should include your best and most recent work, but feel free to show works in progress and sketchbooks as well.
You have chosen the FASHION/COSTUME DESIGN track. Your portfolio should contain the following:
Five original designs for characters that inhabit the same world, fully fabricated and photographed.
A reimagined version of an existing character.
Any relevant sketches or prior work.
Keep your presentation simple: the work itself is what’s most important. Don’t hesitate to contact us with any questions.
“How am I gonna do all this?” I finally look up from the letter.
“All what?” Dad drops his trowel and reads over my shoulder. He smells like fresh dirt and cinnamon gum. Dad always smells like cinnamon gum.
“Five original characters. Five? There’s no way I’ll finish in time.” Maybe if they had sent this letter during spring break, not six measly weeks before the deadline. How was I supposed to know?
“I’m sure you can use something you’ve made already. You have so many.”
“They’re all cosplay, Dad. All of them.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Cosplay copies existing stuff. Nothing I’ve made is, you know, unique.”
I knew I would have to make some original creations, but five? It’s impossible. Oh, and let’s throw another reimagined design on top of it all. This is a disaster. I’m going to fail, never make it to design school, never make it to Hollywood. I’ll be stuck here in Eugene the rest of my life, until I’m as old as Dotty and running Kozy Corner.
“I’ve seen you make a lot of things, Cameron. I know you can—”
“Everything depends on this. My whole flipping future!”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Dad. Okay look. This…” I wave the letter in the air for emphasis. He has to understand just how big a deal this is. “This is how I’m going to get into college. They’ll look at my work and evaluate, and this is, like, make or break.”
“You’ve got decent grades. Don’t those count for—”
“Hardly anything. Not for art school. Not really. This is how they’re going to judge me; I need this to be the best stuff I’ve ever made. A bad review means I’ll never get out of Eugene, and I have to get out of Eugene.”
“So, you’ll make your best work.” He ruffles my hair, his hand still inside a dirty garden glove. Like it’s that easy.
“I can’t come up with five new characters. I’m not Cooper; I’m not a writer.”
“Creating characters? Is that the problem?” He starts to chuckle but thinks better of it under the glare of my side-eye.
“It’s one of the problems.”
“I can help you with that. Come on.” Dad adjusts his sun hat as he marches with purpose back to the house. Dad’s not a creator. He would be if he ever finished anything, but when it comes to putting his big plans into action, they never seem to materialize. He’s a dreamer, total Portland-hippie type. I go to Mom for work advice, Dad for life advice. I’ll be impressed if he gets more than one garden bed finished before fall rolls around. He’s dependable, but distractible. He’s horrible at holding grudges; our fights are usually over by the time I can queue up a show to watch or a game to play. Mom, though? Mind like a steel trap.
“I know it’s in here somewhere,” he says, balancing on a rolling chair. I stand behind him, holding the chair in place. We have a stepladder, but that’s not his style. His knees wobble as the chair rolls a bit. He laughs every time he almost loses his balance. He lives on the edge, knowing that we’re holding everything steady underneath him—and I love him for it. He pulls down a box of Mom’s scarves and winter hats from their bedroom closet.
“I can’t copy from a book, Dad. I have to make it up myself. Or bribe Cooper into helping me.”
“You won’t need to with— Aha! Got it.” The next box he pulls down is decrepit. The cardboard is water-damaged, with packing tape that’s barely hanging on. I take it from him while he carefully dismounts. Loose bits rattle around inside. He
doesn’t need a knife to open it; his thumb slides through the tape like tissue.
“It’s been a long time.” Dad takes out a book, its pages warped by moisture, and hands it to me like it’s his third-born kid.
The comic-book-loving, superhero-crushing, total geek inside me gasps. Advanced D&D: Players Handbook. I run my fingers across the cover. Two thieves pluck a ruby out of a gargoyle’s eye. Flames leap up from a bowl in the statue’s enormous hands while a group of knights discuss maps and plans in front of a giant slain serpent. It’s totally badass. In that ultimate, uber-nerd way. That we-have-a-secret-club way. A code, a language, a game-that’s-all-ours way. And I want in.
“You don’t need to play the game, but there’s a whole system for creating characters. It might be a good place to start.”
“You played Dungeons and Dragons?” I ask. I’ve never played the game myself. Everyone I know plays games like this online. They leave the books and the papers out of it. Dungeons & Dragons has always seemed like the geek game I don’t actually have enough cred to play. I tried to look up the rules online once, and it went way over my head. I don’t think there is any one true way to play, and that’s intimidating.
“You thought I didn’t? Wasn’t it you who once called me the dorkiest dad ever?”
“Probably.” I thumb through the black-and-white pages. I don’t know how this is going to help me, but I want it to.
“You never know. Maybe it’ll inspire you.”
“Worth a shot.”
“I’ve seen you create some amazing things, Cameron. Seriously amazing. That giant sword? Come on, you’re a shoo-in.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“And why not? Forget the swords and armor and wigs. Look at you! When was the last time you bought a dress from the store? You’re going to sew your way right into their hearts. I promise.” Dad wraps his arms around me, and I want to believe him.
“Gimme a piece of gum,” I ask him.
“Here.” He fishes a piece out of his pocket. “Now, come! Help me battle the level-six tentacle-weed demon in the garden.”
We head back outside, both smelling like cinnamon.
* * *
I read about magic-users and bards. About rangers, clerics, and fighters. And the more I read, the more desperately I want to play. To have a group of friends gathered around a table telling a story. Creating and cracking inside jokes.
My chest hurts. I remember the last sleepover I had before the move. Sitting around on Liv’s floor, Jen playing her ukulele while I attempted to paint a purple ombré pattern on her toenails. Liv would sing off-key, and we’d all join in for the chorus. Would they have played D&D with me if I asked? Liv might have. Jen would have had performance anxiety, but she’d crack the best jokes.
I pore over the pages, trying to forget about Jen and our last painful conversation. Dungeons & Dragons seems more open than a video game, a way to play a game with real choices instead of the fork-in-the-road approach you usually get. Press A if you want to be the good guy, B for the bad guy. On screen, that’s all you ever really get.
I read about lawful evil characters who follow rules but twist them to be in their favor, not caring about the well-being of anyone else. Chaotic good ones place a high value on free will: they always intend to do the right thing, even if their methods are haphazard and generally out of sync with the rest of society. Choices, so many choices.
Page after page, I find myself more confused and more excited with every new rule and exception to it. This will help. I’ll roll some dice, fill in some blanks, and bam, five new and original characters ready to be costumed.
But I have to finish Quentin first, so I slide the decaying cardboard box onto a shelf in the workspace and pull out some contact paper. Quentin wears a lot of T-shirts. He’s different from most superheroes in that his “uniform” actually changes quite often. The client requested a specific one for his cosplay. It’s red and reads MAGNETO WAS RIGHT underneath a picture of Magneto’s face.
But I’m going to do him one better. Since Quentin wears different shirts, and the convention spans three days, I’m giving him three shirts. I’m that kind of thorough. I’m that kind of nice. Sadly, I don’t have a silkscreen—not yet, anyway—so I have to make do with contact paper and X-Acto knives. I print out the reverse image, trace it onto the paper, and cut away the positive spaces. Stencil done, the paint goes on.
When the first shirt is dry, I try it on underneath the cardigan. I wouldn’t dare do this otherwise, but my boobs are a negative-A cup and there’s no danger of stretching anything out. The shirt fits perfectly. I bust out our button maker and create a few custom one-inchers. I pin them on in front of the mirror. Maybe tomorrow I’ll dye the sweater.
“Whoa, I thought you were a dude for a hot sec,” Cooper says, coming up the stairs.
“This better?” I pull off my headband and let my hair nest fall over my face.
“A bit. It’s looking awesome.”
“I need you to stitch some buttons on this cardigan while I work on the pants,” I tell him, and gingerly hand over the sweater.
“A cardigan. You’re telling me a superhero wears a cardigan?”
“I know, right?” I check out my reflection again. The T-shirt is perfect. It doesn’t look handmade at all. I might as well have bought it from whatever store Quentin Quire shops at.
“What goes on the back?” Coop asks.
“Uh, I don’t think there’s anything on the back.” I pace a little.
“You don’t think?”
“Right.”
“Shouldn’t you know? What if there’s, like, a name on the back, or some patch or something?” Of course Cooper is right; I need to know what’s on the back. I can’t just guess. Not with money on the line.
“Can you go to Atomix for me and—”
“Hell no, I won’t. Where are your ovaries? It’s just one neckbeard—be brave.”
“Come on, Coop, they won’t give you a hard time; you’re a guy.”
“A gay guy. If they gave you crap, they’re gonna kick it out of me.”
“No they won’t. They wouldn’t.”
“Are you sure about that?” he asks, eyebrows arched, looking up from his needle and thread. Cooper is careful, and I don’t blame him. He was bullied—no, tortured—when we were younger. It did get slightly better as we got older, but the scars are still there, even if the wounds have healed. At least Mom and Dad never cared. Hell, they got a rainbow flag for the front porch and a Human Rights Campaign bumper sticker for the car. Mom begged Cooper to let her march with the Proud Moms of Portland at Pride last year. He acted embarrassed, but I think he really loved it. And, of course, I don’t care either; Cooper is my mirror, my alter ego, my best friend, my soul mate. Nothing could ever change that.
“No. I guess I’m not sure,” I admit, and he goes back to work. I pull my hair away from my face and glimpse at the mirror again. “I should wear this,” I joke. “If they hate girls so much, I’ll just go in as a guy.”
“Ha, show up as this Quentin character and blow their troglodyte minds with your mad skillz.” Cooper leans back in his seat, imagining.
“No, not full Quentin, but just, like, a random boy. I’ll wear this shirt, they’ll be impressed with the reference, and I’ll be all, BOOM! I’m a girl!”
“Let me do your makeup,” he demands, his smile practically cracking his face in half.
“Do we still have that wig?”
* * *
My latest costume lies at the foot of my bed, ready for a good night’s rest before its debut at Atomix. The wig doesn’t look right. It’s suspiciously shiny and the color isn’t perfect. It would work for a comic-con, where everyone expects you to be wearing a wig, where people would suspend their disbelief. And while I doubt Brody or any other guy in the store will be picking
apart my mismatched hair and brows, I want to look believable. Real.
My hair is short enough in the back that I could tuck most of the girly wisps under a hat. I ditch the wig for a beanie I knit over winter break.
I peek out of my bedroom door into the darkened hallway. The house is quiet. I don’t know if Cooper’s asleep, but I know he won’t come poking his head into my room tonight. He got sucked into some just-released indie documentary, and he’s plunked down in front of his screen taking notes. It’s now or never. Fingers shaking, I open my laptop and log in to my inbox. Nestled between the hate, there’s one message that doesn’t seem too bad. I open it, hoping for the best.
SouthBySomnambulism left a comment on your photo:
I think you need to try and understand. When you dress up for a con people are going to get excited. Especially if you do a good job. Which you did! I won’t begrudge you that. And then when you go on to win, over other people, other real fans, who actually love the games and shows they are cosplaying as, people are going to be pissed when they find out you aren’t even a fan. You just did it for the likes, and attention that goes along with winning. So you honestly shouldn’t be surprised people are calling you an attention whore. It’s what you are.
Why else would you dress up as Cloud if you’ve never played FFVII? Attention and fanboy-lust aside, I just don’t get it. Why wouldn’t you choose something you actually like? That way this won’t happen. And if what you like doesn’t get you the attention you’re after, consider why you need all that outside validation in the first place. Because real fans can see right through your desperation. Pathetic. You’re just pathetic.
Great. Thanks for all the advice that I didn’t ask for, guy. Yes, I dressed up as a character I didn’t know anything about. My friends love Final Fantasy, and I love a cosplay with spiky anime hair and a big-ass sword. So when we won and the emcee asked me what my favorite part of the story was, I didn’t have an answer. I told the truth.
Chaotic Good Page 3