“Oh, I don’t really play Final Fantasy. I just like the costumes.” Why can’t that be enough? How does knowing every line of dialogue or leveling up your whole party to ninety-nine make for a better cosplay? I geek out over the character design, but that somehow doesn’t qualify me as a real fan? You would think I straight-up drank Stan Lee’s blood with the way they’re acting. This is supposed to be fun. His condescension only cements my resolve. Tomorrow I’ll go back to Atomix, and I’ll show them. I’ll show every last one.
I’m wearing one of Quentin’s shirts, the one that says WAKE ME WHEN THE HUMANS ARE DEAD inside a mushroom cloud. I’m wearing a pair of Cooper’s jeans and a few swipes of his deodorant. A denim jacket, my cable-knit beanie. I’m wearing black Chuck Taylors, sunglasses, and a leather bracelet. I’m wearing dude.
Brody shelves comics while Why sorts through piles on the counter. I thumb through issues of X-Men, trying not to pass out. My heart is beating so fast and so hard I wonder if they can hear it. I’m looking for the paperback that will have Quentin’s costume, but I can barely concentrate on the spines. My head is spinning. Can they tell I’m wearing a costume? Can they see that I’m a girl? It seems doubtful, because no one asks me any questions. In fact, no one says a single word. They don’t even bother looking up. The shop hums with the quiet buzz of fluorescent lights.
“Where should I put these?” Why asks Brody, holding up a few issues of some comic with ponies on the cover.
“Girl section,” Brody answers, barely looking up.
“I’m telling you, you gotta get rid of it.”
“It’s helpful!”
“It’s not helpful—it’s condescending.” Even so, Why puts the pony comics where he’s told.
“Yes, it is helpful! That girl came in and bought comics, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, but I doubt—”
“Yeah, but what? I know girls get uncomfortable in comic shops. I’m trying to make it easier on them!”
“What does your uncle think about it?” Why asks.
“He doesn’t care either way. He likes that I take initiative. I’m helping!”
I swallow hard, my stomach knotted up like scraps of thread at the bottom of my button bin. He’s mentioned me. I’m standing right here, and he mentioned me. I guess my cosplay is accurate enough….If I’m anything, it’s thorough.
I’m floored. Brody is actually aware girls feel uncomfortable in his shop. I want to tell him that he’s the one making it uncomfortable. He thinks he’s being supportive.
“And you know, that way we don’t have to constantly hold their hand and help them find stuff. It’s annoying,” Brody adds. I roll my eyes; that makes a lot more sense. He’s looking out for himself first.
I keep waiting for the right moment, my cue to rip off the beanie and laugh that I’m a chick and they’re all so wrong about girls, but it hasn’t come. After ten minutes, it’s as quiet as deep space. Brody coughs. I look at him expectantly, but he just spits into the trash behind the counter and goes back to shelving. Boys are gross. I know where the book I need is, but the lack of interrogation is making me want to browse. So…this is what it’s like.
Finally. It’s just like shopping anywhere else. It feels incredibly weird that shopping in peace should be a novelty, but I relish it. I wander around the store, taking my time. Some of the single issues are stuffed into their boxes carelessly. Covers and pages torn and bent. I don’t know all that much about comics, but I know that no one wants theirs all dinged up. Everything is so poorly organized, with comics sorted by publishing house rather than alphabetically. And, of course, the ever-pastel girl section. Why is right: Brody needs to get a clue. He needs a librarian.
“Need any help, man?” Brody asks me. My shoulders tighten at the question. I look over at Why, but he’s caught up reading a comic. Ms. Marvel is the only girl in the shop with his attention. I take a deep breath, trying not to blush or panic. But a chill still runs down both my arms. I shake it off and answer.
“Nah, dude. I’m—I’m okay.” I feign confidence and turn my back to him. God, what if he recognizes me? What if my voice is a dead giveaway? It’s not exactly manly. I close my eyes, waiting for his response, but it never comes. He just goes back to work and leaves me be. I exhale, light-headed.
My fingers shake as I run them along the spines of X-Men issues. Once I find what I’m after, I calm down a bit. I won’t need to ask Brody where to find anything. I tuck Wolverine and the X-Men, volumes 1 and 2, under my arm. I pace slowly in front of the rest of the X-Men comics, not looking for anything in particular, enjoying the silence. I let out a small laugh when I see that Brody has stocked Essential Dazzler, volume 1, in the big-boy’s section. I add it to my pile.
There’s a display rack full of dice near the front of the store. I wander over and zero in on all the little plastic packets. Dungeons & Dragons has infiltrated my thoughts since I got the player’s guide. It’s fun to dream up new characters, but I don’t have anyone who would ever play with me. Unless I dragged Dad back into it. Then I would qualify as dorkiest daughter on the planet. But maybe I’d feel less alone.
I give the rack a push and watch the dice spin by in a colorful blur. There were some in my dad’s collection, but I’m missing that all-powerful d20. The twenty-sided die that decides your fate and so much else in D&D.
“What do you play?” Why asks, looking up from his issue of Ms. Marvel. It doesn’t feel like he’s quizzing me; he genuinely wants to know.
“Oh, um, Dungeons and Dragons,” I cough out, talking as deep as I can go without sounding like a cartoon. I check for Brody’s reaction, but he must have gone into the back.
“Really? Where at?” Why puts his comic down, excited.
“Ah, nowhere yet. I’m kind of a beginner.” I can barely meet his eyes. Sweat prickles under my arms.
“Cool, cool,” Why says, going back to his comic. He lets me continue browsing. I look over the dice, trying to find a good one. There are sets in tubes or boxes, but I only really need the one. I can’t believe I’m about to ask a question, to ask for help at Atomix Comix. I walk up to the counter, dig my fingernails into my palms, and ask, “Have any d-twenties?”
“Only a whole bucketful!” Why reaches into the glass case under the counter and pulls up a tub of dice. “Fifty cents.” I look through the clear plastic, trying to spy a good one.
“Here, this’ll be easier.” He tips some out, spreading the dice around so I can sort through them. They clatter against the glass counter like Portland rain on a skylight.
“Thanks.” I nod. There’s one for every color of the rainbow; some are swirled with iridescent, marbled plastic and white numbers; others are crystal clear. I’m immediately drawn to a pink one but think better of it in the moment. No more pink. I pick up a deep purple die, each side stamped with a number in gold. It’s translucent with blue glitter suspended in the plastic. I love it. I place it on top of my stack of comics, signaling I’m ready to pay.
“Nice choice, but you’re gonna want one more.” Why motions to the pile.
“For what?”
“In case you get a bad streak. Always better for your luck to switch it up a bit.” He tosses one of the dice over his shoulder and catches it with his other hand.
“Do you play a lot?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. Can he tell that I’m faking it? That underneath Cooper’s clothes I’m just this poofy-skirt-wearing girl? There’s no way he can’t tell. It should be obvious, shouldn’t it?
“We used to play once a week, but some of our players up and quit on us for, like, obligations and real life and stuff. People, right?” He rolls his eyes.
“Right,” I chuckle. I consider his advice and sift through the dice for an alternate. Not that I’ll ever really get to play. I’ll take all the luck I can get.
“Love your shirt, by the way,” he s
ays. There it is, my opening. My time to whip out my hair and stand in the sun and scream I am girl; hear me geek! But I don’t.
“Made it myself.” I hear the reply come out without thinking.
“What?! No flippin’ way.” His eyes light up as he offers his hand, his wrist loaded up with paper wristbands and bracelets. “I’m Wyatt, but everyone calls me Why.” I try to remember everything I was ever taught about firm handshakes and meet his palm with a slap.
“Cameron.” For a moment I panic. Why didn’t I think up a name? I had Cooper put a slight five-o’clock shadow on my face, but I didn’t bother to think up a boy’s name?
“You should get this one.” Why holds up a lime-green die, and I sigh with relief, remembering that my name is unisex. “It glows in the dark.”
“Heh, awesome.” I take it from him, and he rings me up. Sliding the shopping bag off the counter, I start to go. If he hasn’t noticed who I really am yet, I had better leave before he does.
“Hey!” he calls out. This is it—he knows. My heart starts pounding like a needle set on zigzag. “You should enter our raffle.” I’m so flooded with relief I turn around and walk back toward him.
“A raffle?” I ask.
“Yeah, if you win, you get a discount for the month and a whole bag of comics.”
“How much does it cost to enter?” I pat my pockets, knowing I don’t have cash. I never carry cash.
“Oh, um, you get to enter when you make a purchase.” He rips off a paper ticket from a roll and hands it to me with a pen. He fumbles and almost drops it when I take it from him. Klutz. “Put your name and phone number on the back.”
I fill it out and drop it into a red fez. There are about ten other tickets. I like my odds.
“Thanks.” I wave as I head out the door.
“Until next time.” He smiles. Looking over the receipt on the walk home, seems like he forgot to charge me for the glow-in-the-dark die.
* * *
I head straight up to our workroom and pin up pages of Wolverine and the X-Men, enough to get a full picture of Quentin’s costume. Turns out there’s nothing on the back after all. I can’t believe how easy it was, just showing up at Atomix and shopping. I felt so normal. My stomach turns as I realize that’s how it should be, for anyone. I shouldn’t have to suit up just to get some shopping done. But it works. For now, it works.
I take off Quentin’s T-shirt and lay it out next to his cardigan, hoping I didn’t sweat in it too much. It looks clean enough, but I’ll iron it before shipping it off. There are only a few days left. I get out an old pair of black jeans to alter for his pants.
I rip the seams and pin them into a leaner fit, making fast work of the alterations. I’ve turned many pairs of thrift store pants into skinny jeans for Cooper. I snip off the black fly button and replace it with a slick red-orange number from my button tin. It’s not technically canon, but I like adding little details that make my cosplays even more eye-catching. I’m planning on creating a belt to go with it that reads OMEGA-LEVEL TELEPATHS DO IT BETTER. It’s an in-joke: one I wouldn’t have gotten if I hadn’t gone into Atomix today.
Steam puffs out of my iron as I make sure every seam is crisp on Quentin’s pants. Finally ready, the pants get folded and packed, and I allow myself a moment of satisfaction as an empty cardboard box becomes the beginning of my first shipment to a paying client. My heart lightens, and I laugh. I’m really doing it.
Cooper did a nice job of sewing the buttons on the cardigan. I have more patches to add, so I leave it hanging on the wall. But the three T-shirts are ready to go, so after a quick pass with the iron, I add those to the box. Almost done. Tomorrow I’ll hunt for accessories.
* * *
“That dirt better wash out.” Cooper scowls while trailing behind me in the garden. I’m snipping kale, lettuce, and more nasturtium blossoms, and tossing them into a basket in his arms. I kneel in the dirt, still wearing his jeans, harvesting our dinner.
“It’s just dirt.” I whip a dandelion at him.
“Tell me about it again,” Cooper begs, recoiling.
“No one gave me a second glance….It was like I was invisible.”
“I would have spotted it from a mile away,” Cooper chides.
“Well, either the guy working there needs new glasses, or he’s too polite to say anything.” I add another handful of arugula to the basket.
“Or we’re really, really good,” Cooper says out of the side of a smug, lopsided grin.
“Or that.”
“Do the voice, do the voice again!”
“I didn’t ‘do a voice.’ ” I mime air quotes. “I just—” I clear my throat and think about scrubbing any soprano notes from my voice. A voice that’s still mine, but more monotone, a more sultry alto. “ ’Sup?” I ask Coop, deep and steady. He cracks up, lettuce leaves flying from his basket.
I fooled every single guy in Atomix today, and Cooper still laughs at me. It stings a little. I snatch up the fallen leaves and huff toward the house.
“Real nice, Snap,” I call to him over my shoulder.
“Hey! It’s good! Come on!” he yells back from the garden. I know he means well, but I’m not a joke.
Mom and Dad bustle around the kitchen, cooking in tandem while I set out plates and napkins. Cooper brings in the basket and starts rinsing the lettuce in the sink. In the summer we usually eat together. During the school year, all bets are off.
“Ew ew ew ew ew!” Cooper shrieks, running from the sink. “Slug! Cameron!” He stands behind me and pushes me to the sink. Watching him squirm over invertebrates cracks me up, and I realize it was stupid to get snippy at him before.
“Don’t worry, I got you.” I use my boy voice to make him laugh before washing the offending slimeball down the drain. No mercy for freeloading slugs. “All better.”
“What are you wearing?” Mom double-takes at my voice, and I realize I haven’t washed the makeup shadow off my jawline yet. I’m standing in the kitchen in a ribbed tank and my brother’s jeans. Cooper and I both crack up.
“Cosplay thing,” I tell her, and she clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes. This isn’t the first time I’ve shown up to dinner in some strange getup. Once I dined in full space-age body armor. She loves me, but I’m not sure she gets it.
“How’s the portfolio going?” Dad asks, carving up a small roasted chicken.
“Haven’t quite started yet. But I bought a d-twenty today.”
“That’s my girl.”
“D’aww, our widdle girl is growing up,” Cooper mocks. “Wait, what’s a d-twenty?”
“How many schools are reviewing your portfolio?” Mom asks, pulling out a chair as we all take our places. Always straight to business.
“I only really care about one,” I tell her, through my first huge mouthful of salad. Cooper is avoiding his, pushing it to the far edge of his plate, knowing what once lay within.
“Okay, but you’re going to see more than just one school, right?” Mom’s brow wrinkles. She doesn’t look at me when she asks. She thinks the question is rhetorical.
“I don’t know.”
“All that hard work…”
“I know.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a backup plan.”
“I don’t want a backup plan.”
“Well. Too bad, so sad, missy. There’s going to be fifteen schools there. You’ll go to as many as possible. And you—” She points a fork at Cooper. “I know you didn’t make that writer’s program. But that’s no reason to laze about all summer and—”
“I thought we agreed we would never bring that up,” Cooper snarls.
“Mom, he was heartbroken. Let it go.”
“All I’m saying is—”
“We know!” Cooper and I cut her off. She means well, but she has the tendency to take things too
far.
My phone beeps in my pocket: a text, saving me and Cooper from the double interrogation.
“Not now, you two,” Dad scolds us. We’ve been known to text each other during meals, classes, work, all day, every day. Cooper holds up his hands in a show of innocence: the text isn’t from him. If it’s not Coop, it’s got to be something bad. Liv is finally back from her trip, and she’s texting to say she doesn’t want to be my friend anymore either. Or it’s the Quentin client, backing out after scrolling through my old posts. He saw my very first, very crappy cosplay of Princess Leia—from Endor, not the bikini one—and now he knows I’m not good enough. I bet he asks for a refund. It was too good to be true. My phone burns a hole in my pocket as my mind spins around all the possibilities.
“Did you want to see that French movie, the arty one, you know, with the colors and stuff?” Mom asks Cooper. The two of them go on art-house-movie adventures together. I don’t have the patience for slow, quiet movies. Not unless the costumes are outrageous enough to make up for it, and they rarely ever are. My phone beeps again.
“Yes! I’m dying to see it,” Coop answers. “I’m trying to write something good like that, Mom. You know, something French, something like Breathless,” he sighs. I shovel what’s left of my dinner into my mouth and practically frisbee the dish into the sink.
“Dinner was great. Gotta get to work.” I try not to spit out any food and make a mad dash for my room.
* * *
I’m holding my phone, standing in front of my bedroom window, checking out my reflection in the black glass. I look a mess, caught somewhere between boy and girl. Long lashes, fake stubble, dirty jeans. I didn’t think I would have to decide—not so soon, anyway. I’m supposed to be spending all my time creating original costumes, so I wouldn’t need to go back to the comic shop for a while. Dressing up was a lark, a prank. I was supposed to be proving a point. But now it’s become a whole new problem.
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