The Princess and the Fangirl

by Ashley Poston

  Why would someone like Jessica Stone want to trade places with a nobody like me?

  Her blue eyes slide to her assistant, and a silent conversation passes between them, like two best friends who don’t need words to communicate. I feel my stomach drop, as if I’m watching something intimate, and avert my eyes.

  Finally, Jessica replies, choosing her words slowly and carefully, like she’s stepping on slippery rocks across a river. “Because I need to be someone else for a little while, and I figured I’d ask you. It’s the chance of a lifetime, right? To be Jessica Stone.”

  Not only to be Jessica Stone, but to be a Jessica Stone who cares about Starfield. Maybe I can use this opportunity to my advantage. Do I feel horrible scheming about this?

  Sure.

  But sometimes you need to think outside the box to accomplish your goals, and thanks to the thousands of signatures on my petition—and the reaction at the panel—I know I have a community of fans who’ll back me up.

  I just need the actress who plays Amara to be one of them.

  I clear my throat, not wanting to sound overly eager. “It sounds too good to be true, being you.”

  “I promise it isn’t. No strings attached. Oh, and rule three: don’t talk about Amara. About her death. Wanting her to live. Whatever. That thing you did on the panel, you can’t do it again.”

  My face pinches. “Why don’t you want to save Amara—your job?”

  Jessica waves her hand dismissively. “It’s none of your business.”

  Ugh. I chew on the inside of my cheek. I’m not going to stop just because she can’t see a good thing right in front of her. Amara deserves to be saved—and what Jess doesn’t know while she’s off being me won’t hurt her. Besides, she’ll thank me later. I’m sure of it.

  “Fine,” I lie, crossing my fingers behind my back. “I won’t.”

  She lets out a sigh of relief. “Perfect. Besides, Ethan will be with you the whole time.”

  The nerfherder and I give each other the same look—a glower that could cut straight to the soul. I really, really dislike him. Like to a degree I don’t think I’ve ever disliked anyone.

  “And that brings me to the fourth rule,” Jessica says, looking between the two of us. “Don’t flirt with anyone.”

  My cheeks redden. “I—what?”

  “Don’t flirt. With anyone.”

  “Why would you—but I wouldn’t—”

  She levels a look at me. “And you won’t. Understand?”

  “Fine! I don’t know who I’d flirt with anyway.”

  “Darien,” she says, “Calvin, the volunteers, Ethan—”

  “I would never flirt with him,” I say at the same time as he says, “I’d never flirt with your two-bit clone.”

  “Clone? Well that’s rude,” I say.

  He clicks his tongue admonishingly. “And I want to keep my job.”

  Jessica snaps her fingers to draw our attention back to her. “Children, children. I need you two to play nice. Rule five, be nice to Ethan.”

  I jab a finger at him. Again. “He started it!”

  “Rule six”—she holds up six fingers, as though I need a visual aid—“you will wear contacts at all times.”

  I laugh. “Sorry. I don’t do contacts.”

  “My eyes are blue, so now you will,” she says matter-of-factly. “Rule seven, you will be nice to my fans but you will not take selfies with them outside of photo ops. Rule eight,” she brings up the finger count again, “no interviews without my consent, no signing things, no nothing. Rule nine is no soda. I don’t drink sodas.”

  “They’re gross; I agree.”

  She looks happy at that and holds up all ten fingers. “Rule ten: you are only allowed to be me at this convention. And only for this weekend. We’ll swap back on Saturday evening. No going out after the panels, no dinners with costars, no nothing. And you’ll never speak of this again.”

  “That’s hardly fair—what if someone invites me out?”

  “No. It’s my image, not yours.”

  “And what about my image?”

  She gives me a once-over as if I’m barely worth her time, and I feel very affronted. “I’m sure your image will be just fine.”

  “But I have con obligations, too.”

  “So is that a no, then?” She cocks her head. “I didn’t figure you as someone to refuse something like this.”

  Oh, she has me pegged. I huff, folding my arms over my chest. “You aren’t…wrong,” I say.

  “All right then.” She smiles and outstretches one of her manicured hands for me to shake. This is a bad idea. I can think of ten ways to Sunday why this would never work in real life. Only in K-dramas. Only in animes. Only in YA novels. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life, and it most certainly doesn’t happen to me.

  And yet…

  And yet here is Jessica freakin’ Stone on my bed, stretching her perfectly manicured hand toward me.

  What are the odds?

  Almost impossible.

  “What do you say?” she asks. “Will you be me, Imogen Love-true?”

  What other choice does my Gryffindor heart have? Who boldly goes? Who leaps before she thinks? Who rushes in? Me. Because I can still feel the shadow of everything that I’m not looming over me, and I can still hear Jasper laughing when I told him I wanted to save Amara. And here is Jessica Stone, unwittingly giving me the chance to do exactly that. To change the course of my community, of my fandom, of Princess Amara.

  Of me.

  And when I meet Jasper Sunday at 5 o’clock, I’ll enjoy seeing his face once he realizes I did the impossible. I hashtag saved Amara.

  “It’s Lovelace,” I correct, looking down at her hand. “But you can call me Mo. And even though I’m not important like you, I also have responsibilities. So if we’re trading places, you have to pretend to be me, too. I’m sharing a booth with a friend in Artists’ Alley, and I promised I’d be there.”

  Jessica pulls her hand away. “I don’t agree to that. I don’t have time to sit in some booth.”

  So she is hiding something.

  “Well then, no deal,” I say with a shrug and begin walking to the door. Counting the steps. I know she won’t let me just boot them out. She needs me for some reason. She needs to be no one. “Now please, I have a lot to get done tonight, movies to watch and Netflix to chill, so I’d kindly ask you to—”

  “Fine,” she snaps and marches up to me. “Fine.”

  This time when she offers to shake on the deal, it’s not in comradery. She looks almost pained. I smile and accept her outstretched hand.

  “I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship, Jessica Stone.”

  DAY TWO

  FRIDAY

  * * *

  “Starflame! I am not a Noxian Princess for you to save. I will be Queen, and you will kneel before me.”

  —Princess Amara, Episode 43, “From Amara with Love”

  AT NINE O’CLOCK ON FRIDAY MORNING, Ethan and I are dragging ourselves to the space-age elevator, still half asleep. I sip a double-shot dirty chai latte, hoping it’ll give me some sort of kick. I can’t remember what time I went to bed last night—I was up pacing and scrolling through Starfield hashtags, hoping no one’s realized that the leak is real or that it’s my script, before Ethan woke up and took my phone away.

  “Go. To. Bed,” he enunciated and flopped back onto the couch.

  I guess I did, eventually, but I don’t remember falling asleep.

  We crowd into the elevator, squeezing between green face-painted witches and home-sewn Viking warriors.

  I should still be sleeping.

  Though, miraculously, my social is quiet this morning. Blissfully so. There are some rude or derogatory comments, but nothing I can’t swipe away with a swift DELETE.

  It’s very cathartic.

  Maybe the rest of the weekend will be this easy. I’ll find the person who stole my script and I’ll put an end to it, and then Diana will call me and
confirm that Amara is well and truly dead.

  The elevator dings to a stop on the eighth floor. Imogen’s room is at the far end, just beyond the flickering light.

  I raise my hand to knock when Ethan stops me and pulls me away from the door. “Are you sure you want to do this?’ he whispers. “Think about it. She could ruin your career.”

  “More than I’m ruining it myself, you mean?”

  He frowns. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “I have to find that script, and I’m counting on you to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid, okay? You’ve babysat me my whole life. You can take care of one nerd girl for two days. It won’t be that hard.”

  He rakes his fingers nervously through his thick black hair. “Okay. If you’re in this, I’m in this—but at the first sign of trouble, we’re out. Swear?” He holds up his right pinky finger.

  I hook mine through his. “Pinky swear.”

  We kiss our thumbs and the deal is sealed.

  Ethan marches over to the door. He gives it a knock and Imogen appears. She gives him one quick look before diverting her eyes to me. Oh that’s harsh.

  She really does detest him.

  Though the feeling looks pretty mutual.

  “Oh thank God last night wasn’t a dream!” she blurts out in relief. “I was kinda afraid you wouldn’t come back. Not that I think I’m imagining things but my moms do say I have a pretty good imagination and some of my dreams recently have been super whack so—”

  “You’re babbling,” Ethan interjects.

  “Anyway,” she says tightly, “come in.”

  I follow her inside. It’s clear that someone else shares the room with her—two other someones, by the looks of it—but just like last night, they’re not here.

  She sees me staring at the two suitcases and says, “My brother and his boyfriend won’t be around much this weekend. They might come in to take a shower or something, but Bran’s a film nerd so he’ll be in movie showings all weekend or at panels, and my brother’s dedicated to him.”

  “Ah.”

  I glance around at her suitcase strewn across half of her bed. Again, just like last night. Clearly, she’s not a tidy person. But she seems to like space operas and fantasy shows, by the looks of the graphic T-shirt collection strewn on the ground. And she wears Converses.

  I pick up the SPACE QUEEN beanie on the nightstand.

  “It’s kinda weird, right?” she says. “How we got mistaken because of that beanie? It’s funny, I got that beanie from my—”

  “Artists’ Alley,” I interrupt. “Ethan got mine there, too.”

  “Oh.” As if Ethan even stepping into that area of the con seemed unbelievable to her. “Well, I was thinking we could just keep using it. Since it worked the first time?”

  “Someone’s bound to catch on,” I reply dismissively, “which is why we brought a wig.” And as if on cue, my assistant produces a plastic bag out of his satchel. “It’s brown, almost the same color as my natural hair, a good enough dupe if you don’t look too closely. I had my housekeeper overnight it from LA.”

  Imogen blinks at the wig Ethan’s holding. “You just have a wig lying about? That’s convenient.”

  “I bought it to disguise the awful Amara-red I had to dye my hair,” I reply.

  “And what about you?” Imogen says. “Will you cut your hair to look like me or something?”

  “I’ll wear the beanie,” I say.

  “Can you imitate my voice?”

  “I don’t see why that’s necessary—”

  “Because you’re going to be me,” Imogen says, startling me with the sound of my own voice. I’d forgotten she could mimic me so well. “So you need to be convincing,” she says, sounding like herself again.

  “To who?”

  She stares at me, blinking, and then looks away. “Never mind. You’re right.”

  I roll my eyes and fish an extra pair of Ethan’s glasses out of his bag. I’d popped the lenses out of them (promising him I’d pay for a new pair). I put them on. “See? I barely look like myself.”

  It’s not like she has anything to worry about. I’m a fantastic actress. I’m Oscar worthy. Pretending to go along with Imogen’s side of this switch should be easy enough, and I can just casually dip out of that Artists’ Alley booth and find my script.

  I swirl my hair up inside the beanie. “Okay, now let’s make you me.”

  THIS IS SOME SERIOUS Twelfth Night meets The Parent Trap kind of weird.

  Jess Stone and I are roughly the same size (I definitely I have bigger boobs) so most of her clothes fit me, even her shoes. She opts to keep on her boots, and though I’d rather stick with my dependable sparkly Converses, she won’t let me. Instead she shoves a pair of two-inch heels in my direction.

  “Heels?”

  She gives me a testy look. “What about them?”

  I decide not to bring up that time she faceplanted on the red carpet. It was the GIF seen round the world.

  Instead, I take the shoes and pray that there’s an ER nearby in case I accidentally wipe out on the stairs.

  We exchange everything—con badges, schedules, wardrobe—agreeing to change back by Saturday evening, before the ExcelsiCon ball. Although Jess doesn’t think we’ll need to switch places that long. She puts on my makeup and wipes hers off. The assistant—Ethan Tanaka is his name, apparently—reminds me of an overbearing German shepherd, the kind my neighbors used to have. Eager to please whoever feeds him and overprotective to a fault. He would totally be hot if he wasn’t glowering at me the way the Rebel forces look at Kylo Ren.

  Jessica checks her phone and says, “So the panel isn’t until two, and it’s in the big ballroom, wherever that is.”

  “The main stage,” I say automatically, lacing up my shoes. “I mean—I didn’t mean to correct you.”

  “Whatever. I don’t know the lingo for these things.”

  “That’s kinda condescending,” I murmur.

  “No, it’s not,” she shoots back.

  Oh, I can already see this is going to be a problem. I clear my throat and continue, “Okay, just stay away from my moms’ booth because they’ll know you’re not me in two seconds flat. It should be relatively easy to spot—just look for the obnoxiously huge Nox King, and that’s it. The con floor can be a little harrowing. It’s not as big as San Diego or New York, but ExcelsiCon has its own set of problems—”

  She cuts me off with an “I’ll figure it out.”

  I hesitate because, well, color me shocked but I highly doubt she will. “Should we exchange numbers at least?”

  With one hand on the door, she turns to look at me, conflicted. “I don’t think either of us will be hard to find,” she replies, and then says goodbye and heads out.

  Leaving me with her jerkface assistant.

  Whatever did I do to deserve this torture?

  He turns to me and says, “I want to be frank with you because I think you deserve it. You seem like a…nice girl, but if you do anything—”

  “Nice,” I echo, not even letting him finish his sentence. “That’s not condescending.”

  He blinks. “It was a compliment.”

  “Like the weather is nice, or your new pair of shoes are nice? I’m sorry, but I kind of take offense to that word. I’m not nice.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot like ten times yesterday. I’m Imogen Lovelace. Nice to meet you, Gryffindor.” I extend my hand cordially. Minerva taught me this move for jerks like him. Extend the hand first, act like the bigger person, grip tightly, and then punch your fist through his sternum—no, wait. That’s a Mortal Kombat move.

  To-tal An-ni-hi-la-tion.

  He looks down at my hand, then back up at me, then down at my hand again, as if expecting me to replace it with Edward Scissorhands’ finger blades.

  I narrow my eyes. “You’re a burnt Hufflepuff, aren’t you.”
r />   He takes the plunge and squeezes my hand firmly, bending a little so we’re eye-to-eye. “How dare you compare me to that marshmallow trash. I’m Slytherin born and bred.”

  “Ooh, you missed a good joke there.”

  He lets go of my hand and shrugs. “I’ll slither it in some other time.”

  I try not to smile, because that was not funny—and, I keep telling myself, think of rule number whatever—but he’s already gathering up the con ID and hotel keycards. I finish putting on my other heel.

  “To be fair, I didn’t mean to insult you,” he says as he slips the hotel keys into his back pocket and hands me Jess’s VIP badge. “I just don’t want to see you throw away her career. And don’t have any hard feelings about her not giving you her number. Unlike her costar, who seems to enjoy chatting with strangers on the phone, Jess has had a much different experience.”

  “Stalker?”

  “Well, let’s say that someone found her number and put it up on an unsavory message board, so…”

  My eyebrows fly up in surprise. “Eesh.” He hands me the badge and I slip it on over my head. “Okay so we have everything, but I think we forgot to…”

  He picks up the bag with the wig from the bed and holds it out to me. I can now see that there’s also a satin pouch—a contact lens case? “You know how to put on a wig, right?”

  “I’ve dabbled in cosplay,” I say, then I make a face. “I hate long hair.”

  “Jess has it, so you do, too.”

  “Can’t Jess shave her head?” I ask. “I’ll shave mine in solidarity—”

  “No. Now go.” He points to the bathroom, checking his smartwatch in the process. “Hurry up. We should probably be at the con by one at the latest.”

  “You’re one of those on-time-is-late people, aren’t you?”

  “You’re one of those always-late people, aren’t you?”

  “I’m mostly on time,” I mutter as I trudge into the bathroom and lock the door. I’m beginning to regret signing up for this scheme. I’m not sure what I thought it would be like—that I’d magically morph into Jessica Stone? Moon Prism Power Make Up and throw some glitter and just…be a celebrity? Don’t be ridiculous, I chide myself.