The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(10)

“Both is good,” we say together. I sit in a chair while Milo dumps his Spider-Man bookbag in the storage area at the back of the booth. “Hello, Mummie. I see you finally finished your throne.” I point to the outlandish FunkoPop construction.

“A queen must be properly seated,” she replies. “And don’t call me that.”

“Mother dearest?”

“The All-Mother, if you will—”

“More like the lazy mother,” says my other mom, Kathy, who appears from behind the booth wall. “Milo, put your bookbag where I won’t trip over it, please?” She fluffs up her short frizzy orange hair, her patch-covered jacket jangling with metal pins. She’s so colorful, she could be the spokesperson for Lisa Frank, that old psychedelic line of kids’ school supplies. “Minnie, here I am doing all this work and you’re just sitting around letting your nails dry.”

“They are very delicate claws,” Minerva points out, pawing at Kathy like a cat. “And I was just resting.”

“Yeah, and I’m just breathing. I need you to put Captain America on the top shelf.”

Minerva tilts her head. “I could’ve sworn he belonged on the bottom.”

It takes everything I have to keep my mouth in a straight line.

When Kathy shoots her a long-suffering look, Minerva heaves another woebegone sigh and drags herself off her throne. It’s situated on a pedestal, a little higher than the table, and she has to gently ease herself down to avoid disturbing the Funkos.

As Minerva puts away the Captain America, Kathy turns to me and asks, “And where have you been? That was a mighty long bathroom break.”

“I kinda…”

“You said you’d be right back. We had a rush and really could have used you.”

I open my mouth to tell her the truth—that I’d accidentally wound up onstage impersonating Jessica Stone—but then remember the threat to never talk about it, ever, unless I wanted to be kicked out of every con known to humankind.

I don’t know if that’s even possible, but recalling her withering look shuts me up anyway.

“That was our agreement, that we would let you do your own booth thing with your friend for the rest of the convention—”

“It’s not just a booth thing, it’s saving a fan-favorite character from being fridged for the rest of her fictional life!”

“—if you would be here today and help us unpack at the beginning and tear down at the end of the con. Milo and Bran gracefully covered your shifts.”

I sigh. “I know.”

“So where were you?”

I open my mouth again, then close it—I suck at lying. Especially to my parents.

Which is weird because I lied so well as Jessica Stone.

“She came to the panel with me,” Milo interjects as he emerges from the back of the booth, pulling on a snapback hat. “You said we should do more things together, right?”

This answer seems to pacify Kathy. “I did. But I meant like school functions, not comic-con panels.”

“You should’ve specified,” Milo replies. But before she can chide him for back-talking, he turns and throws up his arms. “Bran! Right on time. We just got back, too.”

“Nice to see you, babe.” Bran Simons, Milo’s boyfriend, stands on the other side of the booth, laden with three bags of collectors’ items. He gives Milo a smile as bright as the sun, lighting a spark in his dark eyes. He is short, like me, and a little waifish, all ear-cuffs and close-cropped hair and bronze skin. He offers Milo the bags, careful not to disturb the meticulously stacked Sailor Moon collectible keychains. Milo takes them and heads to the back of the booth. Bran and Milo met last year in high school, in astronomy lab, but I think they spent more time studying each other’s astrological compatibility than learning about solar physics.

He slides behind the booth as Kathy attends to a customer. “So how’s your con going?”

“It’s going. You?”

Bran sighs. “I’m trying to convince your brother to go to a viewing of Demolition Man at three a.m.”

“Yikes. You know he likes sleep.”

“I’m hoping he likes me a little more. I like your hair by the way—is it fresh?”

“It is.” A brightly hued lock sticks out from my beanie, which I sheepishly pull off. My hair is normally a mousy brown, like Milo’s, but pixied. I dyed it just before ExcelsiCon. I like how the pink looks with my gray eyes. I don’t really resemble either of my moms, although Kathy carried both Milo and me. I look like the sperm donor, apparently. My brother has Kathy’s button nose, which I’m envious about.

Milo emerges again from the back, fixing his snapback. “Whoa, whoa, who’s contesting my love?”

“He is,” I say, pointing to Bran. “Demolition Man with your boyfriend at three a.m. or sleep?”

Milo wilts and looks pleadingly at Bran. “Uh, do I have to choose?”

“You can sleep in the theater.”

“Deal.”

My brother squeezes out of the side of the booth, nodding to a customer looking at the Dick Grayson/Nightwing collectible figurine—you know, the one with the really, really sculpted buttocks. Everyone who passes by looks at it. I look at it.