The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(25)

I can only guess that belongs to Imogen’s friend—and then I realize her friend will know I’m not Imogen. Did Imogen plan this as some sort of humiliating stunt to— A young woman ducks out from behind the artwork and sits down and my mind just— Well.

It blanks.

My mind never blanks.

She is very pretty, with delicate features, brown skin, and natural hair pulled into twin puffs on the sides of her head. She’s wearing a yellow dress with some sort of star design—when I look closer I realize it’s the Starfield logo.

Can’t one person not like this franchise? Based on the fact that she’s Imogen’s friend, I want to think she’s Team Save Amara, and so she likes me—I mean, Jessica Stone. But what if she doesn’t?

What if she says she does but she’s really one of those people leaving hateful comments on my posts— She gives a start when she realizes I’m standing in front of the booth like a weirdo. “Oh! Sorry! Wow, hi!” she says, putting down her breakfast burrito. “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person! It’s Harper—I mean, I know you know I’m Harper, but…This is so nice, you know, meeting in person. Anyway, I’m babbling!” She laughs, loud and sweet, and smiles at me, her hand outstretched. Each of her long fingers glitters with midi rings and normal rings, her nails a polished and pointed teal. “Hi.”

Oh.

Imogen and Harper have never actually met. That must be why Imogen wasn’t afraid of me meeting her. They’re internet friends. It’s like a balloon pops in my chest and I can breathe again.

I grab her hand and shake it. “It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m—I’m Imogen.”

She smiles, as if my hesitation is just nervousness. “I know.” She sits back down, and I take the chair beside her. “Burrito?”

“Um, no thanks.” I push up my glasses self-consciously.

“You sure? I got them from the Magic Pumpkin. I just had to see what it was all about. It’s pretty good, you know, for vegan.”

“Ah.” Dare’s girlfriend’s food truck.

“Oh! And I’ve given away a ton of your pins,” she adds, nodding to my side of the table.

“What?”

“Your pins.”

My pins?

That’s when I notice them on the table, along with an iPad to sign a petition and ribbons to stick on the bottom of your con badge, all sporting the same phrase: #SaveAmara.

A cold feeling grips my stomach. I grab the iPad and navigate to the petition page and feel myself spiraling. The Save Amara initiative.

“She started this…,” I whisper. Harper hears me and leans over.

“Oh yeah, you’ve got, like, fifty new signatures.”

I quickly flick off the screen. Imogen Lovelace is the creator of the Save Amara initiative and didn’t even tell me? It all makes sense though. Her giving me that pin yesterday in the restroom. Speaking out on the panel.

Wanting to be me.

Everything’s fine, I remind myself. Ethan won’t let her do anything. But the other half of my brain is screaming that my worst enemy is running around pretending to be me. And I can’t do anything about it. Not right now.

Because at any moment the next scene could be leaked, maybe a page with my name in the corner and an irreparable spoiler that will get me blacklisted from every studio in Hollywood. Not to mention that I’ll get sued for violating my NDA, doxxed by angry nerds. And I’m stuck here wasting time at her ridiculous #SaveAmara booth!

What if Diana drops me?

What if I never—

Stop. Breathe.

After she finishes her burrito, Harper looks over at me. “Are you okay? You seem a little…”

Weird? Different? Not who you thought your internet friend was?

I wonder briefly how Imogen and Harper met in the first place.

A pretty big clue is the copious amount of fanart of Princess Amara in the arms of various characters—men and women—that hangs on the corkboard behind us. The prints on the table tout pairings from Steven Universe and Voltron and Harry Potter and some video-game artwork with a guy in a twirly mustache and bull-looking humanoid creature. And me. Have I mentioned there are drawings of me? Well, me as Princess Amara, but still. I’m sure I don’t understand any of it. Why is everyone into these bizarre pairings?

“Okay, so fess up. You’re secretly a Caruci shipper, aren’t you?”

“A what?”

“Carmindor and Euci. The slash. Don’t play coy. I’ve been watching you check out my artwork. I thought you were a Carminara girl.”

A…what?

“Carine?” she goes on. “Zoruchi? Amaruci? Zomara? Oh please say it isn’t so.” And then, as if a secret question, “Sondara?”

Is she speaking in tongues?

“I…ah…”

“You can hide behind your Carmindor and Amara, but I see you.” As if that settles things, she pulls out a sketchbook and a mechanical pencil from her bag and then turns to a page with a half-finished drawing of two men in Sailor Scout uniforms. She looks up, her dark eyes rimmed with kohl and gold. I feel naked without my makeup. Unprotected.

Come on, you’re an Oscar-nominated actress. Play your role!

“I’m Carminara all the way,” I reply smoothly, pushing Ethan’s glasses up the bridge of my nose like I’d seen him do a thousand times when he’s confident about something. “I…stan Darien.”