Geekerella (Starfield #1)(50)

I want to believe.

—

BATTERY PARK IS ALREADY TEEMING WITH tourists and horse-drawn carriage tours by the time I race to the truck. Sage doesn’t even glance up when I come in, wiping her paring knife on her apron. Today her hair’s pulled back with a polka-dotted bandana, her lips a dark, deep purple-black.

“I began to think your stepmom actually cut you up into her salad,” she says.

“It’s only a matter of time,” I reply, dumping my bag in the corner of the truck and grabbing my apron from my peg. I tie it around my waist and pull my hair into a Magic Pumpkin cap. “So my friends online said that you can make the crown and badges with something called Wonderflex.”

“Wonderflex.”

“Yeah, and we need a heat gun. Or a hair dryer.”

“I figured as much.” Sage gives a grim nod. Beside her, Frank the Tank sits happily on his little mat on the counter, wagging his tail at all the tourists. A little kid comes up and pets him under the chin, and he gives her a big lick. She runs away screaming.

Sage just keeps chopping. I retie my apron, bunching it into knots. “Or we could skip the crown. I mean, people take cosplay super seriously. They’ve been doing this for years and we’re…”

“We’re what?” Sage stops chopping and puts her hands on her hips. “Rookies? Because last I heard, Carmindor was a total rookie before he survived the Brinx Devastation.”

“You can’t compare a cosplay competition to the destruction of an entire colony.”

She rolls her eyes, pulling the plastic gloves higher on her hands. “Look, don’t you want to win?”

I hesitate, scrubbing Franco behind the ears. “We’ll be posers.”

“Why, because we’re new? So everyone who tries something for the first time’s a poser? Come on, Elle, that’s crazy.”

“But what if…” I bite my cheek as I dump a batch of fritters into the fryer beside the sweet potato fries. They hiss and spit like vipers. “What if we are posers?”

“Impossible. You’re the most Starfield person I know,” Sage says. “And besides, you’re allowed to try new things, Elle. You’re allowed to test the waters. Don’t you want to try?”

Try. I want to try a lot of things. I want to go to the convention. I want to cosplay. I want to pretend that I have some modicum of courage in me, like Carmindor. What if Car is at the convention? What if he’s in the competition too?

And then I realize I’m not thinking about cosplay anymore.

“Well then, what do you want?

I half-shrug, half-wince. “I want something…I don’t think I can have.”

“Like what?”

Maybe we should start looking up together, ah’blena.

I don’t know how to answer, so I just shrug, shaking the fries to loosen them out of the basket. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sage shrugs and flaps a tired hand at me. “Fine, whatever.” Chopping done, she pulls out the costume from underneath the counter, along with a pincushion and thread that matches the deep blue of Carmindor’s jacket, and threads the string through the needle. “It’s that guy, isn’t it? The one you’re texting.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I repeat.

“You never want to talk about anything!” she says. “Come on, if you can’t talk to me, who can you talk to? Why don’t can’t you just confide in me? Just rant! Tell me things!”

I clench my phone. “I just…”

“Am I not a good enough fan or something?” she asks, throwing the jacket onto the counter. “Is that what this is about? Do I not meet your fangirl expectations? Why won’t you just let me be your fri—”

“Because it won’t change anything!” I say, whirling around to her. “It won’t change anything if I complain. If I tell you what I want, if I tell you that I hate my family and my life sucks and I’m falling for someone I don’t even know and that wish—oh how I wish—I was in any other universe, what difference would it make?”

My voice is so loud, the tourists across the street turn to watch. Sage opens her mouth, closes it again, opens—like a fish gobbling for water—before her eyes drift to the counter and the empty pumpkin-orange dog bed. “Where’s the fleabag?”

“What?” I blink. Glance over at Franco. Who isn’t there. Neither is the jacket.

We lean over the counter just in time to watch a fat brown wiener dog race between a family of tourists’ legs, blue fabric fluttering in his wake.

“I’m going to fry him!” Sage cries, ripping off her apron. She dodges past me and swings open the back doors to the truck with a running leap, calling for Franco.

I don’t even take off my apron as I dart after her. Franco has my costume—and who knows what he’s going to do with it. “Franco!”

Tourists line the streets both ways, cars bump by on the cobblestones, horse-drawn carriages stopping frequently to marvel at rainbow-colored houses. So many people—but no Franco. How could I have let him out of my sight?

We shout his name, dodging and weaving through tourists who loiter too long in front of the big houses with steepled roofs and grand verandas. They turn to stare like we’re some kind of weird show: two girls—one in an orange EAT ME apron, the other in a tulle tutu and checkered ribbons—tearing down the sidewalk like the Nox are on their heels.