Geekerella (Starfield #1)(70)

“This was the first con I ever went to…”

“…For the first time in my life…”

“…felt like I belonged…”

“…thanks to your dad.”

My dad.

My dad.

I smile at all the cosplayers handing over bits and pieces of their costumes, because otherwise I might cry. They’re just small things—Amara’s gloves, licorice-colored earrings in my ears, even a sticky star under my left eye—“Because in the Black Nebula she’s galactic,” says a petite girl with a wink—and then, through the throng of people, an Amara with dark hair and purple glasses pushes through.

I do a double take. Oh—Holy Batnipples, no. It’s Calliope.

We lock eyes. Cal stares at me, frozen as though she’s just been ejected into space. She’s wearing such an expensive cosplay gown. It’s Princess Amara to the works—the best money could buy. It fits her beautifully, a deep blue with inlaid sequins and a draping neckline, silver-metal shoulder pads and clasped at her breast a brooch in the shape of starwings. I’m sure she doesn’t understand what any of it means.

The chattering crowd goes quiet. Sage freezes mid-braid. Cal steps up and looks at my dress—the dress she was supposed to wear—and the jacket that Chloe tore apart, and her eyes water.

“It looks so much better on you,” she whispers.

“Where’s Chloe?” My voice warbles.

“Out in the audience. She wants to get the best view for when…” She hesitates. “I’m so sorry, Elle. I didn’t think Chloe would go this far. She just…she really wants to be famous. She wants to be someone.”

“She is someone,” Sage snaps. “She’s the queen of awful.”

Cal looks at her helplessly. “She really isn’t that bad.”

“She is.” Sage folds her arms. “And you just go along with it.”

Cal blinks. And then, after a moment, she shakes her head. She takes a deep breath and says, “I’m so sorry, Elle. I think these are yours too. They’re really tight on me and…” She lifts her dress and steps out of my mother’s sparkling starlight shoes. “I think they’ll fit you better.”

Hesitantly, I slip out of the black flats Sage let me borrow and slide them on, one foot at a time. And for a moment I’m back in the living room, waltzing around on my dad’s feet as he twirls me, around and around, in Mom’s dress made of starlight and universes and love sewn into the seams.

The shoes fit perfectly.

“Contestant forty-two?” calls a stagehand, poking her head into the bathroom. “You’re on next! Hurry up!”

Sage looks me square in the eye. “You ready, Princess?”

“I—I think so.”

“Good.” She finishes wrapping my hair into the crown and snaps back her hands. “Take her away!”

I glance over at Cal one last time, and she gives me a small wave before the stagehand spirits me out of the bathroom. I dodge a long-eared Nox. I don’t even have time to look in the mirror, to look at what Sage and the other cosplayers did to me. I just know that she took the knots in my hair and folded them into the crown, and there are pieces of costumes on me that aren’t mine and glitter on my starched tailcoat that sheds like stardust as I’m pulled down the hallway, the folds of the universe billowing around me. My face feels too light. Not enough makeup. There’s too much me. I can’t be Princess Amara.

We pass the contestants that just went on, and they turn to look at me with strange, thoughtful looks. I try to ask if there’s something wrong, but the stagehand just keeps pulling me forward—and then we’re at the mouth of the stage and the emcee shouts, “Contestant forty-two: the Black Nebula Federation Princess Amara!”

“Go,” whispers the stagehand, and she nudges me gently.

My feet take the lead. One step. Then another.

My mother’s starlight slippers echo across the stage like glass against the ground.

Chin up, Elle, I hear Dad’s voice say in my ear. Look to the stars. Aim…

My hands fall out of their fists, my shoulders ease back, straight, relaxed. I’m half of my father. Half of my hero. And I am half of my mother. Half soft sighs and half sharp edges. And if they can be Carmindor and Amara—then somewhere in my blood and bones I can be too. I’m the lost princess. I’m the villain of my story, and the hero. Part of my mom and part of my dad. I am a fact of the universe. The Possible and the Impossible.

I am not no one.

I am my parents’ daughter, and then I realize—I realize that in this universe they’re alive too. They’re alive through me.

Fashioning my hands into a pistol, I point it at the ceiling, lifting my chin, raising my eyes against the blinding stage lights, and I ignite the stars.





IT’S HER EYES. THE WAY SHE looks at you like you’ve got all the time in the world and yet you’re still running out. Her gaze is steady, her shoulders held high even though she’s carrying the weight of the Federation on them. Her hair glows red, like the body of a dying sun, snarled and wild, around the golden crown.

As she walks, slow and steady, the clip of her sparkling heels on the stage, her dress swirls around her, fluttering, yards and yards of universe wrapped around her curves and edges. Her mouth, thin with determination, sits against her pale face like a rigid dark line. She comes to a stop in the center and raises her hand in the form of a phaser, aiming it to the sky, and then lifts her eyes to me.