Geekerella (Starfield #1)(72)

From the other side of the lineup, a cosplayer gathers up her tattered Federation uniform dress and sways up to retrieve her prize, waving to the audience. Even without her crown, she still nabbed first.

That’s good cosplay. Fantastic cosplay. Gender-bending Carmindor? She was amazing. I clap with the rest of them, smiling.

The judges come out from the wings to congratulate us. I’m in a daze, trying to soak in everything but at the same time just trying to keep breathing. I didn’t win. I don’t have the cash prize. I’m not going to L.A.

But…

I look down at the golden tickets in my hand and my eyes begin to tear up. The Cosplay Ball.

“Good job,” says a deep voice. It sounds familiar.

I glance over. Darien Freeman.

“You were amazing—I mean, that costume. You did a jood gob. I mean, a good job. Thank you—I mean—”

“Nox got your tongue?” I say before I can stop myself.

His eyes widen. His hands go slack. “You—you’re the girl from the office. Rebelgunner.”

There’s a strange control to his voice that makes me want to both apologize for calling him spoiled and scold him for treating Miss May like an idiot.

Instead I just ease a smile onto my lips—he was one-third of my second-place vote, after all. “Glad you didn’t try and chicken out of this too.”

His eyes darken and his lips twist slightly downward, as if he’s about to say something incredibly bratty, when Sage slings her arm across my shoulder and the other cosplayers—Nox knight and Steampunk Euci and Lord Dragnot (episode 3, minor character), along with a rainbow of others, flood around me with promise-sworn cries of joy.

How come I feel like I won even though I didn’t?

Sage pulls me into a hug. “Second, yeah! I can take second.”

“So who’s your date?” Cal asks, nudging her chin toward the tickets. “For the ball.”

“I don’t know…” I chew the inside of my cheek. “I mean, I guess I figured Sage would—”

“Oh no,” Sage interrupts. “You’re relishing your winnings. Besides, I don’t have a costume, duh.”

“Sage’ll be too busy hanging out with me,” Cal blurts out. I barely understand what she says.

Sage’s mouth drops open. “I…um…,” she stammers. And then she blushes beneath already-rouged cheeks.

My stepsister turns to her. “I mean, um, what do you say? Maybe we could grab a bite? If you want to.” She stares at the ground. “With me, I mean.”

Sage’s mouth is moving but nothing’s coming out. So I help her along and press the heel of my starlight slipper onto her toes. It must kick-start her brain because she yelps.

“Yes! I mean—like a date? I mean, um, yeah. Yeah, that’d be cool.” And then she smiles, her eyes trained on Cal like she’s the North Star.

Cal smiles. “Cool.” Then, as if remembering her other half—or sensing evil, who knows—she glances into the crowd. “Elle, you might want to hurry off before Chloe comes up here. I know she’s on her way.”

“Let her come.” Sage juts out her chin. “I’ll punch her in the face.”

“No, I think I should just go,” I say. “Thank you again,” I say to Cal, even though she’ll just tell me that she doesn’t deserve to be thanked. Which might be true, but I’m half my mom, and my mom was always kind and always thankful. And my dad would want me to be like her.

Sage hands over my duffel bag and I pick up my dress, hurrying out of the throng of people. I know Carmindor hasn’t responded since last night, but I’ve been busy too with the con. I can’t imagine who else I’d bring to the ball.

In the bathroom, I drop my bag and splash water on my face. When I look up, a terrible thought strikes me.

What if he says no?

The girl in the mirror, with the crown of stars knotted in messy hair, with her mascara bleeding, in her hand-me-down cosplay jacket and her mother’s dress, whom no one wanted, no one ever wanted, not since Dad died. But at this con, surrounded by the makings of my dad’s dream…

Maybe he’ll say yes. Maybe at this con the worlds are colliding, and nothing is impossible.

I reach into my duffel bag, building up the courage to ask him. Even if he says no, it’ll be all right. Even if he doesn’t want to meet me, I’ll understand. But as I take out my phone, I see there’s a message already waiting for me.


Carmindor 1:47 PM

—I’m sorry, Elle.

—I don’t think we should talk anymore.

My excitement, my anticipation, my hopefulness slowly slide down to rest like a lump of coal in my stomach.





I SLIP OUT OF THE CROWD onstage, toward the wings. It’s done, I tell myself, looking back at all the fans, some with cameras, flashes on, others with GoPros and video recorders, their tiny black eyes aimed at me. There’s nothing you can do about it. It’s sent. I duck behind a stage curtain to get out of the line of sight.

“You okay?” Gail asks. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend—and I have to pay her. “You’re looking a little pale.”

“I’m fine. Just…overwhelmed.” I swallow and try to make a joke. “Some contest, huh? Pretty sure I showed my fans that I’m an excellent judge.” When Gail doesn’t laugh, I clear my throat. “Where’s the bathrooms in this place?”