THE ATLANTA CONVENTION CENTER IS HUGE.
Sage lets me off at the front to go find us badges while she finds out where to park the Pumpkin. It sputters away as I gape at all the people. There are so many people. Not just people but Vulcans and Nox and Turians and Sith Lords. Groots, X-Men, Jon Snows, Marty McFlys, Disney princesses. Nathaniel Drakes and Indiana Joneses, DOTA 2 avatars beside League of Legends characters, Browncoats and hero capes and Hogwarts cloaks. Sailor Moons and sailors of stars and Trekkies and swarming among them all, in coats the perfect navy blue, the sign of the esteemed Federation, are the Stargunners.
The impossible world. And—even better—no sign of the twins.
12:22 PM
—You would NOT guess where I am right now, ah’blen.
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I wait for him to respond because I think he’s here too—probably talking on one of the cosplay panels—but he doesn’t respond. At least not at first. He will when he sees it. But will he want to meet up? Do I want to?
I…I think I do.
Determined, I hike my duffel bag higher onto my shoulder and embark on my quest to commandeer a ticket. A bored-looking guy is the only one left at the ticket table, a fat red sign reading SATURDAY PASSES SOLD OUT hanging overhead. I take a deep breath and march right up.
“Look, I’m not trying to get a new pass, it’s just that my old ones were stolen,” I explain to the ticket guy. “All I want is to enter into the cosplay competition. I promise I won’t pass Go, collect two hundred, what-have-you—”
He points to the sign.
“No, I know what that says, I can read,” I say. “I’m just asking if I can—”
“Get special treatment?” he says, finally looking up at me. He blinks behind thick black glasses. “Maybe get tickets a little earlier next time, sweetie.”
“Don’t call me sweetie,” I snap.
“Who called you sweetie?”
Sage emerges through the crowd in the lobby, straightening her outfit, which, today, is a blue tutu dress. She looks like a deranged punkrock fairy—not that that makes her out of place at a con.
“Okay, so I couldn’t get a space in the garage because the Pumpkin wouldn’t fit under the clearance, but I found this place with a meter around the corner and raided the register for quarters. Operation Avoid a Parking Ticket is under way.”
“I think that’s illegal,” says the guy at the booth.
“So’s sexual harassment.” I try to give him a mind-melting glare, but nothing fazes this guy. Hell could be rising up around him and he’d probably just think it was so last-year’s Syfy.
He sighs. “Look, if you want to see what you can do about your ‘stolen’ passes, go talk to the organizers. They’re in the office over there.” He gestures toward the corner of the lobby. “Go bother them.”
With a scowl, I turn on my heels, making my way to the offices.
“I’ll wait out here, I guess?” Sage calls behind me. “Have fun storming the castle!”
I wave a hand over my head to signal that I heard her.
This is ridiculous. Of all the years that my dad organized ExcelsiCon, he never would’ve hired a brat like that guy. At least there are other ways of getting into a con, and I know they aren’t at capacity yet. They always leave a handful of badges unattended just in case someone important shows up. Like the president. Or Tom Hiddleston.
I reach the office door and peek inside the little window. A harried older woman is counting bills onto a desk. She looks familiar, but it takes a moment to remember.
“Miss May!” I knock and wave through the window. She jumps at hearing her own name, spinning around to me in her rolly chair. She’s in the regulation purple ExcelsiCon T-shirt and blue jeans, and I swear she hasn’t changed her Keds in the ten years I’ve been gone. Her gray eyebrows scrunch together as if trying to place where she’s seen my face before.
I flash her the promise-sworn salute, and her eyebrows shoot up into her graying-brown hairline.
“Oh my word—Danielle!” she cries, jumping up from her chair. She rushes around the desk and throws her arms around me. “Danielle, you’ve grown so much! You look just like Robin. Just like him,” she echoes, holding me at arm’s length. “Goodness, it’s been, what, six years?”
“A little over,” I reply. Seven years. How has it been that long? I wonder if she blames me too. I pull a smile over my face. “And it’s high time I came back, right?”
“Right as rain!” she replies. “Robin could never keep himself away. I knew you’d be around again.”
“Actually, Miss May, that’s what I need to talk to you about. I—we—”
Suddenly, the office door opens and slams against the knob with a bang. A tall, youngish guy—dark hair, swaggery walk—breezes past me.
“I need to speak with the manager,” he says, his voice icy. “Please.”
My mouth falls open. Because Holy Federation Prince, Batman. It’s Darien effing Freeman.
Miss May looks surprised. “Well now, hold on a moment there…”
A flustered-looking woman—his handler, I’m guessing—trips into the office after him and closes the door quietly. “Darien, it’s okay—”
“Gail, it’s not okay.” He turns back to Miss May. “I just need to talk to the director, please. That’s all. I’m sure it’s a big misunderstanding.”
“The director’s out on the floor,” Miss May says.
“Excuse me,” I interrupt him.
“One second, okay?” He barely glances over.
I feel like I’ve just gone invisible. It’s one thing to feel invisible at home, but this—this is my dad’s con. I shouldn’t feel invisible here. I won’t feel invisible here.
“Is there any way to get in touch with him?” he says. “Call him? Something?”
“Dare, you’re running late to your panel,” his handler pleads. “Maybe we can get this straightened out later…”
“But the signing’s right after the panel,” he says, trying to reason with her.
I set my jaw. First he gets cast to ruin Carmindor. Then he has the indecency to show his abs on national television to sell Carmindor. And now he’s barging into the office interrupting me and pretending I’m invisible? This is why I blog. There are things in this life that I can overlook. Catherine, the twins, the crap at the country club. But you don’t mess with my Starfield.
“Aren’t you a little ungrateful?” I say.
He finally glances over as if seeing me for the first time. Oh, hello there, I think. Nice of you to finally notice.
“I’m sorry?” he says.
“Aren’t you,” I enunciate, “a little ungrateful?”