She sees me staring at the two suitcases and says, “My brother and his boyfriend won’t be around much this weekend. They might come in to take a shower or something, but Bran’s a film nerd so he’ll be in movie showings all weekend or at panels, and my brother’s dedicated to him.”

“Ah.”

I glance around at her suitcase strewn across half of her bed. Again, just like last night. Clearly, she’s not a tidy person. But she seems to like space operas and fantasy shows, by the looks of the graphic T-shirt collection strewn on the ground. And she wears Converses.

I pick up the SPACE QUEEN beanie on the nightstand.

“It’s kinda weird, right?” she says. “How we got mistaken because of that beanie? It’s funny, I got that beanie from my—”

“Artists’ Alley,” I interrupt. “Ethan got mine there, too.”

“Oh.” As if Ethan even stepping into that area of the con seemed unbelievable to her. “Well, I was thinking we could just keep using it. Since it worked the first time?”

“Someone’s bound to catch on,” I reply dismissively, “which is why we brought a wig.” And as if on cue, my assistant produces a plastic bag out of his satchel. “It’s brown, almost the same color as my natural hair, a good enough dupe if you don’t look too closely. I had my housekeeper overnight it from LA.”

Imogen blinks at the wig Ethan’s holding. “You just have a wig lying about? That’s convenient.”

“I bought it to disguise the awful Amara-red I had to dye my hair,” I reply.

“And what about you?” Imogen says. “Will you cut your hair to look like me or something?”

“I’ll wear the beanie,” I say.

“Can you imitate my voice?”

“I don’t see why that’s necessary—”

“Because you’re going to be me,” Imogen says, startling me with the sound of my own voice. I’d forgotten she could mimic me so well. “So you need to be convincing,” she says, sounding like herself again.

“To who?”

She stares at me, blinking, and then looks away. “Never mind. You’re right.”

I roll my eyes and fish an extra pair of Ethan’s glasses out of his bag. I’d popped the lenses out of them (promising him I’d pay for a new pair). I put them on. “See? I barely look like myself.”

It’s not like she has anything to worry about. I’m a fantastic actress. I’m Oscar worthy. Pretending to go along with Imogen’s side of this switch should be easy enough, and I can just casually dip out of that Artists’ Alley booth and find my script.

I swirl my hair up inside the beanie. “Okay, now let’s make you me.”

THIS IS SOME SERIOUS Twelfth Night meets The Parent Trap kind of weird.

Jess Stone and I are roughly the same size (I definitely I have bigger boobs) so most of her clothes fit me, even her shoes. She opts to keep on her boots, and though I’d rather stick with my dependable sparkly Converses, she won’t let me. Instead she shoves a pair of two-inch heels in my direction.

“Heels?”

She gives me a testy look. “What about them?”

I decide not to bring up that time she faceplanted on the red carpet. It was the GIF seen round the world.

Instead, I take the shoes and pray that there’s an ER nearby in case I accidentally wipe out on the stairs.

We exchange everything—con badges, schedules, wardrobe—agreeing to change back by Saturday evening, before the ExcelsiCon ball. Although Jess doesn’t think we’ll need to switch places that long. She puts on my makeup and wipes hers off. The assistant—Ethan Tanaka is his name, apparently—reminds me of an overbearing German shepherd, the kind my neighbors used to have. Eager to please whoever feeds him and overprotective to a fault. He would totally be hot if he wasn’t glowering at me the way the Rebel forces look at Kylo Ren.

Jessica checks her phone and says, “So the panel isn’t until two, and it’s in the big ballroom, wherever that is.”

“The main stage,” I say automatically, lacing up my shoes. “I mean—I didn’t mean to correct you.”

“Whatever. I don’t know the lingo for these things.”

“That’s kinda condescending,” I murmur.

“No, it’s not,” she shoots back.

Oh, I can already see this is going to be a problem. I clear my throat and continue, “Okay, just stay away from my moms’ booth because they’ll know you’re not me in two seconds flat. It should be relatively easy to spot—just look for the obnoxiously huge Nox King, and that’s it. The con floor can be a little harrowing. It’s not as big as San Diego or New York, but ExcelsiCon has its own set of problems—”

She cuts me off with an “I’ll figure it out.”

I hesitate because, well, color me shocked but I highly doubt she will. “Should we exchange numbers at least?”

With one hand on the door, she turns to look at me, conflicted. “I don’t think either of us will be hard to find,” she replies, and then says goodbye and heads out.

Leaving me with her jerkface assistant.

Whatever did I do to deserve this torture?

He turns to me and says, “I want to be frank with you because I think you deserve it. You seem like a…nice girl, but if you do anything—”

“Nice,” I echo, not even letting him finish his sentence. “That’s not condescending.”

He blinks. “It was a compliment.”

“Like the weather is nice, or your new pair of shoes are nice? I’m sorry, but I kind of take offense to that word. I’m not nice.”

“I can see that.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot like ten times yesterday. I’m Imogen Lovelace. Nice to meet you, Gryffindor.” I extend my hand cordially. Minerva taught me this move for jerks like him. Extend the hand first, act like the bigger person, grip tightly, and then punch your fist through his sternum—no, wait. That’s a Mortal Kombat move.

To-tal An-ni-hi-la-tion.

He looks down at my hand, then back up at me, then down at my hand again, as if expecting me to replace it with Edward Scissorhands’ finger blades.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re a burnt Hufflepuff, aren’t you.”

He takes the plunge and squeezes my hand firmly, bending a little so we’re eye-to-eye. “How dare you compare me to that marshmallow trash. I’m Slytherin born and bred.”

“Ooh, you missed a good joke there.”

He lets go of my hand and shrugs. “I’ll slither it in some other time.”

I try not to smile, because that was not funny—and, I keep telling myself, think of rule number whatever—but he’s already gathering up the con ID and hotel keycards. I finish putting on my other heel.

“To be fair, I didn’t mean to insult you,” he says as he slips the hotel keys into his back pocket and hands me Jess’s VIP badge. “I just don’t want to see you throw away her career. And don’t have any hard feelings about her not giving you her number. Unlike her costar, who seems to enjoy chatting with strangers on the phone, Jess has had a much different experience.”

“Stalker?”

“Well, let’s say that someone found her number and put it up on an unsavory message board, so…”

My eyebrows fly up in surprise. “Eesh.” He hands me the badge and I slip it on over my head. “Okay so we have everything, but I think we forgot to…”

He picks up the bag with the wig from the bed and holds it out to me. I can now see that there’s also a satin pouch—a contact lens case? “You know how to put on a wig, right?”

“I’ve dabbled in cosplay,” I say, then I make a face. “I hate long hair.”

“Jess has it, so you do, too.”

“Can’t Jess shave her head?” I ask. “I’ll shave mine in solidarity—”

“No. Now go.” He points to the bathroom, checking his smartwatch in the process. “Hurry up. We should probably be at the con by one at the latest.”

“You’re one of those on-time-is-late people, aren’t you?”

“You’re one of those always-late people, aren’t you?”

“I’m mostly on time,” I mutter as I trudge into the bathroom and lock the door. I’m beginning to regret signing up for this scheme. I’m not sure what I thought it would be like—that I’d magically morph into Jessica Stone? Moon Prism Power Make Up and throw some glitter and just…be a celebrity? Don’t be ridiculous, I chide myself.

I start with the contacts first. I hate contacts. Fortunately, I’ve worn them enough for cosplays so I don’t need hours to put them in but, starflame!, that’s going to take some getting used to. It’s like condoms for my eyeballs.

Remember why you’re doing this, I think to myself as I blink the lenses into focus. You’re doing it to save Amara and—who knows?—maybe even Jessica Stone’s career.

True, I did not expect a sorta hot but bossy Slytherin (I still think he’s a burnt Hufflepuff) to hover over me like a helicopter parent the whole time, but I think there’s a way to fix that.