“Both?” I glance at Milo.

“Both,” he agrees.

“Both is good,” we say together. I sit in a chair while Milo dumps his Spider-Man bookbag in the storage area at the back of the booth. “Hello, Mummie. I see you finally finished your throne.” I point to the outlandish FunkoPop construction.

“A queen must be properly seated,” she replies. “And don’t call me that.”

“Mother dearest?”

“The All-Mother, if you will—”

“More like the lazy mother,” says my other mom, Kathy, who appears from behind the booth wall. “Milo, put your bookbag where I won’t trip over it, please?” She fluffs up her short frizzy orange hair, her patch-covered jacket jangling with metal pins. She’s so colorful, she could be the spokesperson for Lisa Frank, that old psychedelic line of kids’ school supplies. “Minnie, here I am doing all this work and you’re just sitting around letting your nails dry.”

“They are very delicate claws,” Minerva points out, pawing at Kathy like a cat. “And I was just resting.”

“Yeah, and I’m just breathing. I need you to put Captain America on the top shelf.”

Minerva tilts her head. “I could’ve sworn he belonged on the bottom.”

It takes everything I have to keep my mouth in a straight line.

When Kathy shoots her a long-suffering look, Minerva heaves another woebegone sigh and drags herself off her throne. It’s situated on a pedestal, a little higher than the table, and she has to gently ease herself down to avoid disturbing the Funkos.

As Minerva puts away the Captain America, Kathy turns to me and asks, “And where have you been? That was a mighty long bathroom break.”

“I kinda…”

“You said you’d be right back. We had a rush and really could have used you.”

I open my mouth to tell her the truth—that I’d accidentally wound up onstage impersonating Jessica Stone—but then remember the threat to never talk about it, ever, unless I wanted to be kicked out of every con known to humankind.

I don’t know if that’s even possible, but recalling her withering look shuts me up anyway.

“That was our agreement, that we would let you do your own booth thing with your friend for the rest of the convention—”

“It’s not just a booth thing, it’s saving a fan-favorite character from being fridged for the rest of her fictional life!”

“—if you would be here today and help us unpack at the beginning and tear down at the end of the con. Milo and Bran gracefully covered your shifts.”

I sigh. “I know.”

“So where were you?”

I open my mouth again, then close it—I suck at lying. Especially to my parents.

Which is weird because I lied so well as Jessica Stone.

“She came to the panel with me,” Milo interjects as he emerges from the back of the booth, pulling on a snapback hat. “You said we should do more things together, right?”

This answer seems to pacify Kathy. “I did. But I meant like school functions, not comic-con panels.”

“You should’ve specified,” Milo replies. But before she can chide him for back-talking, he turns and throws up his arms. “Bran! Right on time. We just got back, too.”

“Nice to see you, babe.” Bran Simons, Milo’s boyfriend, stands on the other side of the booth, laden with three bags of collectors’ items. He gives Milo a smile as bright as the sun, lighting a spark in his dark eyes. He is short, like me, and a little waifish, all ear-cuffs and close-cropped hair and bronze skin. He offers Milo the bags, careful not to disturb the meticulously stacked Sailor Moon collectible keychains. Milo takes them and heads to the back of the booth. Bran and Milo met last year in high school, in astronomy lab, but I think they spent more time studying each other’s astrological compatibility than learning about solar physics.

He slides behind the booth as Kathy attends to a customer. “So how’s your con going?”

“It’s going. You?”

Bran sighs. “I’m trying to convince your brother to go to a viewing of Demolition Man at three a.m.”

“Yikes. You know he likes sleep.”

“I’m hoping he likes me a little more. I like your hair by the way—is it fresh?”

“It is.” A brightly hued lock sticks out from my beanie, which I sheepishly pull off. My hair is normally a mousy brown, like Milo’s, but pixied. I dyed it just before ExcelsiCon. I like how the pink looks with my gray eyes. I don’t really resemble either of my moms, although Kathy carried both Milo and me. I look like the sperm donor, apparently. My brother has Kathy’s button nose, which I’m envious about.

Milo emerges again from the back, fixing his snapback. “Whoa, whoa, who’s contesting my love?”

“He is,” I say, pointing to Bran. “Demolition Man with your boyfriend at three a.m. or sleep?”

Milo wilts and looks pleadingly at Bran. “Uh, do I have to choose?”

“You can sleep in the theater.”

“Deal.”

My brother squeezes out of the side of the booth, nodding to a customer looking at the Dick Grayson/Nightwing collectible figurine—you know, the one with the really, really sculpted buttocks. Everyone who passes by looks at it. I look at it.

For hours.

Milo and Bran bid us goodbye, and my moms don’t even ask where he’s going or when he’ll be back. They never do. They always ask me, but then again Milo’s never in the wrong place at the wrong time, or delivering someone’s homework to a house party when the cops show up, or getting in a fender bender at one in the morning without a driver’s license, or—

You get the idea.

My phone dings and I take it out. To my surprise, it’s Harper.

HARPER (4:55 PM)

—Can’t wait till tomorrow!

—Should I wear a name tag? Dress in a certain color? Hold up a sign that says

—FANGIRL TRASH UNITE?

IMOGEN (4:57 PM)

—LOL I think you’ll recognize me!!

—AND I AM SO EXCITED TO SEE YOU!!

—Oh, I am also wearing your beanie so I’ll be really easy to spot~

—And thank you so much for handing out those pins today!

HARPER (4:57 PM)

—Well duh. I want to save Amara too!

—BUT OH! Speaking of Amara—did you hear what happened on the panel today?

I cringe and lean back against the booth’s table, which starts to wobble. A $300 Supergirl tilts precariously, but I save her in time and step away from the figurines. My moms are talking to customers, blissfully unaware.

IMOGEN (4:59 PM)

—Oh, no. What happened…?

HARPER (4:59 PM)

—Jessica Stone said she loves Amara—even though we all know she’s faking it.

—She must’ve gotten told off by her agent or something.

—It was weird.

IMOGEN (4:59 PM)

—You were there?

HARPER (5:00 PM)

—I got someone to cover my booth. Couldn’t miss it.

—Hey, suddenly got a line of customers—can’t wait to meet you!

Ha, yeah. Except you kinda already met me but just didn’t know it. I frown and stare at Harper’s texts. I mean, of course people would think Jessica Stone’s faking it, after she spent almost a year not caring one iota about Starfield or the fandom. I don’t know what she had to worry about with me.

It’s not like I can magically change her image.

Minerva sidles up beside me and gestures regally to the throne. “You should try it.”

I put my phone away. “Building a throne of toys?”

“Sitting on it. It’d be a waste for it to go unattended.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, maybe if I was ten. I have to go hand out some more buttons and help you with the booth and—”

Minerva stops me with a delicate maroon-clawed hand. “Monster,” she says lovingly, “breathe, slow down, take your time.”

But how can I, when everyone else is lightyears ahead of me?

“But—”

“Sit.”

I shoot her a look that I hope means I don’t want to sit, but she is unrelenting. Giving in, I climb onto the throne of boxes. It’s a lot higher than I thought. I can see a few rows down, past the banners and the shelving and the booths, almost all the way to the life-sized Prospero display.

It…isn’t half bad up here. Quiet. Not actually quiet, but kinda what it’d sound like if I was sitting on the Iron Throne, or looking out over Pride Rock to a kingdom where no kingdom should exist, here for four days and then gone.

This is my kingdom. This is where I grew up, where I cut my teeth on fan battles and shipper wars, and the sight fills me with…what?

Glorious, insatiable possibility.

Because I am a nobody, but I’m a nobody who wants to leave the world a little brighter than when she arrived.

Minerva was right, and she’s looking up at me knowing she was right. “So? How’s the view, Princess?”

Gloriously full of possibilities. I’ll meet Harper IRL tomorrow and avoid Jasper (aka He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named) for the rest of forever, get some kick-ass fan art and save Amara. I just know I will.

I hope I will.