Be Dazzled Page 12

  May’s lips tighten again, and I know that I have answered wrong, though I don’t get why. I thought she wanted to network. I thought she wanted to be free. I don’t spend too long unpacking her expression, though, because I’m already thinking through everything I need to do to get ready for tonight. Suddenly, the con around us feels too loud, the air too thick. What would Evie say if she knew I was this close to triumph and decided to take a few hours off to…to what? Have fun?

  “I’ll meet you at your place later, okay?” I say, giving May a quick hug as I take the suitcase back. I can tell she’s a little worried. “I’m sorry again. Enjoy your day.”

  I practically run off, my suitcase bumping into my heels the whole way.

  Fourteen

  Then

  Twelve months ago

  It’s a cloudy October morning the week before Halloween, and I’m worrying that Luca will dump me as soon as he figures out I’ve tricked him. It’s Sunday, the last day of Controverse weekend, and I haven’t seen Luca in ages. I’ve been finishing up Plasma Siren so that I could debut her on Saturday, showing her off on the floor in all her barnacled glory. And all in all, it went well! Especially considering I had to remake half the garment after my mom snipped it into a cocktail dress. Thank god she lost interest soon after that.

  Anyway, now Siren is packed up and hidden in the back of my closet, and it’s a new day. A day for Luca and Raffy. Just us.

  Or at least that’s the lie I told him. In a minute, when we get off of the red line at South Station instead of transferring to the green line at Park, he’ll realize we’re not going on a Fenway tour. I’m really banking on his love of surprises, which is a safe bet. We hit South Station, and I lead him off the train without him even raising an eyebrow.

  So he knows something is up. But maybe not what? He’d probably be pissed if he knew. Luca likes it best when it’s just him and me, holding hands in a dark theater or at the very back of a crowd. A secret, just the way Luca likes us. The art show was a fluke. Usually he gets distant when there are other people around, but when it’s just him and me, he takes my hand first. And it’s like time stops for just us, the rest of the world still and oblivious as we wander through it. It’s like we exist in a loop, a reverie, a world that is created when our hands connect and disappears when we break apart.

  I’m pretty sure he figures out where we’re going when a mass of cosplayers passes by. He raises an eyebrow at me.

  We walk across the channel bridge and into the Seaport, and all of a sudden we’re at the convention center. Luca follows with a lazy smile on his face. He’s got to know by now. And I’m relieved he’s cool with it. Luca is the most adaptable person I know. He can be comfortable anywhere. He has a way of making the world vibrate like he is a magnet and no particle is immune to his pull. Everything—people, plants, pets—perks up when he walks by. It happens in every situation. So if I have to go without holding his hand for a day to introduce him to another part of my world, so be it. He’ll thank me later.

  We get closer to Controverse, and the crowds thicken, costumed people everywhere. A band of cosplayers dressed in Zelda garb are busking out front, playing accordions.

  Luca says, “I fucking knew it.”

  Suddenly, Inaya and May are jogging up to us, Starbucks in hand. They shove a drink at Luca.

  “Sunday! Funday!” the girls chant together. Inaya thrusts a badge at Luca, who is looking at me with over-the-top fury.

  “This is the surprise? We’re going to your nerd convention?”

  “It’s not a nerd convention,” Inaya snaps her badge at him. “It’s a geekery gala. A comic book bacchanalia. A weeaboo Western.”

  “Weeaboo Western would make a great reality comic strip,” May says. “Can I use that?”

  “It’s a NERD CONVENTION!” Luca shouts, and I think maybe I’ve really messed up. He’s been good about not seeing me these past two weeks as I really buckled down and focused, and maybe he sees today as just another day lost to my cosplaying.

  But then I see the anger is an act and the magic of Controverse is working on him. I wonder: Did he see this coming? Was he counting on it? Luca is watching the crowd with excitement now. Above us in the building, people pack into the windowed halls in all manner of cosplay and costume. The corners of Luca’s mouth raise as he continues to gripe and argue in comedic protest. Protest just for the sake of putting up a fight. Grim yet excited resignation.

  Oh, he’s a goner. He’s so into it.

  Luca and I have talked about him coming to Controverse a bunch. For a long time, he flatly refused to believe that it could be any fun, so I had to show him compilation videos of all the super-intense cosplays. That got his interest, but he still refused to get a ticket. He kept saying, “If my dad ever saw that charge on my card, he’d know something was up right away. It’d be done. It’d be over.”

  So the girls and I pooled our money and got him a ticket, and I tricked him. I had to, to keep his plausible deniability intact. I feel bad about the betrayal, but as I see his eyes light up, I also feel something else. Victorious. Vindicated. I decide he was hoping for this all along.

  I take the badge from his hand and slip the lanyard around his neck, pulling him toward me. Luca doesn’t resist for once, fastening his hands around my waist. His face fills my vision as he closes in, lowering his voice to a playful and menacing whisper.

  “You planned this? You got me a badge and everything?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You must really want me here, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I’ll go. But if I see someone I know, I’m running.”

  “I’ll run with you.”

  “And”—he glances at Inaya, who is wearing a wig—“I’m not putting on any weird shit. I look good.”

  “You got it.”

  * * *

  Con strategy is like a family mac ’n’ cheese recipe. Everyone’s got their own way of doing it, and everyone wants to talk about why they’re right. For Inaya, May, and me, our strategy is informed by our schedules. Most cons are Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, with the big cosplay masquerade or competition on Saturday. This is why we try to do most of our shopping on Friday, when all the artists have the most stock, then spend Saturday in our best cosplay. Finally, Sunday involves casual cosplay meant for socializing. Networking. Saying hello to competitors, judges, and friends.

  There was no way to get Luca to skip school with us on Friday, and bringing him on Saturday was a surefire way to overwhelm him with the weirdness of competitive cosplay. Sunday Funday was our best option, and I’ve got a plan for introducing him to this world.

  You can’t just walk someone through Controverse, or any con this big. It’s brutal on the mind. It’s prohibitively overwhelming. You’ve got to understand that they’re seeing all this for the first time and let them see it. You go slow, lead by your curiosity, like hand-stitching embroidery instead of following the grid of a cross-stitch.

  The atrium is packed, as usual, so we stick to the edges and enter the exhibits. All weekend, I’ve been keeping a list of places I think Luca will love, putting together a small treasure trail to follow once I’ve gotten him here. But as it turns out, we don’t need to follow any trail. Luca is a shooting star, burning with excitement the second we’re inside the exhibition room.

  “Raffy, look!” He’s got my arm in his hand, pulling me from a book booth to the glass shelves that display expertly painted models of monsters. He starts listing them for me as though I don’t know them, as though they aren’t labeled. I don’t look at them, though—I look up at him, into his searching eyes. Each time he can name one, his eyes widen a fraction of a second before he speaks, and my heart jumps a little.

  We make it into a few anime exhibits that Luca is more reserved in. One is a small house made to look like it’s built out of waffles. People cram into th
e corners, taking pictures on top of large beanbag chairs that look like fat balls of butter and jam. Once it’s our turn, Inaya and May throw themselves onto the nearest one.

  “Take a picture!” they cry, their weight tipping the butter chair.

  I take about a million photos. I stop when Luca taps my shoulder.

  “Can we take a photo?”

  I glance at him. “Are you sure?”

  “Not to post. Just for us.”

  I smile. The girls untangle themselves, and it’s my turn to be in front of the camera. I can’t help but laugh when Luca just stands there, smiling, giving the camera a thumbs-up. I am almost positive this is how every photo of him ever must look. I let him take a few that way, and then, when the girls yell for him to change it up, I pull him down into the pillows with me. At first he’s unsure, but then I’ve got my arm around his shoulder, my thigh across his, and he knows what to do.

  The photos come out great, full of color and laughter, chronicling the moment Luca went from being in my photos to me being in his. By the end of the shoot, all you can see are my feet, the shoe missing from one foot, as I roll over the back edge of the pillow pile. Luca remains on top, untouchable, smiling with a look of sheer demonic innocence.

  The exhibits take up the morning, especially because Luca insists on taking a photo with everything he recognizes. Which is a lot. Because he’s a complete nerd in denial.

  “Where are you even gonna post these? Some private account?”

  “You don’t have to post everything, you know,” he says, flipping between two nearly identical photos of him with a cosplayer dressed as slutty Hello Kitty.

  “So that’s for personal use?” I joke.

  Luca zooms in on the muscles in his forearm, which are toned in a way that he knows I love. “Or maybe they’re for your personal use, Raffy?”

  I feign bashfulness. Luca keeps his eyes on me instead of looking back at his photos, waiting for me to notice the dreamy, questioning look on his perfect face.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You like that I’m here?”

  “I love that you’re here,” I say.

  We shop our way through the merchandise tents and then swing through the Art Mart. I take an especially long time looking at a print of Sailor Moon, her back to the viewer, her iconic pigtails flowing across a buttery sickle moon. I want it, but I’ve spent way too much this year already. At the next table, I look for Luca and catch him furtively whispering to May and Inaya. Something secret is happening, so I look away, giving them some privacy. Then May catches up to me.

  “Look at these,” she says, scooping up some bookmarks with puffy Pokémon rolling across them. I know she’s distracting me, and I let her, amused that my friends think they can put anything anime-related in front of me and I’ll focus on it. But then I see a bookmark with Jellicent on it. She’s a Gen VI Pokémon, and she’s got a male and female form. This artist has both. A totally rare find! We get into a discussion about it, and May’s distraction works beautifully.

  It’s not until we sit down in the food court for a late lunch that I remember Luca and Inaya sneaking off. I’m so lost in my analysis of the cosplayers walking by that I don’t even notice Luca handing me a large envelope until I’m already absently holding it.

  “Open it, Raff.” Luca nudges me.

  I see the shape and size, and I know exactly what it is: the Sailor Moon print. I know better than to let on that I know, so I open it quickly to give the tears in my eyes a reason for falling.

  “Saw you looking at it,” Luca says, nudging me again. “I know how you like her. She’d look great on your wall.”

  “Luca.” I don’t know why I’m crying. Well, I do. It’s the first time a guy has ever bought me something. And I always figured I’d get gifts of roses or chocolates someday, but Luca found something I wouldn’t let myself have and gave it to me anyway. Not for my birthday, and not for Christmas. Just because he knew I wanted it.

  “I love it,” I tell him truthfully, slipping it back into the envelope so it doesn’t get grease on it.

  Luca glances around, determines that it’s safe, and then gives me a quick kiss. When he pulls away, his eyes lock on something behind us.

  “What’s that?”

  He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just walks toward the crowd of people forming in the wide center of the food court. I leave our stuff with May and Inaya, who are going through photos, and catch up to Luca just as he burrows his way to the front of the cheering crowd.

  We stand in a thick line of people at the edge of an invisible stage where six cosplayers are engaged in an intricate dance around one another. Their weapons swing and fly in slow motion, emulating the drama of battle with no actual impact. It’s theatrical fighting, a scene from a game I recognize but haven’t played. The people nearest to us are cheering the loudest. At their feet are speakers, blaring the music we heard from our table.

  “What are they doing?” asks Luca, wonder in his voice.

  “It’s play fighting. It’s not real,” I say.

  “I know. But why?”

  I point out the cameras to Luca. Not just the phones people are using to record, but the handheld video equipment at the edges of the scene.

  “People make videos for the cons featuring the big cosplayers,” I say. “Some compete, but a lot do it to meet people. It’s a social thing. Others come to photograph and make movies if they don’t want to cosplay themselves. Usually a lot of the shoots happen out here.”

  Luca starts moving again, this time toward the escalators. I chase after him, jogging to his side as he hits the landing. Right before he reaches the photo shoot he’s spotted, he stops short.

  I see what’s caught his eye. Christina Wynn, standing on a low wall, illuminated by multiple soft boxes as a string of photographers raise huge cameras up at her. They snap and swarm around her feet like fish wrestling for cast-off crumbs.

  She is not actually flying, but from the angle she’s being photographed, I can tell she will look like she’s floating in the photos. The light perfectly catches each exquisite detail of her cosplay, but she could be swathed in shadow and I’d still know every groove and scale. She’s wearing her Dragon Sage armor, which I watched her build over the last six months on Ion, and it’s stunning in person.

  “Who is that?”

  “Christina Wynn. She’s from Canada. She’s ‘Christina the Winner’ on Ion.”

  “You know her?”

  “No, she’s a big cosplayer. She placed in Controverse Primes last night.”

  Luca barely hears me. He’s looking around now, suddenly seeing the cosplayers that glow at the hearts of the mob. The focal points of affection, adoration, attention.

  And something in his mind clicks. I can almost see his thoughts connect into a constellation of understanding.

  “We’re doing this,” he tells me. “Next year, we’re showing up to compete.”

  Fifteen

  Now

  I wait at May’s house, passing a heat gun over some foam armor to warm out the cracks and wrinkles I’m sure only I can see. I adjust May’s wig and get started on my prosthetics and makeup early. I generally do a good job of finding minute things to worry about while the clock ticks toward noon.

  May arrives home right on time, glowing with excitement. As we dress, she talks through the people she got to meet and the collabs she’s going to get started on right away. She even got an offer to booth with another artist who likes her work, which is huge. Huge! The conversation eases me out of my own thoughts and micro-panics. I sink into my usual pensive efficiency as I listen, and before I know it, we’re dressed. We look at ourselves in the mirror, the density of details almost too much for the small dimensions of May’s room.

  I am dressed as HIM, an iconic villain from the nineties animated show The Powerpuff Girls. HIM is a
devilish, lithe figure in red, swathed in tufts of pink fuzz and thigh-high stilettos. And he has crab claws. Bizarre, I know, but easily recognizable by the judges, who are mostly millennials. Millennials love a good reference, and they all watched PPG. They’ll know me in a second, and I know the reaction is going to be wild.

  From head to toe, my skin is coated in cherry-red makeup that gleams with even the smallest movement. Prosthetics pull my nose and chin into devilish points, and I’ve ridged my cheekbones to give the illusion of my skull pushing up through my skin.

  HIM is iconic for many reasons, and I’ve adapted all the core references—the red skin, the boots, the tutu and collar, and the claws—into a distinctly Elizabethan take. I have the ruffled, cotton candy–pink lace sewn into a bodice of fine, bloodred brocade, and an elaborate sash tied tightly around my waist. I even made an authentic codpiece, which might be cheeky, but I think the judges will like it. And of course, I have the boots. They’re black, though not patent leather (it would clash), and they have gorgeous lacing up the back. They’re what you might have found under Queen Elizabeth’s many skirts if she were feeling nasty.

  Best of all, though, are the gargantuan crab claws I’ve created. My claws are hyper-real and a startling, boiled red. They look torn off a monstrous crustacean, something thickly armored to survive the flaming depths of hell.

  All in all, the look is very Lady Gaga meets Red Lobster, very Shakespeare in hades. I look fucking fantastic.

  May looks even better.

  She’s dressed as another villain, also from The Powerpuff Girls: Princess Morbucks, a famously bratty rich bitch with puffy red hair, who uses her father’s money to create armor that gives her all the abilities of the actually powerful Powerpuff Girls.

  So basically, she’s little girl Iron Man. And that’s the joke of the costume. I’ve taken the rather overdone Iron Man armor and recreated its brilliant golds and chromes around May’s much curvier body. And to tie it in with my HIM costume, I’ve designed the armor to look like that of an Elizabethan knight. May looks antiquated but new. Deadly but regal. I hope every single Tony Stark we run into literally power-jets out of her way when we strut onto the Controverse floor.