Be Dazzled Read online

  “Shit, Raff, we look awesome,” May says. I’m adjusting the crimson puffs of hair that border her head, making sure the sculptured teasing I did will stay put. It will. I look at May, and I’m so happy she’s the one here with me.

  “We do look awesome, don’t we?”

  May’s parents insist on taking photos of us as though we’re going off to prom. They won’t post them, which is a rule they know to respect, but they say they want to have them to look back on when May and I are famous artists. Their supportive statement makes my stomach twist the whole drive over to the Seaport, which I spend cradling my gargantuan claws. As the radio plays WBUR, I drift back into my buzzing anxiety about all that could go wrong, but May pulls me out when she asks me to reach an itch on her shoulder, between the plates of her armor.

  “Such a princess,” I joke.

  “That’s right. A little higher, though. And can you use your claw?”

  “Weirdo!”

  “Whatever,” she laughs.

  Per the instructions in the email we got last night, we enter through the back of the convention center, where several clubbers are waiting to check us in. We’re led through the same dark hallways until we are installed in the prejudging room from yesterday, where competitors await their turns in nervous pairs. There are only thirteen teams remaining, so I zero in on Luca and Inaya right away, then spend the rest of our waiting time pretending I cannot see them at all. I’m so quick to do this that I’m not even sure what they’re wearing, and I convince myself I don’t care. May and I are clearly causing a stir among the other competitors, and I just focus on making sure that stir ripples all the way out and ruffles Luca’s perfectly coiffed hair.

  Otherwise, things are kind of normal. Too normal.

  “There are no cameras,” May points out. She’s right. No one is filming this.

  I jump when I hear my phone go off in my bag. Our turn is coming up, so I rush to silence the ring before the prejudges get to us. Quickly, I shuck off one of my claws and carefully bend over, balancing on the high heels, but I nearly fall backward when I see who’s calling. It’s Evie. But why?

  “Raffy, what are you doing?” May asks urgently.

  “Hello?” I say into the phone.

  Evie doesn’t say hello back. She says, “Where are you?”

  May snatches the phone from me, hangs it up, and tosses it behind us just as the prejudges circle in. A clubber is with them, tablet in hand, recording everything.

  I pull my claw on. I pull myself together in general, and May and I begin our rehearsed explanations of our costumes. Behind me, someone goes, “Hey, did you drop your phone?”

  I ignore them.

  “HIM’s armor was inspired by Elizabethan fashion, because I wanted to historically contextualize the ruffled collar and puffed sleeves alongside Princess Morbucks’s golden knight armor. And also because the fabrics from that era are utterly fab to work with. Plus, HIM’s theatrics have always felt distinctly Shakespearean to me, so it all kinda worked. And it doesn’t hurt that the contrast with the claws is truly gruesome.”

  “Excuse me, is this yours?” the person behind me asks again. “Someone is trying to call you.”

  May snatches the phone away from them, silences it, and tosses it onto our stuff. One of the prejudges asks me for more details about my bodice.

  I’m distracted. I barely manage to answer with, “It’s a handmade corset.”

  May clears her throat, and I go on.

  “I didn’t use authentic whalebone, because it seemed bad to kill an entire whale just for one undergarment. I used zip ties instead for the structure of the corset, then reinforced the structure in the bodice, which is made using a brocade I found at Craft Club and updated with hand-embroidered black pearls. Everything was either handmade or updated by me in some way, including the lace for the ruff and the skirts. I didn’t create it, but I did starch it. I also acid dyed it and then hand-pleated the skirt for the ruffled effect.”

  “And the shoes?”

  I take May’s hand so I can show the judges my carefully laced boot covers, but my eyes are drawn to my phone, lighting up again and again. What is going on? Does Evie know I’m here? She knows I’m not camping, and I totally forgot to give her another lie for today. I forgot. Shit. Shit.

  I barely listen to myself as I attempt to explain how I made the boots. And I take so long to get it out that I don’t get a chance to talk about anything else before our time is up.

  The judges drift off to the next pair, leaving May standing over me with her hands on her hips, looking way too concerned for someone who isn’t a principal or a police officer.

  “Raffy, don’t get mad, okay? You got a little lost, but I’m sure you gave them enough to work with. And just remember that winning doesn’t have to be everything, okay?”

  I start to take my claw off so I can grab my phone, but May snatches it away again.

  “Don’t. It’s only going to make your anxiety worse,” she warns.

  “You’re treating me like we’ve already lost.”

  “You’re behaving like you want us to. You didn’t even talk about your custom codpiece! Wasn’t that, like, the whole point of wearing a codpiece?”

  I take a few teetering steps back on my stilettos. “I thought you didn’t care about any of this.”

  “Well, I care about you!” She can’t fold her arms, but I can tell she wants to. She can’t do much of anything with her armor on. Any onlooker would think we’re having a very awkward, slow-motion fight.

  “And I know this matters a lot to you, but the world isn’t going to end if you don’t get first place. You made it to Primes. You’re for sure going to get an honorable mention at minimum. And we look ah-ma-zing. Can’t that be enough?”

  I’m forced to consider that word: enough. Is it enough? Am I?

  Is second best enough for my followers? Maybe it would have been, if I’d been posting regularly leading up to this. They come to me to learn, to watch, but in the aftermath of Luca, I’ve barely been streaming on Ion. I’ve been too embarrassed, too furious to show my face. I’ve done it all alone. This was supposed to be my big, victorious reveal.

  And what about Evie? Second best has never been enough for her. In fact, my very best has never been enough, either. I remember last year when she looked at my Plasma Siren cosplay, called it poetry, and then cut it up. So would these builds be enough for her? Would an honorable mention be enough? No, of course not. Inevitably, Evie is going to see me cosplaying one day, and if I’m not the best at it by then it’s better that she never see me do it at all.

  And nothing but winning will be enough for me. All that I do is measured against the person I am trying to become, and his standards are the highest of all. He is strong and unshakeable and kind and joyful. If I can become him, become that, I know the rest will fall into place.

  But I’m not him yet. I’m me. Anxious, emotional, weak-ass me. No matter how much I reassure myself that I’m ready, that I can do this, a single missed call from Evie sets my anxiety off and reduces me to a babbling kid in a costume. I’m not enough to prove anyone’s doubt wrong. The only thing I’m proving is that I’m still not ready to be the son Evie demands, or the person my dreams depend on.

  “Don’t think about her,” May says, way too late.

  I remove one of my claws and put out my hand. “Give me the phone.”

  May hands it to me, regret in every line on her face.

  I take the phone and power it down, chucking it to the floor beside our stuff. I hope it gets stolen. The perfect excuse to never listen to any of Evie’s voicemails.

  “Screw her,” I say.

  “Screw her.” May smiles. We hand-hug, since actual hugging would be deadly in these cosplays.

  “We’re here. And that’s enough.”

  “We are here,” she says, “And
that’s everything. You did this, Raffy. Now, you ready to win?” May says.

  “I am.” I grin.

  Madeline enters the room, and she asks us all to listen as she reads off our next steps. We’re told there will be cameras and that we aren’t supposed to look directly into them. Then she reads some reminders about how Primes work. There will be the typical three categories for judging: armor, needlework, and FX (as in special effects). Each category will have a first, second, and third place. Then the judges will award best in show, runner-up, and second runner-up for the entire competition. Those are the big awards, the ones you want.

  Looks are going to be judged individually at the category level, but pairs will be judged together for the best in show placements. May is in the armor category. I’m in needlework.

  Then, like the most bizarre parade ever, we’re led to the massive auditorium set up for Primes. Backstage, we’re told to remain in our pairs as clubbers rush back and forth silently. It’s hard to see much, but we can hear everything through the speakers as the hosts get the crowd hyped up. Ads for Craft Club’s new line of wigs are played, along with some sponsored content for a few upcoming movies and games that are receiving a ton of focus this year. Then the judges—the real judges, Waldorf Waldorf and the others—are brought on, each with a grand introduction that lists their formidable skills, achievements, and points of expertise. They discuss how excited they are for all of Controverse to see our looks, and the thousand-strong eat it up.

  The real show is about to begin. Usually they take the looks out by category, but this year they’re having the couples walk together. We knew that much coming in, and May and I whisper-confirm our moves as the first few couples perform. We’re totally aligned and ready to go.

  “Raffy and May, you’re on deck,” Madeline whispers as we approach the curtain. My adrenaline begins to spike.

  Then a familiar voice comes from the shadows.

  “May, do you need help with your power pack?”

  Inaya and Luca are behind her. The couple before us is called out.

  “Thank you,” May says as Inaya hides the pack in May’s shoulder guard more securely.

  “Don’t touch that mic,” Madeline whispers to Inaya, and then they’re both fiddling with May’s costume. I can’t hear what they’re saying because the crowd is cheering as the cosplayers before us finish. Which means we’re about to be announced.

  Stage fright, which has been prickling in my throat this whole time, is washed away by bright terror when I see exposed wires hanging out of May’s back. In a flash, I move Madeline and Inaya to the side, gather the mic cord and the power pack, and put them in a pocket of space below May’s shoulder.

  “There,” I say, just as our names boom through the speakers.

  “Wait!” Luca thrusts something at May. Her cape, which I completely forgot about. May throws it on just in time.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to him and Inaya. And we’re up.

  We enter halfway through the intro I wrote, already behind.

  “…known on Ion as Crafty Rafty, with entries in the armor and needlework categories,” the announcer booms, and the clubber beside us draws back the curtain so we can walk.

  I’ve watched this moment a million times from the audience, in person and through streams and in people’s stories on socials. But as I step out before the crowd, I feel brand new in this space, in this time, in this look. I am not Raffy—I am HIM. May is nowhere. Princess Morbucks reigns besides me. And coursing through the cheers and cries is the narrative of our creation, broadcast from the dark sky as if by an omniscient god.

  “HIM and Princess Morbucks have returned to annihilate those Powerpuff Girls for good,” reads the host.

  May and I hit center stage, and this is the big moment.

  “HIM’s claws are made to look sinisterly realistic, but they’re all foam. Meanwhile, Princess Morbucks’s power suit is fully equipped with working circuitry and LED lights. Only the best for Princess!”

  That’s May’s cue. She hits her signature pose—hands on hips, bratty and imperious. A sensor in her hip connects to one on her hand, and the lights in her suit flare to life.

  Or they should.

  Right now, though? Nothing.

  May hits the pose again, and still nothing happens. I’m sure it’s due to that last-minute power pack fiddling, but there’s no time to fix it. As a result, I miss my own pose, where I’m supposed to jab at the audience with my claws. I go for it too late, just as May sweeps her cape around herself, and suddenly we’re fastened together as bundles of heavy velvet get caught in my crustacean grip.

  May and I move to untangle ourselves at the same time, but only one of us is in stilettos. I feel the stage swing out from under me as I topple, and I try to catch myself before I remember my hands are literally gigantic crab claws. I land squarely on my chest, making a terrible grunting noise, and my hands fly out in front of me. The claws detach, sailing through the air, and the next thing I hear is a crash in the audience as they land among the camera crews.

  The sound is horrible and distinctly that of many expensive things falling over, and there’s even a small burst of sparks.

  The host makes some sort of joke, and people are laughing. As I scramble to untangle myself and stand, I fall again on my pointy heels.

  Someone dives into the mess to retrieve the crab claws. The stage lights go out as clubbers rush to help May and me up. We’re barely halfway off the stage when the crowd begins chanting our names, but I don’t see them. I can’t see anything through the tears that are for sure about to ruin my makeup. We messed up in the worst possible way, and all I can see before me is our impending defeat.

  The lights come back on, and the chants dissolve to cheers. I don’t see any of it. My world stays dark, my future even darker.

  Whatever enough is, this isn’t it. I’m not it.

  Sixteen

  Then

  Ten months ago

  The holidays! A time of light, love, and for most families, hosting. We’re no different when it comes to the hosting part, except it’s never family. Instead, our guests are artists. People from my mother’s world, curious people who seem to have dropped out of the sky with no way to climb back up into their clouds. They just show up, and they stay forever, and no matter how many signs I put on my bedroom door, they never ever knock before barging in.

  It makes it hard to hide and to get work done, not that I have a ton of work to do. With Controverse behind me, I’m in my slow season, the season I usually spend working on my builds for spring and summer. So I should be designing, researching, and gathering materials, but picking a path just feels impossible this time. With Luca in the picture, things are both exciting and terrifying, too fast and utterly slow.

  Almost always, I work alone. I work for myself. I work for my vision. The sudden accommodation of two visions freezes me and quiets my hands and wipes my mind clean all at once. It’s almost like I dread getting started now that I know the work won’t be completely mine. And that doesn’t quite make sense either, because at the same time, I’m completely ecstatic that Luca is going to cosplay with me.

  Luca wants to cosplay! I can imagine how amazing it’ll be when it’s all done, but I can’t bring myself to start.

  My phone lights up with a few more texts from Luca. Whereas I have spent the past month since Controverse in some sort of craftless daze, Luca is fully spiraling into the world of DIY videos on Ion. Since I brought him to Controverse, he’s changed in a wonderful way. He has turned his skepticism toward cosplay inside out to reveal the gleaming enthusiasm of the truly obsessed. Combined with his usual energy, it’s hard to keep up with all his questions and ideas.

  Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to pick a project? You’d have trouble too if your maybe-boyfriend sent you no fewer than six half-baked ideas a day, for weeks. And maybe that sou
nds annoying, but it’s not. It’s an opportunity.

  Luca and I are built from very different materials. If Luca is lined with enthusiasm, I am insulated with ambition. If we were even a little more alike, the difference would hurt us, but our contrast is beautifully stark. Our clash is one of power. One I’m learning to not just trust, but believe in.

  I can’t stop thinking about how popular two young queer boys would be in the cosplay scene. I’m dreaming of the end. I’m fixated on it, and I can’t help it. Luca is undeniably hot, and I’m undeniably talented. Together, we’re going to be iconic.

  Going to be.

  That is, if I ever figure out how to start. Mostly I’ve just been playing video games, like I am right now, and telling myself it’s “research.”

  Another text comes in from Luca, this time a link to a tutorial on prosthetic zombie makeup.

  Zombie Bambi?

  He’s referencing one of my stranger couple cosplay ideas. An animal look designed around Bambi from the Disney movie and his mother, except in my interpretation, she’s come back as a zombie, and she’s bitten Bambi. Weird, I know, but for sure eye catching. And Luca loves any look that would show off his body. Can’t say I mind that idea, either.

  But the vision stops there. It’s always just a glimpse of the glamour. This time, though, I’m able to look a little further into the future, and I realize something. All I can see are the moments of glory, but just past that is a darkness I can’t shake. Not an evil darkness. A nothing darkness.

  No matter how excited Luca is now, I know this is all going to end when he realizes what will happen when we step onto that con floor together in cosplay. People will assume. They’ll ship us. Whether Luca likes it or not, the internet is going to out us as a couple before he’s ready. From what I know about his deal with his parents and their attitudes toward comics, cons, and cosplay, this would be a nightmare scenario for Luca. The second he realizes his new dream will have to coincide with coming out, that dream is going to die. My dream will, too, I guess. I should put us both out of our misery and spell it out for him, but I’m too scared even to do that.