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PRINCESS
AND THE
FANGIRL
A Geekerella Fairytale
By Ashley Poston
ISBN: 978-1-68369-096-2
Quirk Books
215 Church Street
Philadelphia, PA 19106
quirkbooks.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PRINCESS
AND THE
FANGIRL
By Elle Wittimer
THURSDAY
“Oh.”
It was all I could say.
I curled my fingers tightly around the phone in my lap. It
buzzed again. Another Instagram comment. Or Twitter. I wished
it was neither.
The interviewer went on. “Natalia Ford, the actress who orig-
inally played Amara, whose shoes you stepped into, has already
voiced solidarity for the movement, pleasing a lot of older fans.
She has also recently criticized your interpretation of Amara, say-
ing that you don’t embody the spirit of the character. Does that
bother you?”
For other people to not like you? The fandom to not like you?
That’s what she didn’t say, but I saw it in her eyes. I was surprised,
really, that it had taken this long for an interviewer to bring it up.
I’m a girl in Hollywood, I wanted to tell her. I’m either too fat or
too skinny or too pretty or not pretty enough. Nothing bothers me.
But that would’ve been a lie, as evidenced by my death grip
on my phone.
“Erin, right?” I said, when I should’ve not taken the bait. But
I was too tired to stop, and I wasn’t paying attention to Dare’s
signals to shut up. If you know anything about my overly en-
thusiastic costar, it’s that he’s never subtle about anything. I just
didn’t care. “Tell me, Erin, what has Natalia Ford done since she
played Amara, what, twenty years ago? Another one-off Starfield
special? Ms. Ford doesn’t have a career. I do, in spite of what
everyone says. That’s all that matters—”
“I must be early,” a calm voice interrupted. “That tends to
happen to people without careers.”
My blood ran cold.
In the doorway stood a woman with piercing brown eyes and
peppery-gray hair pulled back into a bun. Her face was heart
shaped, eyebrows dark and severe, her lips pursed. Though she
was short, standing in that doorway she commanded the room.
Trade her monochromatic pantsuit for a dress made of galaxies
and starlight, and she was still the princess of the universe. In her
arms sat a hairless cat who surveyed the room with narrow em-
erald eyes, looking almost as dour as his owner.
So, yeah, my second mistake was insulting Natalia Ford.
And my third mistake?
Well.
After that disaster of an interview, I needed to take a breath.
Dare warned me that we had to be at a panel in ten minutes. It
felt like every one of my days at this loud overcrowded conven-
tion was planned down to the second, squeezing as much of Jes-
sica Stone out of my appearance as possible. But I needed quiet.
I needed to breathe.
So I excused myself to the restroom to collect myself, and that
was my third mistake. If I’d never gone to the bathroom, if I’d
never left Dare’s sight, if I’d followed him straight onto that stu-
pid panel—
My phone dings, wrenching me out of my panic spiral. It is
Ethan Tanaka, my assistant and best friend (only friend, if I’m
being truthful).
—[pic]
—
—THIS
— ISN’T YOU.
—WHERE
— ARE YOU.
—JESS.
—
—JESSICA.
—
I must be dreaming.
That’s all there is to it. I’m dreaming, and in like three seconds
everyone’s going to turn into Daleks and ANNIHILATE me and
I’ll have to run away with sexy David Tennant and help fight the
Borg in a netherverse and duel against Sith Lords bent on conquer-
ing the empire, only to fall to the hands of the Nox King and—
Whoa, I’m getting ahead of myself. How did I even get here?
On a Starfield panel when I am most definitely, one hundred and
ten percent not Jessica Stone? Well, lucky for you, I can totally,
absolutely explain this.
Yep. I can definitely explain this.
I can . . . mostly explain this?
Okay, you got me. I can basically explain only ten percent of
this and none of it is my fault.
Well, maybe a little of it.
Oh, starflame, I’m dead.
Dead dead.
Like, I-am-masquerading-as-a-famous-actress-and-will-be-
found-out dead.
I stare out at the crowd in the largest room of the entire con.
There must be three thousand pairs of eyes staring back at me.
It’s standing room only. I can tell by the constant murmur—when
you go to enough cons and sit through enough panels, you just
know. You know that there are six thousand eyes staring at you
like you’re some god of fame and fandom. The audience is shift-
ing in their chairs, the smell of the con so strong and distinct, it
reminds me of a thirteen-year-old boy’s bedroom.
I should know—thirteen was a rough year for my brother
Milo. You never forget that smell.
Just like you never forget the sight of this stage from the au-
dience. It’s fifty feet long, set up with a white table draped in a
cloth bearing the ExcelsiCon logo. There are three microphones
for the five people on the panel, and paper nameplates at each
chair identifying each star. (Although how can you not know
who they are?)
No one notices that I’m not the girl whose name is on the card
in front of me. They don’t realize that I am not Jessica Stone. At
least not yet. Because as the actors of Starfield—the same Star-
field I saw fourteen times in theaters this summer (a fact I wear
as a badge of honor)—go down the line introducing themselves,
none of them calls me out.
They don’t notice.
I mean, I do get the occasional “You know who you look
like?” from strangers who feel the need to tell me that I look like
Jessica Stone. And since Starfield came out, I’ve been stopped in
Starbucks more times than I’m comfortable with. Which, come to
think of it, is probably one of the major reasons I dyed my hair
last weekend and basically killed my entire bathroom with neon
pink. But you can’t see my hair under my black space queen
beanie—the same one Jessica Stone had on in the bathroom when
I met her—and with the way the stage lights are shining down so
harshly, I probably look more like Jessica Stone than usual.
Oh, starflame, they actually think I’m Jessica Stone.
Cool, cool, coolcoolcool. Just roll with it, Imogen Ada Love-
lace, drama is your favorite class in high school. Improv it.
Darien Freeman—ohmygod, the Darien Freeman, Federation
Prince Carmindor, the love of my Tumblr life—leans into the mic
we share (WE. ARE. SHARING. A. MICROPHONE.) and intro-
duces himself, “I’m Darien Freeman.”
Oh my God he’s Darien Freeman.
. . . I know he is.
BUT STILL.
Cool, cool. Keep calm.
I thought today was just going to be a normal day. Just an-
other Thursday at ExcelsiCon, helping my moms in their booth
while drooling over the best cosplay. You know, the usual con
stuff.
I think everything started going wrong when I decided to
go to the hidden bathroom, the one on the second floor of the
showroom’s hotel, the Marriott, a really magnificent building in
the middle of downtown Atlanta. Pockets of vendors are spread
out over the four hotels that make up the convention center, all
connected by sidewalks and skybridges. My moms just happened
to get a booth in the biggest showroom in the main hotel (they
should, they’ve been going long enough). That’s how I know about
the off-limits restroom. Technically it’s reserved for special guests,
but there’s never any signs, so it really doesn’t count as breaking
a rule. Anyway, I’d done my business and exited the stall to wash
my hands, humming the Starfield theme that Milo got stuck in my
head earlier, when I saw her:
Princess Amara.
wanna take this question? Spoilers for all of you who haven’t
seen Starfield yet! How did you feel when your character, Princess
Amara, died?”
I blink and my eyes dart to the fan who asked the question.
He’s tall and gangly, but I can’t really make him out, blinded by
the stage lights.
Darien hesitates beside me, looking from the moderator to
me and then back to the moderator. He begins to lean in to the
microphone, but then so do I.
I don’t know why. I shouldn’t.
Maybe because Jessica Stone is in the crowd, and I’m up
here . . .
. . . something just shifts.
She’s better off dead. Her voice echoes in my head and I
can’t stand it. My lanyard is laden with the burden of fifteen
#SaveAmara pins and I think of those fifty thousand signatures
from the petition demanding to bring her back from the dead.
The podcaster—and everyone else—is urging me to answer the
question. I know exactly how Jessica Stone would feel. I hate it.
I take a breath, trying to remember the tone and crisp lilt of
her soft Southern accent. “I was heartbroken.”
In the crowd, Jessica Stone’s face hardens.
Felix barks a laugh. “That we were—”
I cut him off. I’m not done. “She never should have died. She
should have lived. She deserved to live.”
The fan who asked the question stares at me, mouth agape,
as if that was the most insane response I could’ve ever given to
that question. It’s no secret that Jessica Stone hates Starfield. That
she can’t wait to get out of the franchise. Like Robert Pattinson
in his Twilight days, Jessica degrades the franchise every chance
she gets.