I can’t exactly say that I want to save Amara because I want to prove I’m not a waste of space. I’m not no one. I might not be good at many things, I suck at trig and chemistry and grammar. But even though I’m not vice president of the student body like Milo, or salutatorian like his boyfriend Bran, I can still be exceptional. I’m not just a raindrop in a pond but a comet plunged into the ocean, and I can make waves the size of skyscrapers because I’m not just here, I’m living.

Just like Amara saying she didn’t want to be a princess. She was terrible at it. She wanted to do something more, to make her father, the Nox King, proud.

So I started a hashtag and wrote articles and think pieces and put a #SaveAmara petition online that got over fifty thousand signatures. And I set money aside to split a booth rental. Last year’s ExcelsiCon was moderately attended, but this year Harper practically had to beg to get us a booth in Artists’ Back Alley. The movie just came out last month, and Starfield’s already broken almost every box-office record set by the Jurassic Worlds and Avengers of the world. It’s kinda incredible.

Anyway, I want to save Amara to let her prove that she can be somebody outside of her father’s or Carmindor’s shadow.

Like me, I guess.

I can’t really tell Milo the truth, so instead I say, “I’m just sick and tired of princesses being either damsels in distress or the foil for a male character’s emotional growth, and I know people want her back.”

I know because when I was Jessica Stone, no one booed me off that stage. Fans want to see her unfridged.

Amara is important.

Milo rolls the pin between his fingers, like he’s trying to find a good reply, but I’m a little afraid to hear it. Maybe he’ll think it’s stupid. Maybe he’ll not understand. Or, worse, maybe he’ll agree with Jessica Stone—that Amara should stay dead. And that’s the last thing I want to hear from my overachieving little brother.

“Hi, Pretzel Henry!” I call as we pass near the back of Artists’ Back Alley, deciding to try to change the subject. An older gentleman—in his mid-fifties probably, with a peppery black beard to match his peppery black hair—looks up from a customer. When he sees us his eyes light up. He waves a salt-less pretzel.

Milo waves back. “He’s literally here every year.”

“Some heroes don’t wear capes,” I say, and shove another pin in the direction of a guy sipping a red ICEE. “Save Amara!” The guy scowls in disgust.

I stick out my tongue at him after he passes.