“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.”