“I don’t see why that’s necessary—”

“Because you’re going to be me,” Imogen says, startling me with the sound of my own voice. I’d forgotten she could mimic me so well. “So you need to be convincing,” she says, sounding like herself again.

“To who?”

She stares at me, blinking, and then looks away. “Never mind. You’re right.”

I roll my eyes and fish an extra pair of Ethan’s glasses out of his bag. I’d popped the lenses out of them (promising him I’d pay for a new pair). I put them on. “See? I barely look like myself.”

It’s not like she has anything to worry about. I’m a fantastic actress. I’m Oscar worthy. Pretending to go along with Imogen’s side of this switch should be easy enough, and I can just casually dip out of that Artists’ Alley booth and find my script.

I swirl my hair up inside the beanie. “Okay, now let’s make you me.”

Imogen

THIS IS SOME SERIOUS Twelfth Night meets The Parent Trap kind of weird.

Jess Stone and I are roughly the same size (I definitely I have bigger boobs) so most of her clothes fit me, even her shoes. She opts to keep on her boots, and though I’d rather stick with my dependable sparkly Converses, she won’t let me. Instead she shoves a pair of two-inch heels in my direction.

“Heels?”

She gives me a testy look. “What about them?”

I decide not to bring up that time she faceplanted on the red carpet. It was the GIF seen round the world.

Instead, I take the shoes and pray that there’s an ER nearby in case I accidentally wipe out on the stairs.

We exchange everything—con badges, schedules, wardrobe—agreeing to change back by Saturday evening, before the ExcelsiCon ball. Although Jess doesn’t think we’ll need to switch places that long. She puts on my makeup and wipes hers off. The assistant—Ethan Tanaka is his name, apparently—reminds me of an overbearing German shepherd, the kind my neighbors used to have. Eager to please whoever feeds him and overprotective to a fault. He would totally be hot if he wasn’t glowering at me the way the Rebel forces look at Kylo Ren.

Jessica checks her phone and says, “So the panel isn’t until two, and it’s in the big ballroom, wherever that is.”

“The main stage,” I say automatically, lacing up my shoes. “I mean—I didn’t mean to correct you.”

“Whatever. I don’t know the lingo for these things.”

“That’s kinda condescending,” I murmur.

“No, it’s not,” she shoots back.