I wiggle the wig over my neon-pink pixie, flip it back, and comb my fingers through the brown strands. It seems like a pretty expensive wig. The hair feels real. Starflame, it might even be real. I smooth it out until it looks like my own hair—well, what I guess my hair would look like if I grew it out this long, though I never will. I hate the way it feels on my neck. Plus the whole bit about long hair being more feminine is Noxballs. Social constructs can go take a hike.

I gather a section at the front and braid it like Princess Amara’s hair in the thirteenth episode of Starfield, when Prince Carmindor first meets her. It’s a subtle nod, but fans will recognize it. I used to braid Minerva’s glossy black locks like this all the time when I was younger. Then I twist the braid behind my head, pinning it with one of the bobby pins in the bottom of the plastic bag.

But I still don’t feel like Jessica.

“Hey, uh, dude,” I call from the bathroom, realizing that I can’t remember his name. “Do I look enough like her now? I still feel a little weird. The wig doesn’t look too wiggy, does it?”

He looks up from his phone, clearly about to snark at me again, but whatever he was going to say falls from his lips. I shift on my feet, self-consciously.

He tries to speak, closes his mouth. Then tries again.

Wow, he must really love Jess—I mean, of course he does. He’s only babysitting me because he loves her so much.

Finally, he says, “Jess doesn’t wear her hair like that.”

I stand up a little straighter. “Then I guess it’s time for her to try something new. Besides, the braid hides some of the wiggy-ness.”

He eyes the braid, not liking it at all. “It will do.”

“Good.”

“Fine. Let’s go.”

“After you,” I reply, flourishing a bow as he wrenches the door open. I grab Jessica’s purse from the edge of the bed and we head out down the hallway. Once inside the glass elevator, he pushes the button for the ground floor. As we descend, the mythical land that is the showroom floor slowly unfurls underneath the transparent elevator floor. People are already cosplaying, milling about in clusters on the three levels of the lobby. No matter how many times I see this spectacle, I am constantly in awe. So many nerds coming together to celebrate the things we love.

It’s magical.

Meanwhile, Ethan—Ethan! that’s his name!—clears his throat, startling me out of my thoughts. “Hmm?” I ask.

“I said, give me your phone number. In case we get separated.” I hesitate.

“You’re not leaving this elevator until you give me a number.”

“So you can keep track of me? Can I have yours, too?”