Page 13 of My Cosplay Escape
“I am.”
“I thought you were Catstrike.”
White Tee laughs. Gwen perks up. “I like your shirt,” she tells him.
Every hetero woman alive would like his shirt. It pulls across his chest and hugs his torso in all the right ways.
He shrugs. “My Nightbat suit was in the wash.”
Gwen giggles, and I have to tamp down my bitchy streak. I’m no longer the prettiest girl at the booth. I don’t have a connection with this guy. I am a crazy in cosplay who has been embarrassing myself by lounging all over his table. My ego came out to play, but it has to go home now. Bye.
I straighten to a stand and hand the box to Gwen. “Your turn.”
Gwen frowns at the box I dropped in her hands.
“We need a four-digit code,” I explain.
“When did Magnificent Man first fly?”
“1936. Nightbat was 1939,” I say.
Gwen punches in the codes. But no luck. “Maybe today’s date?” She tries it, but again nothing.
“Need a hint?” White Tee asks without leaning in, without checking out Gwen’s butt or boobs.
I punch in one last number. 1959.
The lid swings open.
“We won a free T-shirt,” Gwen squeals and seizes the coupon.
I toss the box back to White Tee. I should do something. I should have a snappy parting phrase or a wink and smirk at the ready for a goodbye. My mouth parts. My eyes search him and land one last time on his impossibly normal shirt, before Gwen drags me into the very crowded HS Studio tent.
“What made you guess 1959?” Gwen pauses to flash a peace sign next to a girl who just turned around for a selfie.
“The year the Redemption Ring first came out.” I nod toward the visual vomit of Redemption Ring promotions surrounding us.
“You knew that? #NerdAlert.” Gwen rummages through the racks of T-shirts. I’d like to say that Gwen is oblivious to all the attention she garners in the shop, but she isn’t. She catches someone’s eye and winks. Clearly, Gwen is the life of the party. And I get this weird pang of déjà vu mixed with something like regret. That used to be me when I cosplayed.
I slowly slide back a couple of empty hangers on the rack. They make a terrible screech. “You know he probably had the free tees under his table out there.”
“But I like this one.”
She’s found a vintage Conundrum shirt, chartreuse and covered in little black question marks and exclamation points. “I’m sure it’s okay.”
It isn’t, but after five minutes and a tense moment while the cashier checks Gwen’s badge, Gwen and the vintage tee, along with a bag of free swag and a complimentary soda, emerge victorious.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I say.
“Magnificent Man, eleven o’clock.” Gwen flings her hair over her shoulder, purses her lips, and retrieves her phone. “May we?” she asks in her most sultry supervillain voice. Unfortunately, Magnificent Man is too wholesome to do more than beam at the phone.
“So what does a supervillain do at Comic-Con? Besides shop,” Gwen asks, sipping on her Diet Coke.
My neck aches from twisting, but trying to catch a last glance of White Tee is worth it. He was an eye oasis. A yummy, much-needed break from the crazy all around. But he’s gone. And I can’t pretend anymore that there was a spark of connection. “And walking around posing for pictures with strangers? Wait in line for panels. Collect autographs. Ogle rare and expensive comics. I hear the nachos in Hall H are edible.”
Gwen gags.
“You want to check out the food trucks?” I ask.
