Page 24 of My Cosplay Escape
“Thank you.” I stare at the pink Post-it. “I will. Come find you, I mean. I’m not going to hit another speed bump.” I’ll make sure of it.
Chapter Seven
I stare at Adam’s number on the front of his business card. I ran by his escape room on Garnet Avenue this a.m. And maybe every morning I’ve had off since Comic-Con. It looks legit. I mean, it is a door between a dispensary and a bar. The stark white lettering looks nice against the dark green paint of the door, and the transom window above is clean.
I thought about showing up with Gwen some random night, but Gwen with the fire-engine red hair and larger-than-life personality matches too easily to the Poison Hemlock at Comic-Con. And from my searches on IG, Poison Hemlock and Catstrike were seen everywhere together. Connecting the costumes would be too easy if I show up with her.
I could go alone, or better yet, I could show up with my mom. No one sees a twentysomething when she goes anywhere with her mom. It’s like acknowledging that anyone could be that pathetic is too painful. People actively repress the experience for you. Even while you’re standing right there.
After snooping on Adam’s website, it is clear I am not going to be showing up at all on the customer end. Holy burning wads of cash, Nightbat. Who has $$$ they can just drop on an escape room? Not me. Every penny of my gym paycheck is put toward student loans, credit cards, and my phone bill.
If I want $843 for a three-credit class this fall, plus book and gas money, I need a side hustle.
I turn the card over and over. If I did this… if I cosplayed every weekend at Superhero Escapes, I could pay for a semester’s worth of civics books in one weekend. That’s what Stacey said. I mean, yeah, civics. Not talking STEM majors, but still. If I did this, I could pay for Open University classes. I could pay for books, and for Lyfts and Ubers to class, and photocopies at the student union when my phone dies, rather than just begging them off of nice boys. I might even be able to pay for a new pair of Asics.
If I cosplay every weekend, I might actually have a second chance at a real life. Not some sad, pathetic, limp-noodle life that involves living in my mom’s home office, trying to outrun my demons, and scrolling through Daniel’s IG feed in the middle of the night.
Although, last night I was scrolling through Adam’s. Interestingly, he hasn’t posted any of the pictures that he took with me at Comic-Con. It doesn’t bug me. I just want to know why he posted pictures of himself with other cosplayers and not me.
I set up a Google Voice number so Adam can’t trace me to my actual phone or real life. Separate spheres. Never the twain shall meet. And it has to stay that way, because I’m serious about avoiding speed bumps, and Adam is definitely speed-bump material.
I can do this. It’s what Stacey said. It’s a good hustle. I need to hustle if I want to afford books and someday a car and the life of an independent, fully-realized adult.
Adam picks up on the second ring. “Adam McKinney.”
Holy fudge goldfish. I hadn’t even thought of what to say.Hi, this is Catstrikeis nothing that would willingly come from my lips.
“Hello?” Adam’s voice is clear through the connection.
I close my eyes and jog my memory with how it felt to be in the costume. A sexy, rough voice seeps out of me. “Adam…”
He instantly recognizes me. “Catstrike! I was hoping you’d call.” A brief pause. He’s excited, but is he excited for the same reason I’m smiling? That flirtatious I’m-calling-you-back-and-it-means-something giddiness? Or is this just about business? “Would you mind if I called you Sabine? People around me are staring at the grown man talking to the unseen superhero.”
“Hmmm…” I purr. Holy fudge goldfish, Nightbat. Who purrs on a phone to a man they shared a Lyft with once? The same woman who falls asleep remembering what it felt like to have his arm around her vinyl-ensconced shoulders—but that was from being swept up by cosplay. It wasn’t the real me. “I’m in.”
“Fantastic.”
“But I have conditions.” See? The real me is pragmatic.
“Name them.” Adam sounds confident on the other end.
“I never take off my cowl. Not for customers. Not for you. Not for any of your other heroes or villains.”
“Done.”
“Fem Fantastic told me that she sometimes wears different costumes for different events.”
“Yeah. I meant to talk with you about that—”
“I need full and complete control of my costume choices.”
On the other end, I hear a female voice whine for Adam. “I thought you liked the vintage-camp Catstrike.” There is a beat and what sounds like a hand over the phone and Adam’s muffled response before he continues, “We sometimes try to expand our demographic, and yeah, on those nights, I encourage retro and camp costumes. Look. Why don’t I book you for some classic ’90s realism beats, and you can see how you feel about branching out after a month or so?” Adam’s voice sounds playful. “Might be fun to play around with your character.”
Tacky ripped leather pants come to mind, and I shudder. “I doubt it.” I hear more voices and Adam asks for five more minutes in a muffled voice. “Is this a bad time?” I ask, and my spine arches as I imagine a girlfriend hanging on his arm—only because I’m getting into character. I have to be to keep up the sexy voice.
“No! No. Please continue.” He doesn’t sound a bit embarrassed. Amused, though.
“I only work Fridays and Saturdays—”
