Page 26 of My Cosplay Escape
“So you told your mama—”
“I said I was working out and then spending time with you.”
“Oh no. I’m not your alibi. I mean, sure, this one time, but if this is a regular gig, you’re going to need a better story than that.”
“I’ll… I’ll say I’ve got study groups and homework.”
“Or you could just tell everyone that you found a gig that is paying for classes.”
“Things went really south, really fast the last time I cosplayed, remember?”
“I thought things went well at Comic-Con.”
“I’m talking about the time before.”
“I met one of my exes at a drag party. It was fun while it lasted, sharing shoes, shopping each other’s closets.” Gwen sighs wistfully.
“Yeah, but you didn’t end up married.”
“No.” Gwen glances at me with a smile. “Though I did swear off dating any man who is a smaller dress size than I am.”
I try to keep a straight face. “So you understand my position completely.”
“Oh, they’re totally equivalent, hard-won life lessons,” Gwen teases.
“I have to avoid all speed bumps.” I reach for one of Gwen’s hair ties that she hoards in the center console, but they’re gone. In fact, Gwen’s car is devoid of empty pickle packs, stray sandals, and the other jetsam of her life.
“I’ll go really slow if we come to a speed bump, but there aren’t many from here to PB.”
“No, I have to avoid the things, aka the speed bumps, that made me flunk out of school before. No parties for me. No cosplay. And definitely no boys. My rules have never been more important.”
“I see a problem with this. Do you see a problem?” Gwen asks.
I roll my eyes, but there is a satisfied smile threatening to break free too. “That I’m getting paid to cosplay and said pay is the reason why I can go back to school?”
“That would beaproblem. I was thinking of another problem. A cute, tall, square-jawed, blue-eyed, blond-haired problem.”
“Adam has brond hair, not blond. And it’s fine. Adam is fine. I’ll keep things between us strictly professional. I’ll only cosplay for work. It will be the one and only exception to my rules.”
Gwen raises an eyebrow. The gesture is worse than any counterargument.
“Work is work,” I offer. “Work isn’t a party.”
“Definitely not a party,” Gwen says.
“As far as the social stuff and the boy stuff. Those I have a pretty good defense against, thanks to living with my mommy.”
“Right.” Gwen brushes a speck of glitter from her dashboard. “People can see that too—that you live with your mom. From a mile away. Just by looking at you.”
I know what she’s trying to do, but I have to stay focused. “No speed bumps. I can do this. I can cosplay and get paid and go to school and stop being a sad little failure who is obsessed with running.”
Gwen pulls up in front of the gym. “I don’t think you’re ever going to stop running.”
Gwen’s right. I love running. “Probably not.” And before she can refute anything else I’ve said, I grab my bag and shoulder open the car door. “Wish me luck?”
“Oh no, I’m coming in to watch. I’ll run interference too. I have a feeling you might need it.” Gwen drops me off and leaves to circle the block for parking.
My catsuit is shoved into the bottom of my gym bag. Under my towel. Under my shower flip-flops. Under my bottle of shampoo/conditioner. Under my makeup bag. It is there in all its shiny-black-vinyl-and-boots glory. No one knows. I mean, besides Gwen. So why do I feel so embarrassed? My face is beet-juice-fast red when I walk into work at the gym.
