Page 5 of My Cosplay Escape
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Tony arches an eyebrow—just for Gwen, no doubt. “She does know half our members by name.”
I don’t know what to do with this conversation. I’ve become a weird subject for Tony and Gwen to get their flirt on. “I think my mom got everyone at the school and her prayer group to join just so she could keep an eye on me.” I forbade—well, implored—her not to get one herself.
Gwen pulls her arm back in a classic bicep stretch. “You should give her a raise, Tony.”
“Is that so?” He’s nearly pinned Gwen against the Kids Club check-in desk.
Not this again. No way am I going to field a phone call from an irate parent asking what exactly goes on in the Kids Club after she drops her angel off and runs away without saying boo. “Hey, Tony.” I catch Gwen’s gaze and wiggle my eyebrows while Tony is hypnotized by the sight of Gwen grabbing her elbows for a deltoid stretch. “Gwen was asking about the TRX straps. I’m supposed to stay put in the Kids Club. Do you have time to show her—”
“Yeah!” Tony says enthusiastically before correcting himself. “Yeah. This way, Gwen.” Tony holds open the Kids Club door and beams at Gwen, who turns to wrinkle her nose and roll her eyes at me. Still, she goes willingly. Tony, of course, is beside himself.
Two hours later, Gwen finds me. “Sarah, what are you doing next Saturday?”
I’m about to answer that I will be working when she stops me.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re going to Comic-Con with me!”
Bright light and Ben-Day dots flash in my eyes. “What?” My heart starts to race, and I swear my hands are shaking.
A little pigtailed toddler pulls on my leggings. I scoop her up. “What’s going on, girlfriend?”
She pulls a fistful of my hair and screams with delight.
“Okay. Let’s put onPJ Masks. You wanna help?” I hand the TV remote over to the toddler, who runs away, screaming joyously. I, too, feel like screaming, but not from joy. Suppressed inner geek maybe.
“We’re dressing up too,” Gwen says. “I’m going to be a mermaid. You can be one too.”
I hear theflip, flip, flipof pages, and my world starts to segment into panels and speech bubbles.
“What?” I check in another member, actually a mama with a four-year-old and a crawler.
“I don’t like you!” the four-year-old hisses.
“I have candy if you change your mind,” I tell him.
His scrunched-up nose unwrinkles as I press a Starburst into his hand. “One now and one when your mom comes back. If you’re good.”
He runs away, and I rescue Gwen from the chubby crawler, who is using her legs to try to pull himself up. “It’s been a crazy day.” I’m trying to change the subject. I’m trying to stop this train before it derails. Rule number one: No comics. Not again. Not ever.
Gwen is not having it. “So, Comic-Con! We’re going as mermaids.”
Sounds are starting to illustrate themselves into onomatopoeia.Thunk!go the blocks.Crash!go the toy cars. I clutch my stomach, feeling like I am about to faint as my heart hammers into small, yet readable words near my chest.Thump. Thump. Thump.“No. We’re not.”
“Okay, not mermaids. But I have to be somebody with red hair.” Gwen pulls out her phone, no doubt to scan Pinterest for redheaded heroes.
I shake the crazy off before it unravels into something weirder. This is real life, and I’m not about to let my demons out of their cage. I’m not revisiting the past. I’m not doing this. “I can’t go to Comic-Con.”
Gwen isn’t listening. She’s smiling at her phone. “Who else has red hair?”
“MJ,” I say without thinking.
Gwen snorts. “He didn’t have red hair. White glove, yes—”
“No, Maybell June, the girl from Cicada-bro,” I say. Images of blue and red spandex, red wigs, and random characters flash through my mind like snippets of a highlight reel. Is the music in the gym too loud today? Or is that just more memories of that fudging awful night sophomore year? I try breathing long and deep, but the smell of rubber tumbling mats and Diaper Genies makes me cough.
Gwen twirls a strand of her hair around her finger. “Yeah, I’d rather be a mermaid. My abs are pretty good. I should get a tan. I bet if we peeled away all your layers, we’d find you wouldn’t need one.” She mumbles something about rock-hard abs, and I blush. No amount of working out can undo what my abs have been through. Not that I don’t try.
I want to lie down. Instead, I plank on the floor of the crawlers’ corner. “Not happening.”
