Page 8 of My Cosplay Escape
Gwen rises to her feet and pulls me up with her. “So I’ll meet you at the convention center?”
I press my palm to my forehead. A run and twenty minutes in the sauna would be nice right about now. “Finding the badges this late will cost a fortune and will be, you know, slightly illegal.”
Gwen puts up her hand and makes shushing sounds. “My crazy idea, my treat. Yes or no, Saire?”
I open and close my mouth. It’s my last chance to say no. I’m supposed to say no. I have rules in place for a reason. I know how I can get carried away with cosplay and/or guys. I’m supposed to be an adult. Comics are for teenagers and boring, middle-aged white guys. They were part of my past, but are not part of my future. The same future that consists of insomnia runs, babysitting kids at a gym, and late-night cross-training, all while doing my best to vanish from functional corners of society. My shoulders hunch and my spine rounds just thinking of it…
But one last hit of cosplay wouldn’t change my future. I’m living in my mom’s office/spare bedroom, for fudge’s sake. It’s Comic-Con, after all. You can’t really say you’re from San Diego if you’ve never been to Comic-Con.
“You wouldn’t tell anyone it’s me?” The times I’ve had to tell people how I met Daniel… It’s mortifying. A complete joke. “I mean, if my mom found out, I don’t think I’d be let out of the house ever again.”
“You can come in costume, and you’ll just be another crazy in the crowd.”
I try to groan, but it comes out a nervous laugh. “And you wouldn’t ditch me?” The real heart of the matter. I cannot let my friendship with Gwen unravel.
Gwen crosses her heart. “Friends don’t let friends cosplay alone.”
“Thanks, Gwen.” I inhale, not realizing I was holding my breath. “Sure. I mean, yes. I will meet you there.”
Chapter Three
My mom is a religious zealot. Okay, maybe not a zealot, but she is definitely a church lady. I think it’s what happens when your spouse tragically dies during the evening commute, and you are left to raise two kids on your own. Help has to come from somewhere. May as well be church. And if going to church once a week is good for the soul, finding a way to be there nearly every weekday is even better, right?
Growing up, I thought church was just what everyone did. I thought everyone’s mom took issue with skirts above the knee and sleeveless dresses. I thought everyone’s mom insisted on “clean language” and put her foot down when it came to entertainment in her home that “crossed the line.” Not that the line was clearly defined. We watchedThe Sound of Musica lot back in the day.
Brent got more slack. He’s a boy. He needed boyish things. He needed an outlet. He needed role models. Sure, he could go see the new Cicada-bro movie with his friends. Meanwhile, I needed to go change because my shirt was too tight. Meanwhile, I started to read more comics than Brent or his friends ever read combined. Meanwhile, I started putting all the home-economics skills I learned at church to good use amassing my cosplay collection. What Jesus and sewing have in common still escapes me, but I will forever be grateful to Sister Grace Eldrich for teaching me how to staystitch nylon on pleather. At least, I thought I would be forever grateful. Right now, I’m not so sure.
All I can think about is how my life would end if my mom decides she doesn’t need to go to church this Saturday morning for the Book of Revelation study group and instead comes home to find her daughter clad head to toe in the tightest, shiny, black vinyl catsuit imaginable. Besides the fact that Mom doesn’t approve of sexy costumes or masks, there’s also the issue that she doesn’t know the half of what I got up to in my sophomore year. I mean, she knows I got married. She doesn’t know that Daniel got me pregnant before he even knew my name.
“You do remember my name?” I asked that awkward afternoon six weeks later when I told Daniel about the dollar-store-pee-on-a-stick positive.
“Yeah. You’re…” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember. The fact that I had to explain I was Cicada Nymph (you mean the Cicada-bro chick?) should have been a dead giveaway that Daniel was a class-A douchebag.
Anyway. Mom doesn’t know Daniel is a douche. She doesn’t know I miscarried at twenty-four weeks. She knows only that we divorced and that I didn’t take her advice and try marriage counseling with the pastor first. Kinda hard to go to marriage counseling when you’re stuck in Michigan and your husband is thousands of miles away hiking the Pacific Crest Trail and “finding himself.”
A text from Gwen makes my thigh buzz, pulling me back from my memory lane funk. Gwen: There’s a cosplay contest!
I tug at my cowl. The chin strap bites into my neck just the same. I try to tap out a response with my clawed fingers. Yes, it is cumbersome, but it also feels more natural than it has any right to.
Me: No. Way.
Gwen: Come on, Saire. Don’t bail on me now.
Me: “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”
Yeah, I like quoting Hamlet.
Sitting in the back of my Lyft is a reality check of the most humiliating order. The driver, Tim, keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes nearly pop out of his head, his smile is so wide. I’m a grown woman parading around in a skanky, homemade costume that screams, “Desperate for attention.” This is why I quit cosplaying. And yeah, there was the sex on the bathroom counter with Cicada-bro, who turned out to be the world’s biggest douchebag. One shotgun wedding, quickly followed by a divorce—yeah, it’s a bio for the ages.
Gwen: The villain groups always win.
Gwen sends a GIF of a pouting puppy. I scoff and roll my eyes, and I swear that somewhere I’ve just become a meme.
“Everything okay back there?” Tim asks.
I stare down at my vinyl-clad thighs. The enormous shiny black boots are heavy and sweaty on my legs. They push my knees up to an unnatural angle in the back seat. “Can you turn up the AC?”
Tim pretends to busy himself adjusting vents and whatnot. Clearly, it’s not every day you drive Catstrike, AJ Comics’ sexiest villain and Nightbat’s naughty crush, across town. Thank merciful heavens I am wearing a mask.
