Page 9 of My Cosplay Escape
I’m not really the praying type, but I find myself begging the cosmos that Tim’s sedan breaks down, pops a tire, or crashes, but our drive downtown to the convention center is uneventful and unimpeded.
We arrive, and Tim swivels in his seat. “I’m happy to drive you around the block again. Or, you know… anywhere.” He adds the last bit too quietly, furiously blushing.
I take back everything I thought about wishing his car would break down and bolt out of his back seat. Not easy to do in platform boots.
The San Diego sunshine glints on my black vinyl corset, and I can smell the ocean all around me. It’s a morning that promises plain, wholesome California fun, and I am a dark-’90s freak fantasy. People are staring. I run a hand across my stomach, but it is no use. I can’t hide anything now. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
There is a roller coaster, an old, rickety wooden one, at Belmont Park that has just a lap bar to keep you from flying out. And as you climb up to the top of the big drop—click, click, click—you think,Fudge. What have I done?
Then comes the feeling of absolute panic, the one that urges you to start screaming for the emergency exit. You’d rather take the long, creaky service steps down than go through with the rest of the ride. Panic turns to dread. They stopped making wooden coasters for a reason, right? You think,Just let me die.
You’d pull the e-brake if you could. But you can’t. You’re strapped in. Can’t go over. Can’t go under. Must go through.
I used to feel this way about my long runs. I’d panic the day before. The panic would turn to dread as the sun set. Once, I tried putting it off for a day, but that only fed the panic beast. The only real solution was to just do it.
So you do. Not because you want to. But because that’s how you make it stop.
I feel that way now. But then there is something else as I edge closer to the convention doors. You don’t buy a ticket for the roller coaster because you take a perverse pleasure in suffering. You do it because it is fun. All of it—the nerves, the excitement, the rush. You live for it.
The causeway is littered with cosplayers and conventiongoers. We’re all shuffling toward the main entrance. I tug on my mask—not easy to do with my claws. My phone pings with another text.
Gwen: Stop fidgeting.
“Seriously,” a familiar voice says. “You look amazing. I don’t even recognize you.”
Gwen stands beside me in fishnets, green bustier leotard, and hair that is longer, thicker, and redder than I thought possible. She’s got some intense green makeup going on around her eyes, but no mask.
I give my friend a hug and swear I hear a dozen phones snap a picture. “How’d you know it was me?”
Gwen swipes on a layer of nude lip gloss. “I didn’t until you got my text.”
“Epic costumes, ladies,” a dude with a press badge swinging from his neck says. “Where’d you find them?”
Gwen drops the tube of gloss back down the front of her bustier. Good goldfish, what else is she hiding in there? “Mine’s from this Etsy shop, but Saire is a purist. She made her own.”
The dude whistles low and long, and his eyes linger on my hips as he asks for a picture. Gwen strikes a pose.
“Thanks, Dr. Hemmel,” he says.
“Who?” Gwen asks, practically dislocating my arm as she pulls me in step beside her.
“Dr. Penelope Rose Hemmel. Poison Hemlock’s alter ego,” I clarify.
Gwen flips her long red hair over her shoulder. “Whatever. We are badass villains. We’re entering the cosplay contest. And we are going to win.”
More people are stopping to pull out their phones.
“Why does winning matter?” I ask, swaying uncomfortably in my boots.
“Because, Sarah, it is fun.”
A phone flashes, and I cringe. “Fine. I’ll do it if you promise not to say my name all day.”
“Deal. Now quickly, Catstrike. To the nerd cave.”
* * *
A weird ASMR buzz starts at the back of my scalp as we enter the convention center. Equal parts anticipation and adrenaline. I usually get tingly before my mile sprints. But Comic-Con is different. Today is different. I can feel every single pair of eyes on my black vinyl. “Goldfish,” I whimper. I miss my hoodie. I miss the layers of fabric between my waist and the eyes of so many others. I take big, gulping breaths.
