Jayla offers me her arm as we head out when it becomes clear that an ultra-plush carpet adds an additional degree of difficulty to super-high heels. “Everybody’s gonna love those death traps.” She laughs. “There is absolutely no way you’re leaving that dance without checking off Rule Four.”
Ah yes, Rule Four, aka the Final Rule, aka the only thing I have yet to even attempt, despite the fact it would probably be the most inspiring for my music: I must experience a con crush.
Con crushes are kind of Jayla’s thing—find somebody nice, spend the weekend flirting, and then go back home, no muss, no fuss—or they were, before she started casually seeing the other co-captain of the soccer team, Emily Hayes, a few weeks ago. I was supposed to pick up her slack on that front, but no luck so far. It’s not that I’m not open to it . . . it’s just that nobody has caught my eye.
Jayla stops at the door next to ours and I knock. My mom opens the door, her bright red hair shining in the hallway light as she blinks hard. She’s probably just waking up from a nap, and I don’t blame her. After working in the shop booth all day so Vera could sketch and talk to fans in Artist Alley, she’s got to be beat.
“Hey, Jubilee.” She yawns, but I can tell the second she really looks at me, because her eyes widen and then her eyebrows scrunch together the way they do whenever she’s pissed. “Nope.”
“Is everything okay?” Jayla asks all innocently, like she doesn’t already know.
“Vera,” Mom yells over her shoulder, pulling the door open wider. “Look at these kids!”
Vera’s sitting on the edge of the bed, pointing the remote at the TV and lazily flipping through channels. She looks over at me and Jayla and nods appreciatively. “Are you evening-gown Mora? Amazing! And wow, Jayla, incredible detailing on the Shuri chest plate. That must have taken forever!” She sounds utterly delighted. My mom is going to kill her.
“Thank you so much,” Jayla says with the most wholesome smile she can muster.
“Vera.” I can only see the back of Mom’s head now, but I know that tone. I get that tone from her all the time. It’s the “you’re lucky I love you, because you make my life nearly impossible” tone. “Jubilee cannot go out dressed like that.”
“It’s prom,” Vera says. “Give the kid a break.”
“It’s not real prom—it’s comic-book-people prom, which is worse. And she looks twenty-five.”
“It’s my winter-formal dress,” I point out. “You were fine with it in December.”
“See, it’s her winter-formal dress, Lillian. It’s fine.” Vera smirks like that solves everything. I hope it does, but I also know Mom way, way better than that—and Vera should too. They’ve been together four years now, which means she’s had forty-eight months to learn what I’ve known for as long as I can remember: when Mom stands with her hands on her hips, her pinky finger tapping ever so slightly, it means trouble’s definitely brewing.
“No, it used to be her winter-formal dress, but now the back goes down to her butt and the leg slit goes up to her elbow! What message does it send to have the creator’s own kid turning Mora into some kind of pinup girl?”
Vera drops her head back, pulling her jet-black hair into a ponytail that shows off her undercut before walking over and kissing Mom on the temple. Even when they bicker, I swear they’re still the poster children for happily ever after. It’s perfect and gross all at once.
“Lil,” she coos, and my mom visibly softens. “So they took a little artistic license; it’s fine. And the message it sends, if that’s really your concern, is that people shouldn’t have to choose between being feminine or strong; they can be both. And may I remind you that this is an all-ages, dry event—”
“Exactly. All ages, Vera,” Mom interrupts. “Which means it’s not just kids that will be there. All the pervy dinosaurs might show up too.”
“They’re not going to let people in to party with the kids,” Vera says. “You were there last year; the only adults allowed were sponsors and chaperones.”
“I still think she should at least wear a shirt over it,” Mom says, crossing her arms. “You know what teenage boys are like.”
Vera arches an eyebrow. “And I think it’s bullshit to make women cover up instead of holding men accountable for their actions.”
Mom purses her lips. “I hate when you’re right.”
“You know, I could have just stayed home and happily rehearsed all weekend.”
“You needed some sunlight, kid,” Vera says. I don’t bother pointing out that there is literally no natural daylight in this hotel–slash–casino–slash–convention center. “Go. Enjoy yourselves. Let me take care of your mom.” She winks, which makes my mom blush, and ugh, gross. Shouldn’t the lovey-dovey newlywed stage be over by now?
“Okay, yuck, bye,” I say, grabbing Jayla’s hand.
“Bye!” Jayla calls as I drag her down the hall, and we hear my mom giggle and say “Vera!” as she shuts the door. “Wow,” Jayla says. “You know they’re probably gonna—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence.”
By some miracle, the elevator doors are open as we round the corner, but thanks to these ridiculous shoes, we don’t have a prayer of making it in time . . . which means potentially being trapped on this floor for several more minutes. Several more minutes, during which either one of my parents could decide to run out and change her mind about letting us go alone or making me wear a T-shirt. Somehow I don’t think “pushing the boundaries of my experiences” means going to FabCon prom with my mothers. Again.
“Hold that door!” Jayla shouts, dropping my arm and sprinting the rest of the way. Thank god for battle-ready outfits. She slides in her arm just as it closes, and the door bounces back open. She grins as I stumble in after her, laughing hard. I lean against the rail to catch my breath and realize with a start that we’re not alone.
Batman stands in the corner, head tilted, taking in the sight of us. Well, a smaller, teenage-looking version of Batman, anyway—in a white dress shirt, a skinny tie, and dark fitted jeans. Okay, fine, so it’s basically just a dude in a mask. But it counts.
I can tell Jayla is probably about two seconds away from monologuing about the undue appreciation the comics industry shows for mediocre white boys and how this boy in a mask is case in point because he’ll probably take prom king just for showing up. It’s her favorite topic, and she’s definitely not wrong—but it would make for an awkward elevator ride. I’m a little bit relieved when she just rolls her eyes at him and bustles to the opposite side of the elevator car, mumbling, “What’s up, Office Batman?”