Imogen turns off my phone, and there is a crease between her brow, a little like worry and a little like anger. “Oh Jess…I didn’t know it was this bad. I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too. I’m sorry I lied to you at the beginning. The truth is, I messed up pretty badly too. I was so intent on not being Princess Amara that I didn’t stop and look to see what I had right now. Just because Natalia Ford has a dead-end career doesn’t mean I will.”
Imogen’s eyebrows furrow. “Dead-end? But…she went on to do other things, you know. She’s—Natalia Ford is one of the most prominent TV showrunners in Hollywood. If a network needs a series course-corrected, they bring her in. She’s won three Emmys for her work.”
I blink. “No, she hasn’t.”
“Yeah. She definitely has.”
“Then why haven’t I head of her?”
“Well, she goes by N. A. Porter—”
I give a start. “As in Blades of Valor N. A. Porter? The Sunrise Girl N. A. Porter?”
“Yeah, Jess. You didn’t think she made all of her money from syndication, did you? They got paid peanuts for Starfield,” Imogen scoffs.
This information settles into the soft matter of my brain like pebbles at the bottom of a pond. When I complained about being typecast, about always being a foil, Natalia Ford told me to change things. Like she had as N. A. Porter.
She told me to change things because it isn’t as impossible as I’d thought.
Imogen slides out of the booth to return the mop to the bucket and then rolls it over to the waitress before coming back to sit down again. She takes off the brown wig, her pink pixie sticking up every which way, and steals one of my fries.
“Oh starflame—HOT!” She gasps as the hot sauce zings right to her nose. She grabs my water and chugs half of it. “Are you trying to kill me?”
I shrug and pop another fry into my mouth. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Oh that’s going to burn for a while,” she says, fanning her open mouth. “All right. If we’re going to find this script, we need to figure out who stole it.”
“We?”
“You don’t think I’m going to let you do this alone, do you? We’ve still got time. There’s three hours until our last panel at ExcelsiCon, and what better place to reveal who the script belongs to if not at that panel?”
“I can’t ask you to help me—”
“I want to. Friends help each other, yeah? I mean, I’ve lived in your shoes for almost forty-eight hours, I think I know you better than I know my brother.” And Imogen smiles at that, because she knows Milo better than she knows herself, I think. “So, tell me everything you know about this thief.”
“Well, they’re at this convention, and they always seem to post when some big Starfield thing has happened or is about to happen.”
“That makes me think it’s someone associated with the film. Another actor?” Imogen leans back in the booth and frowns. “But then wouldn’t they have their own script?”
“No. My agent said I had the only one.”
“So, it has to be someone on the inside, someone who doesn’t like you. A fan wouldn’t know things that are going to be revealed, and the thief posted that General Sond excerpt before Vance was announced. Starflame!” She gasps and jerks ramrod straight, the color draining from her cheeks. “Right before I shoved Mr. D-Bag out of the booth and poured two malts on him, he told me that Princess Amara doesn’t have happy endings and that I’ll never get a second chance—because he already knew.”
She looks me dead in the eye, and we say together:
“Vance Reigns.”
I push my fries aside, my appetite gone. A waitress comes to take the basket, but Imogen snags one with as little hot sauce as possible and eats it. I say, “It makes sense. No one in Hollywood likes him because he’ll do anything to get ahead. He even pitched a fit on the set of Blades of Valor. His poor PA quit after that. No one likes working for him. He’s hungry for fame. If he frames it so that he finds out I’m the one leaking the script…”
Imogen nods. “That would definitely boost his standing in the Starfield fandom. Girls are already ovulating over him—have you seen the shitposts on Tumblr? Some of those people need to be hosed down they’re so thirsty. And Vance is staying in our hotel. So he could’ve been the one to fish your script out.”
I don’t want to get my hopes up, but my heart is beginning to beat in my ears. It must’ve been Vance. I just didn’t recognize him because I’d never seen him outside of awards shows. I didn’t think he would be a suspect.
But honestly I’m not surprised.
“All right—yeah—okay. So what now?”
“Now,” Imogen says, grabbing her bag and scooting to the edge of the booth, “we have to prove it. What do you say, partner?” She sticks out her hand.
I smile and accept it, and she pulls me to my feet. “This might sound a little weird,” I say, “but I feel like I know you. Aside from the whole we-traded-lives part.”
At that, she smiles widely and says, “Welcome to the fandom life, where you never know anyone but you always know everyone.”
“Like Harper,” I say before I can stop myself. “Which,” I look away in embarrassment, “you might have to explain some things to her. I kind of ran out of the convention when she figured out that I wasn’t…that I’m…And she’s so great and nice and perfect—she didn’t deserve all of the lies I told her.”
Imogen crosses her arms over her chest and studies me, as if I’m some plot twist in a story she hadn’t expected to like, and then she leans in and asks, “Do you like her?”
“W-what?” I sputter, and a blush spreads across my face. I grab the receipt and hurry to the cash register, and she follows me like a Baskerville hound.
“You do!”
The cashier rings up the order. I dig around in my purse for exact change and hand it to her, my cheeks so hot they’re searing. “I—it’s—”
“Then you don’t like Ethan?”
I nab my receipt and whirl around. “Ethan? Oh God no. Wait—” I narrow my eyes, cross my arms, and imitate the same scrutiny she gave me, which causes her to lean backward a little. I don’t even have to ask the question before her ears begin turning pink and she whirls to hurry out of the diner.
“You like him!” I accuse, following close on her heels. “Rule six! It was a rule for a reason!”
She shoves open the door and steps out into the muggy Atlanta afternoon. This is the photo I promised the paparazza, and I put on a smile as she snaps pictures while Imogen and I make our way down the street. Imogen is so flustered and lost in her own head that she doesn’t even notice. “I thought you made the rule because, well, you liked him.”
“I definitely do not. I just didn’t want to see him getting hurt, especially since you’re so cute in all the ways I’m not—and in all the ways he likes.” Her ears are growing redder and redder, and she can feel it too; she quickly arranges her hair over them. I catch up to her as we cross the street, leaving the paparazza behind. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”