The Princess and the Fangirl Read online

  Praise for Geekerella

  “Geekerella has ‘must-read’ written all over it. A fun romantic comedy with coming-of-age sensibilities and authentically voiced teens, this novel hits all the YA book-love buttons. Geekerella is simply delightful.”,

  —USA Today’s Happy Ever After

  “Fairytale and fandom collide in this sweet, heartfelt, entertaining rom-com.”

  —Bustle

  “A legit love letter to geekdom.”

  —Paste magazine

  “With geekily adorable characters, a show that’s part Star Trek and part Firefly, a cosplay contest, and a food truck fairy godmother, this is a love letter to fandom. Required reading for geeks everywhere.”

  —Booklist

  “A celebration of fandom and happily ever afters, this feel-good reimagining hits all the right notes.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The geekiest spin on Cinderella you’ll ever read.”

  —Hypable

  “Geeks and non-geeks will discover their inner fangirl when they fall for this fan-tastic book that celebrates fan-doms, fan-tasy, and ‘shipworthy romance.’”

  —Justine

  “This geeky twist on a classic Cinderella story is honestly the most adorable thing ever!”

  —Her Campus

  “This charming and funny twist on Cinderella is the perfect YA fandom fairytale.”

  —BNTeen blog

  “Geekerella…couldn’t be sweeter or more fun….If you’re a fan of Fangirl, or a fan yourself, this is the version of Cinderella for you.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “Heirloom cosplay, fairy godfriends, and a new fandom with the swooniest OTP. Equal parts Fangirl and This Is What Happy Looks Like, Geekerella is so. Frakking. Good.”

  —Lily Anderson, author of The Only Thing Worse Than Me Is You

  “I’ve never had this much fun reading a fairytale retelling! Geekerella is hilarious, packed with emotional punches, and steeped in so much love for fandom and con culture. We’ve all known the Cinderella story since preschool, but Ashley Poston’s version feels so fresh and real that I genuinely worried Elle might not make it to the ball.”

  —Alison Cherry, author of Look Both Ways and For Real

  “Fun, funny, and fan-tastic! I rooted for Elle and Darien from page one.”

  —Sarah Ahiers, author of Assassin’s Heart and Thief’s Cunning

  “Adorkable, geektastic, nerderiffic…however you describe it, Geekerella is scrumptious! Ashley Poston’s fandom is one you’ll definitely want to join.”

  —Tiffany Schmidt, author of Break Me Like a Promise and Bright before Sunrise

  “An utterly charming take on Cinderella that sparkles with witty banter, Geekerella is the perfect YA fandom fairytale.”

  —Dahlia Adler, author of Behind the Scenes and Just Visiting

  This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and characters are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Ashley Poston

  All rights reserved. Except as authorized under U.S. copyright law, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2018943035

  ISBN: 9781683690962

  Ebook ISBN 9781683690979

  Cover design by Andie Reid

  Cover illustration by Amy DeVoogd

  Production management by John J. McGurk

  Quirk Books

  215 Church Street

  Philadelphia, PA 19106

  quirkbooks.com

  v5.4

  a

  For you, dear reader—

  As someone once told me,

  You’re going to be amazing

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Geekerella

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Fate of Amara

  Day One: Thursday

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Day Two: Friday

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Day Three: Saturday

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Imogen

  Jess

  Day Four: Sunday

  Imogen

  Jess

  Amaralives

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  THE FATE OF AMARA

  By Elle Wittimer

  [EXCERPT FROM REBELGUNNER]

  AFTER A RECORD-BREAKING MONTH AT THE box office, Starfield has captured the hearts and minds of legions of fans worldwide, rocketing its young leads, Darien Freeman and Jessica Stone, to superstardom. Soon after the announcement of its third consecutive week in the #1 spot, the studio revealed plans for a sequel, to the surprise of no one who enjoys money.

  Now, rumors are beginning to circulate: Who could the villain be in the sequel? Which new lucky lady will capture the Federation Prince Carmindor’s heart? Jessica Stone has been silent about any sort of obligation to reprise her role as Princess Amara, and for those of us who have seen Starfield, we know this to be a near impossibility anyway.

  The cast will come together for the first time since the success of Starfield, gathering at the twenty-fifth annual ExcelsiCon for panels, interviews, and meet-and-greets. The director, Amon Wilkins, will reveal the title of the sequel (and perhaps even our villain!) over the course of the sci-fi convention.

  But as Starfield goes on, and the story continues where the television show left off, what does this mean for the legacy of Amara?

  And what will Starfield be without our princess?

  DAY ONE

  THURSDAY

  * * *

  “Is that how you greet your new ruler?

  With a pistol and a sassy catchphrase?”

  —Princess Amara, Episode 13, “The Queen of Nothing”

  PRINCESS AMARA IS DEAD.

  In a perfect universe, I wouldn’t care. My character dies a noble and brilliant death at the end of Starfield, when she rams her spaceship into the Black Nebula (which is more like a black hole, but whatever) to save her one true love, the dreamy Federation Prince Carmindor.

  In a perfect universe, I would’ve cashed my check and used Starfield as a springboard to more Oscar-worthy roles. Roles that mean something, roles that tell invaluable stories, that aren’t me looking hot in a suffocating dress while running in heels.

  In a perfect universe, I would be happy.

  But this universe is not perfect and neither am I, although I’ve tried to be. I’ve tried so, so hard. And it all might be for nothing.

  Because today I made three unforgivable mistakes.

  The first one:

  During a presser (a presser is basically a marathon of filmed interviews with different media outlets back to back to back…I can usually endure them for hours, but these nerd ones are a different beast entirely. How I long for questions about Darien Freeman’s new diet or my glittery pumps), held in a small room in a hotel, I accide
ntally let this slip:

  “I certainly hope Amara doesn’t come back.”

  Which, I know.

  Bad answer.

  The interviewer had been coming for blood for the past thirty minutes, poking and prodding at our airtight answers until something had to give, and the bright lights were giving me a headache.

  So of course it was me who slipped first.

  I wasn’t paying attention. For hours Dare—Darien Freeman, my costar—had been entertaining the interviewers. He lived and breathed Starfield—he was a fanboy before he became Prince Carmindor, and that’s stellar publicity. The world eats it up. It’s adorable.

  What’s decidedly less adorable is Princess Amara, poor dead Princess Amara, played by a girl who’s never even seen the show.

  I don’t make good press fodder.

  Or, at least, I didn’t think I did.

  The interviewer’s eyes widened behind her candy-apple-red glasses. She was petite and blond, stylish in a ’60s pinup meets Revenge of the Nerds sort of way. “But thousands of fans would love to see you back! And your character, too. Have you heard of the #SaveAmara initiative?”

  I shook my head.

  Dare jumped at the chance to inform me. “Oh, it’s a Twitter hashtag created to rally the fandom and save the princess from her fate.”

  The interviewer nodded enthusiastically. “The user who created it claims that Amara deserved better, especially in this reboot. She deserved to live, not to be fridged for Prince Carmindor’s character development.”

  “Oh.”

  It was all I could say.

  I curled my fingers tightly around the phone in my lap. It buzzed again. Another Instagram comment. Or Twitter. I wished it was neither.

  The interviewer went on. “Natalia Ford, the actress who originally played Amara, whose shoes you stepped into, has already voiced solidarity for the movement, pleasing a lot of older fans. She has also recently criticized your interpretation of Amara, saying that you don’t embody the spirit of the character. Does that bother you?”

  For other people to not like you? The fandom to not like you? That’s what she didn’t say, but I saw it in her eyes. I was surprised, really, that it had taken this long for an interviewer to bring it up.

  I’m a girl in Hollywood, I wanted to tell her. I’m either too fat or too skinny or too pretty or not pretty enough. Nothing bothers me.

  But that would’ve been a lie, as evidenced by my death grip on my phone.

  “Erin, right?” I said, when I should’ve not taken the bait. But I was too tired to stop, and I wasn’t paying attention to Dare’s signals to shut up. If you know anything about my overly enthusiastic costar, it’s that he’s never subtle about anything. I just didn’t care. “Tell me, Erin, what has Natalia Ford done since she played Amara, what, twenty years ago? Another one-off Starfield special? Ms. Ford doesn’t have a career. I do, in spite of what everyone says. That’s all that matters—”

  “I must be early,” a calm voice interrupted. “That tends to happen to people without careers.”

  My blood ran cold.

  In the doorway stood a woman with piercing brown eyes and peppery-gray hair pulled back into a bun. Her face was heart shaped, eyebrows dark and severe, her lips pursed. Though she was short, standing in that doorway she commanded the room. Trade her monochromatic pantsuit for a dress made of galaxies and starlight, and she was still the princess of the universe. In her arms sat a hairless cat who surveyed the room with narrow emerald eyes, looking almost as dour as his owner.

  So, yeah, my second mistake was insulting Natalia Ford.

  And my third mistake?

  Well.

  After that disaster of an interview, I needed to take a breath. Dare warned me that we had to be at a panel in ten minutes. It felt like every one of my days at this loud overcrowded convention was planned down to the second, squeezing as much of Jessica Stone out of my appearance as possible. But I needed quiet. I needed to breathe.

  So I excused myself to the restroom to collect myself, and that was my third mistake. If I’d never gone to the bathroom, if I’d never left Dare’s sight, if I’d followed him straight onto that stupid panel—

  My phone dings, wrenching me out of my panic spiral. It is Ethan Tanaka, my assistant and best friend (only friend, if I’m being truthful).

  ETHAN TANAKA (3:03 PM)

  —[pic]

  —THIS ISN’T YOU.

  —WHERE ARE YOU.

  —JESS.

  —JESSICA.

  Pulling down my black beanie in the hopes of passing unnoticed, I elbow my way into the ballroom, where the Starfield panel has already started. The one I’m supposed to be on. The lights are off and the audience is quiet—such a drastic shift from the thundering noise of the hundreds if not thousands of people in the Marriott hotel lobby. My ears are ringing with the silence; I can’t even hear myself think.

  My eyes slowly adjust as I gaze over a sea of anxious fans, panic prickling at my skin.

  “I’m Jess—Jessica Stone,” says a girl on the stage, but it isn’t me.

  This isn’t happening.

  This is impossible.

  I stare at the girl sitting between Dare and Calvin. There, in my chair. Behind my name tag. She’s exactly where I’m supposed to be. Where I need to be. But instead I’m in the audience, mute and invisible, and all the lights are on her.

  And to my mounting horror, no one seems to realize that she isn’t me.

  I MUST BE DREAMING.

  That’s all there is to it. I’m dreaming, and in like three seconds everyone’s going to turn into Daleks and ANNIHILATE me and I’ll have to run away with sexy David Tennant and help fight the Borg in a netherverse and duel against Sith Lords bent on conquering the empire, only to fall to the hands of the Nox King and—

  Whoa, I’m getting ahead of myself. How did I even get here? On a Starfield panel when I am most definitely, one hundred and ten percent not Jessica Stone? Well, lucky for you, I can totally, absolutely explain this.

  Yep. I can definitely explain this.

  I can…mostly explain this?

  Okay, you got me. I can basically explain only ten percent of this and none of it is my fault.

  Well, maybe a little of it.

  Oh, starflame, I’m dead.

  Dead dead.

  Like, I-am-masquerading-as-a-famous-actress-and-will-be-found-out dead.

  I stare out at the crowd in the largest room of the entire con. There must be three thousand pairs of eyes staring back at me. It’s standing room only. I can tell by the constant murmur—when you go to enough cons and sit through enough panels, you just know. You know that there are six thousand eyes staring at you like you’re some god of fame and fandom. The audience is shifting in their chairs, the smell of the con so strong and distinct, it reminds me of a thirteen-year-old boy’s bedroom.

  I should know—thirteen was a rough year for my brother Milo. You never forget that smell.

  Just like you never forget the sight of this stage from the audience. It’s fifty feet long, set up with a white table draped in a cloth bearing the ExcelsiCon logo. There are three microphones for the five people on the panel, and paper nameplates at each chair identifying each star. (Although how can you not know who they are?)

  No one notices that I’m not the girl whose name is on the card in front of me. They don’t realize that I am not Jessica Stone. At least not yet. Because as the actors of Starfield—the same Starfield I saw fourteen times in theaters this summer (a fact I wear as a badge of honor)—go down the line introducing themselves, none of them calls me out.

  They don’t notice.

  I mean, I do get the occasional “You know who you look like?” from strangers who feel the need to tell me that I look like Jessica Stone. And since Starfield came out, I’ve been stopped in Starbucks more times than I’m comfortable with. Which, come to think of it, is probably one of the major reasons I dyed my hair last weekend and basically killed my entire b
athroom with neon pink. But you can’t see my hair under my black space queen beanie—the same one Jessica Stone had on in the bathroom when I met her—and with the way the stage lights are shining down so harshly, I probably look more like Jessica Stone than usual.

  Oh, starflame, they actually think I’m Jessica Stone.

  Cool, cool, coolcoolcool. Just roll with it, Imogen Ada Lovelace, drama is your favorite class in high school. Improv it.

  Darien Freeman—ohmygod, the Darien Freeman, Federation Prince Carmindor, the love of my Tumblr life—leans into the mic we share (WE. ARE. SHARING. A. MICROPHONE.) and introduces himself, “I’m Darien Freeman.”

  Oh my God he’s Darien Freeman.

  …I know he is.

  BUT STILL.

  Cool, cool. Keep calm.

  I thought today was just going to be a normal day. Just another Thursday at ExcelsiCon, helping my moms in their booth while drooling over the best cosplay. You know, the usual con stuff.

  I think everything started going wrong when I decided to go to the hidden bathroom, the one on the second floor of the showroom’s hotel, the Marriott, a really magnificent building in the middle of downtown Atlanta. Pockets of vendors are spread out over the four hotels that make up the convention center, all connected by sidewalks and skybridges. My moms just happened to get a booth in the biggest showroom in the main hotel (they should, they’ve been going long enough). That’s how I know about the off-limits restroom. Technically it’s reserved for special guests, but there’s never any signs, so it really doesn’t count as breaking a rule. Anyway, I’d done my business and exited the stall to wash my hands, humming the Starfield theme that Milo got stuck in my head earlier, when I saw her:

  Princess Amara.

  I mean, Jessica Stone.

  She was just standing there, and for a second I thought her eyes looked a little red, as if she’d been crying. Which was odd, because I really never imagined Jessica Stone crying about anything. Her life is perfect.

  When she saw me, she looked away and began rummaging in her purse for her signature rosy lipstick. I guess I felt sorry for her—I don’t know—so I unpinned one of the buttons on my lanyard and held it out to her.