completely into Mora, the badass peacock-inspired leader from my stepmom’s famous Fighting Flock comic series.
Jayla turns back to putting the finishing touches on her own makeup in the mirror, gently dabbing bright white spots onto her dark brown skin. “Go get your dress on. I’m almost done.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, hopping off the counter. I grab my emerald-green dress off the hook and disappear into the bedroom to get changed. I bought this dress for a school dance a few months ago—Jayla said the color “really popped” against my fair skin—but she’s modified it pretty heavily since then, changing the cut, adorning it with feathers, and just generally turning it into a gown fit for peacock royalty.
I glance at the time and groan. “Prom started fifteen minutes ago.”
“We’re supposed to be fashionably late,” Jayla calls back through the bathroom door.
“If you don’t hurry, we’re going to be the unfashionable kind,” I mutter, zipping up my dress. I’m still struggling to tie the crisscrossing green and purple ribbons up my arms when Jayla finally steps out of the bathroom.
“Here, let me,” she says, coming over, and I do a double take. Gone is Jayla, and in her place stands the best Shuri cosplay I have ever seen in my life. She’s wrapped her braids into a massive bun on her head, and while it’s not quite Wakandan-princess level, it’s close. Add in the makeup and the warrior outfit she’s been crafting for months and—
“Holy crap,” I say, and she laughs.
“Yeah,” she says, holding her arms out and twirling.
“You’re definitely going to win tonight. You know that, right?”
She shrugs. “I better, after what happened earlier.” Meaning when her Harley Quinn cosplay came in second place, which she rates as a major underperformance, even though there were nearly 150 people competing and there was no way she was beating someone in a life-size replica of Hulkbuster armor.
“Stop, you did awesome,” I say, but she shakes her head.
Jayla’s always intense with this stuff, partially because she’s super competitive (see also: only being a junior and already the co-captain of her club’s soccer team), and partially because people will find any excuse to tear down a black girl that dares to also cosplay white characters. Jayla can’t just be good; she has to be great, and even when she’s great, she still gets crap for it. It’s gross and annoying and one of the things I hate most about the comics community.
“Ready?” she asks, cinching the last ribbon.
“Yeah, I just have to strap myself into these death traps,” I say, sliding my foot into a shiny green stiletto. I thought Jayla was kidding when she showed up to my house with them. Spoiler alert: she was not.
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