Page 8 of The Crafting Con

Yeah, not happening. He can wax poetic about whatever “amazing career opportunity” he’s been presented with to someone else, thanks. I couldn’t give a crap.

Sighing, I toss my phone on the bed and move to put the photo I’ve set aside back in Pandora’s box. Memory lane is officially closed. Only…

I glance at the photo again, at Declan’s and my rosy cheeks and mile-wide grins. The ache in my chest squeezes tight, and I frown.

Declan was such an integral part of my childhood. We learned to ride bikes together in the cul-de-sac when we were four. At six, we built a giant cardboard replica of the houseboat from Tumble Leaf on my back deck and sewed fuzzy fox ears onto headbands so we could make believe we were Fig and Maple off on some scientific adventure. When we were eight, we got to work digging an epic pit in Declan’s backyard, fully intending to make our own hobbit hole. That plan got scrapped as soon as his parents caught wind, but still. I can’t imagine doing any of those things with a little Stasia or Tyler. Declan and I were a force of our own, and I let Dad ruin that friendship right along with everything else in my life.

I swallow, staring at the dark-haired boy with the bright green eyes. I miss seeing those eyes laughing at me from the adjacent swing, daring me to jump. I miss his corny jokes and slightly-too-loud ska music, and the way he always challenged me to push the limits. To do hard things. I miss…

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Will the ache away.

When that fails, I pad across the carpet to the head of my bed and slip the photo beneath my pillow.

CHAPTER 4

DECLAN

Fifteen days until OA Con

I can’t seem to stop looking at the old photo. I told myself I was looking for images to share at the workshop, a crafter’s journey through cosplay or something along those lines, but I’m stuck on this decade-old pic of Ava and me. She’s absolutely covered in yellow paint and grinning into the camera while she holds up a pumpkin decorated to look like Pikachu. I’m standing next to her, half-hidden behind a blue behemoth I painted as a Squirtle. Instead of looking straight ahead like Ava is, I’m staring off to the side, instead. At her.

Nine years old, and already fully entranced by the magic which is Ava.

Or rather, was Ava.

The one passing me in the halls without stopping may look all shiny and great on the outside, but the eyes don’t lie. There’s a distinct lack of sparkle there. No more magic. An empty shell. I wince at the memory of my harshly spoken words, and the resulting pain that flashed across Ava’s face. What was she even doing, coming over to our table?

Whatever the reason, I doubt she’ll attempt it again. Not after overhearing what I said. Which is fine. I don’t particularly want to talk to her, anyway.

It’s just…

Curious is all.

What she might have wanted.

“Last call for the controller if you want a turn before I take out Bowser’s spiny ass.” Hiro looks over his shoulder at me from the massive beanbag chair. An image of Mario at the beginning of the final castle is paused on the giant tube TV’s square screen, and Hiro shoves a handful of chips in his mouth as his brow lifts in question. A dusting of crumbs is all that remains from the plate of chocolate chip cookies my mom brought down earlier (Dad’s recipe—he’s, like, a cookie-baking savant).

I slap my phone onto the bed beside me and sit up with a groan. “We don’t have time for games, man. We’re supposed to be going over workshop plans. The con is in two weeks, and we haven’t even agreed on a prop to make.”

Hiro blinks back at me, his mouth steadily chewing. When he finally swallows, it’s only to say, “I’m not the one who’s been mooning over his phone for the last half hour.”

My ears burn at the blunt call-out. “What? No. I have not.”

“Dude. You’ve been staring at it without moving since level one. And I’ve played them all without warping.” He twists in his seat, his gaze flicking to the discarded cell. “What were you looking at, anyway?”

I chuck a pillow at him before he can even think of snooping. “Workshop stuff,” I retort. “You know, the reason you came over in the first place?”

He blocks the pillow with the one crammed in beside him—a sailor-suited, anime girl cushion he gave me for my birthday last year as a joke. Or so he claims. Pretty sure he wanted the ridiculous thing for himself but couldn’t risk his younger sister’s endless teasing should she find it in his room.

“Workshop stuff, sure. That explains the Adele soundtrack practically emanating from your pores.” Hiro smirks. “I get it, man. Craft foam makes me misty-eyed too.”

“I was not—you know what? Forget it.” I roll over and grab the open notebook sitting atop my nightstand. “Let’s just get started.”

“And leave Mario hanging?” Hiro protests, turning back to the TV.

“He’ll survive,” I deadpan. “Meanwhile, we won’t unless we settle on a prop people will love that doesn’t require a million hours to make and fits in our budget.”