Today's Reading

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.


IMOGEN

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.
...

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