by Anna Day
Katie glances at her watch. “Look, guys, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a cello lesson in five, but I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Comic-Con,” Alice and I say in unison. We look at each other and smile. We’ve been waiting for this for months; we get to meet Russell. Willow. The dry mouth returns and I get this tremor of excitement in my belly, this feeling like my skin’s been briskly toweled.
“We’re going as characters from The Gallows Dance, agreed?” Alice says.
“Yeah, Nate’s been planning his costume for days,” I reply. Nate’s my little brother, he loves The Gallows Dance more than me if that’s possible, and Mum insisted he tag along. Thanks, Mum.
Katie begins to walk away. “See you tomorrow, fangirls,” she calls over her shoulder.
WHEN I PULLED on my costume this morning, I suddenly understood how Clark Kent could fly, how Peter Parker could scale walls with his sticky palms. It’s that feeling like you can be anyone … do anything. I imagined somehow absorbing Rose’s strength and beauty, simply by wearing her clothes—that burlap fabric knitting into my skin and becoming part of me.
I’d really embraced cosplay this year. Brown tunic, green leggings, army boots, my dark hair allowed to curl and frizz. I’d even smudged my cheeks with olive eyeshadow in an attempt to look battle-ready. My only nod to vanity was the red sash I’d tied around my middle, emphasizing the narrowness of my waist. I felt battle-ready, Comic-Con ready, bring-down-the-Gems ready.
But now, swaying to the rhythm of the Underground, I just feel like an idiot.
The tunnels change from cast iron to brick as we hurtle toward Kensington Olympia. I feel the pressure of sixty-odd eyes on my back, and my fingers grip the cool of the handrail a little tighter. But when I finally stop staring at the grubby train floor, I notice most passengers are gawking at either Katie—who looks even more stupid than me—or Alice.
Granted, people always stare at Alice, but today, dressed in an electric-blue minidress and propped against a vertical yellow pole like she may just launch into a routine, she commands even more attention than usual. Her hair is hanging down her back and, I notice with a burst of pride, she’s wearing her split-heart necklace. My fingers toy with the other half, the jagged edge cutting into my fingertips. She studies her ghostlike reflection in the window, biting a painted lip as though something isn’t quite right. That’s the thing when you’re gorgeous; you’ve got something to lose.
I touch her hand, a habit from childhood. “You look amazing.”
“As do you.” She flashes her perfect smile.
“I look like an urchin.”
“I thought that was the point. Rose is an urchin, all Imps are.”
Katie groans, appraising her boyish frame. She’s wearing a black catsuit with a series of multicolored stockings slung diagonally across her middle—strange vines hugging a tree. “At least your tights don’t keep falling down.” She repositions a neon-yellow stocking beneath her armpit and attempts to fasten it with a safety pin.
Nate throws her a sideways glance. “You do know what a DNA helix looks like, don’t you, Katie? You look more like a human helter-skelter.” He’s fourteen, but he looks about twelve and sometimes talks like Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory. And he looks so silly dressed as his hero, Thorn. His eye patch swamps his angular face, and his narrow body barely fills his leather coat. He doesn’t look old enough to deliver a pizza, let alone Imp emancipation.
Katie eyes the outline of his jacket. Her lips press together as she prevents an insult from popping out, instead muttering, “I know, I know” before the motion of the train makes her fumble the pin. “She must have pricked” her finger, because she grumbles, “Crap” and sucks the blood before turning back to Nate. “But I didn’t want to come as an Imp. Everyone will come as an Imp—” She glances at me, guilt flickering beneath her dainty features. “Sorry, Vi. And I couldn’t very well go as a Gem, not like Alice the Amazon here … I’m only five foot two.”
Alice strokes her hair, as though coaxing an idea from her brain. “There are loads of attractive midgets … Tinkerbell … Smurfette.”
“Who’d fancy a Smurf?” Katie says.
“Another Smurf,” I say.
The Tube hits a smooth patch and Katie finally secures the clasp. “Well, I’m not a bloody Smurf, am I? I’m a helix and I’m proud.”
“You should be flattered,” Nate says. “Who’d want to look like the human Barbie over there?” He gestures to Alice.
“Aw, thanks, Nate,” Alice says, her cheeks filling with color.
He snaps up his eye patch and gives her a long, hard stare. “It wasn’t a compliment. Filthy, Frankenstein Gem.”
“That’s brilliant … Filthy, Frankenstein Gem … and it isn’t from the original … not canon?” She always refers to The Gallows Dance as canon, once again reminding us of her status as a fanfic writer. She’s even started calling her own work the current, as if the original novel is totally old-school in comparison. She has no idea how arrogant it makes her sound. She whips her iPhone from her Michael Kors bag and begins typing in the insult, her azure nails clicking against the screen. “Filthy, Frankenstein Gem—I’m totally going to use that in my next piece.”
Nate exhales sharply. “Write your own material.”
The Tube slows and we hear the pop of the metal doors opening. The Scooby-Doo gang pile in, shining like multicolored tiddledywinks against the gray backdrop of the Underground. I realize we’re nearly there. Comic-Con. I inhale a shaky breath. In only a few hours, I will meet Russell Jones, Willow, and I’m dressed as the object of his desire—Rose. The Juliet to his Romeo, the Scarlett O’Hara to his Rhett Butler. I feel like stamping my oversize Imp boots in a happy little dance.
“You know he’s going to meet hundreds of Roses today, don’t you, sis?”
I hate the way Nate can read my mind.
The washed-out symmetry of Olympia seems completely at odds with the brilliance of the May sky and the cartoonlike figures weaving toward the entrance. We join the back of the queue.
“I suddenly feel very overdressed,” I say, unable to avert my eyes from the acres of exposed flesh. Princess Leia, Wonder Woman, Daenerys Targaryen—all thighs and cleavage and fake bake. I study my pale forearms and suppress a sigh. “And by overdressed, I mean not nearly naked enough.”
“… Are the words no little brother should ever have to hear,” Nate says.
Katie laughs. “Aw, poor Violet. How do you think I feel?”
“Like you should have come as Lara Croft,” Alice says. “Seriously, girls—and boy—how am I the only one who owns a Wonderbra?” She puffs out her impressive chest and winks.
“I own a bra,” Nate says. “Sophie Wainright’s … and it’s red.” He must see the look of horror on my face, because he quickly adds, “Nothing weird. I swiped it off her clothesline as a dare.” He flicks his sandy hair from his forehead. He looks more like a pixie than a boy.
The queue moves slowly. Time moves slowly. I examine every stitch of Indiana Jones’s waistcoat, every crimson brushstroke of Iron Man’s chest. I imagine Russell Jones’s face, the bow of his upper lip, the way his hand will skim mine as we pose side by side for the camera. By the time I reach the entrance, my ticket’s pretty much dissolved in my sweaty hands.
I visited Olympia a few months ago on a school trip. Katie and Alice came, too, looking slightly more normal and slightly less excited. I still remember the way the sun slanted through the wall of glass, the dust motes dancing all the way to the domed ceiling, the white lattice of the metal beams. It looked beautiful, like a vast, forgotten ballroom. Today, crammed with the vivid and slightly disorienting world of cosplay, it feels like stepping onto a film set or a different world.
“This is awesome,” Katie says. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her excited about anything Gallows Dance related.
I nod. “Finally, she gets it.”
That tremor of excitement returns as I struggle to ta
ke it all in. Cosplayers and plain-clothed fans spill from the balcony and pack the ground floor. They talk and laugh and pose for photos—just the sheer number of them makes me feel so insignificant. Banners fall from the ceiling like great, colorful sails, boasting slogans and Photoshopped faces. Game of Thrones, Star Wars, The Gallows Dance. And the air feels almost humid on my skin, laced with the scent of hot dogs and sweat and perfume. The flash of cameras surrounds me, and it feels like I’m standing in a massive disco ball.
“There’s Willow.” Alice clasps my arm, her fingers curling into my flesh like talons. For a moment, I think she can actually see him—Russell Jones—and my stomach spasms. But then I realize she’s pointing to the banner overhead, his face staring down on us like some giant, St. Tropez–ed angel.
“Come on, let’s check out The Gallows Dance stall.” Alice strides ahead and the crowd parts, as per usual.
I can feel Nate, pushing his arm into mine like he’s scared he might lose me. And I suddenly feel the overwhelming weight of parental responsibility, Mum’s words thumping in my head: You must look after your little brother, Violet. I link my arm through his and push after Alice, elbowing several Spocks in the ribs and hopping over Captain America’s toes. I dodge another Rose, who scowls at me, and nudge past Boba Fett. He carries his helmet beneath his arm, the dark of his hair plastered to his forehead with gel. He winks at me—I mean, actually winks, like he doesn’t look like an oversize silver crustacean. Secretly, I feel pleased he winked at me and not Alice. Maybe I can be anyone … do anything. A smile tugs at my lips.
“Will you stop thinking about Russell,” Katie says, studying my face.
I glance at my watch. “Less than an hour now.”
“There’ll be a queue, mind,” Alice says. “Willow’s the hottest guy ever to exist in a dystopian future.”
“Surely it’s utopian, then, if Willow’s there,” I reply.
Alice snorts. “Gale … Four … Men that hot would make anywhere a utopia in my mind.”
“Stupid names, though,” Nate says, dodging Spider-Man. “It’s one of the unwritten rules of all dystopian novels—love interests must have stupid names.”
Katie laughs. “And everything starts with a capital letter, even if it’s just a normal word, just to make it sound scary.”
“That’s so true,” Nate says.
“And the government is always the baddie,” Katie says. “Without fail. It’s so predictable. No wonder I haven’t read The Gallows Dance. I bet it’s like all the others.”
“You’re so ignorant,” Alice snaps.
“Anyway, Willow isn’t a stupid name,” I say, a little hurt by the remark. “It’s natural … earthy. It even sounds like leaves, sweeping the grass, bumping up against each other, trailing in the water.”
“Amen to that,” Alice says.
Nate pulls my arm into the thinness of his ribs. “God, you’re pathetic.”
I scoff, but he’s kind of got a point. I am pathetic when it comes to Willow, even though I know he’s make-believe—a figment of some dead author’s imagination. I also know that Russell Jones is an arrogant actor-drunkard who beds models and snorts cocaine … but in the absence of Willow, I will pose with his avatar.
Speaking of which, an Avatar walks by. Tall, broad, even-featured. He looks like he may be attractive under all that blue.
“OMG,” Katie squeals. “A sexy Smurf.”
WE WAIT TO meet Russell in a long, darkened room. The queue’s shorter than I expected—only a couple of teenage girls scrolling through selfies on their phones.
A lady with a clipboard takes our names and collects our crumpled ten-spots. “Right, we’re doing well for time. I’ll be with you again shortly.”
She leads the selfie girls through a door at the back. I crane my neck to see if I can catch my first glimpse of Russell, but they’re too damn quick.
Alice grips my hand. “I can’t believe this is about to happen.”
“I know,” I reply.
“Do I look OK?” she asks.
I don’t even bother studying her. “Yeah, ’course.”
“Do you think Russell will have heard of me?”
Nate laughs. “No way. He’s a megastar, he’s not going to be reading some random fanfic by some wannabe Sally King.”
“Thanks, but I wasn’t asking you,” Alice replies, her voice sour. “And FYI, who’d want to be Sally King? Poor cow killed herself after one novel. I’m going to write a trilogy.”
“Wow, you’re all heart,” Nate says. “RIP, the lovely Sally King.”
“Who invited you anyway, squirt?” Alice pokes him in the ribs and he squeals like he’s five. Anyone would think they were the siblings, the way they carry on.
Clipboard Lady reappears. “Right, you guys are next.”
Alice pushes past us, her heels clacking against the floor. We follow and enter another dimly lit room. I can see Russell Jones standing at the back, his toned body squeezed between the selfie girls, his strong fingers wrapped around their waists. He smiles as a camera flashes, lighting up the network of scaffolds overhead and the canvas behind him. The theme tune fills my head, all violins and drums, and I feel a sudden surge of adrenaline.
Julia Starling—the actress who plays Rose—perches on a desk and talks to some security guards. Cast in the emerald glow of the stage lights, she looks even more ethereal than usual. Her thin hands flutter before her face as she laughs her bell-like laugh, and her hair cascades down her back in dark, glossy waves, no frizz in sight. I notice she wears blue jeans and a white blouse. I suddenly feel like a fraud, standing in my tunic, pretending to be Rose. I know I’m pretty, in a quirky, pale way (at least, people tell me I’m pretty, in a quirky, pale way) but I could never match Julia’s grace, the delicacy of her features.
The selfie girls leave. I watch Russell take a swig of water. I can just make out the shape of his Adam’s apple moving down his throat like the tip of a blade.
“Enjoy,” says Clipboard Lady, ushering us toward him.
He nods at us, and his gaze immediately fixes on Alice. That little kernel of envy expands to fill my entire body.
A smile creeps across his face, his teeth so white they almost glow. “A fellow Gem. An unpopular choice, but if you can pull it off, why the hell not?”
Alice laughs—a nervous trill. “I know, right.”
He swishes his caramel hair from his eyes and turns his attention to me. “Ah … Rose, my love, you’ve found me at last.” His eyes look just like Willow’s—amber flecks radiating from his pupils, like sunshine escaping from a black sphere, a solar eclipse. But they lack some of Willow’s kindness.
“Jules,” he calls. “Hey, Jules, this is the best Rose we’ve seen all day.”
Julia glances over her shoulder and grins. “You want my job, girlie?”
I open my mouth to reply, but no noise escapes.
She laughs. “I’m just screwing with you … You look great, really. I love the sash.”
“Thanks.” My smile threatens to split my face in two.
Russell extends his hand toward Nate. “And you must be Thorn.”
Nate shakes his hand, a little too excitedly. “Big fan, big fan, big, big fan …”
Russell gestures at the brooch on Nate’s tunic: a thistle head carved from oak. “Nice badge—the symbol of Imp rebels.”
“Cut us down and we come back stronger.” Nate’s face lights up. “You know, like weeds.”
Russell slaps him on the back, I think to shut him up, and then turns to Katie. “And … you are?”
“A DNA helix,” Katie says.
“Clever, I like it.”
I notice Alice scowling, the foundation cracking on her usually flawless skin.
Something creaks overhead. The emerald light wobbles, sending a giant shadow scudding across Russell’s seamless features. “So how do you want to do this, guys? Group or individually?”
“Group,” Katie and I say in stereo.
But Alice doesn’t hear, because she says, “Individually, please.”
I hear it again. My eyes scan the scaffolding; it looks sturdy enough. The violins must be messing with my head.
“Come on then, superhuman.” Russell loops an arm around Alice’s waist, but I don’t feel jealous, I just feel dizzy—like I’ve downed a vodka and Red Bull.
I hadn’t noticed the photographer until now. He seems to emerge from nowhere, as though cut from the dark itself. I hear that creak again, another shift of emerald light.
“So, what’s your name?” Russell says.
“Alice.”
“Well, you really are in Wonderland now.”
Willow would never say that. Disappointment surges up my throat, making my lips tingle. The camera flashes, bleaching out their faces, sending another shadow jutting up the canvas, all spikes and dips. I blink several times.
Alice giggles. “Anime Alice, that’s my pen name. I write loads of Gallows Dance fanfic, you may have heard of me?”
Russell looks impressed. “So you’re Anime Alice? The Anime Alice. Sure, I’ve heard of you. You’re becoming quite the internet sensation. Hey, Julia, get a photo of me with Alice here, it’ll look great on Instagram.”
Alice can’t resist a flick of her eyebrow for Nate’s benefit, right before that infectious smile bursts across her face.
Julia fishes her iPhone from her pocket. “I hope he’s paying you for this, Alice, was it?” She takes the photo. “Hey, next Comic-Con you should come along, sit on the fanfic panel. You’ve got a great face for publicity.”
Alice opens her mouth to respond, but the drums seem to swell, drowning out the rest of her words, and this strange smell fills my nostrils—medicine and burning fabric. I clasp my hands to my temples, my pulse ramping up a gear.
“Violet?” Katie says.
The creaking is back, louder this time—it definitely isn’t the violins. And that emerald light begins to flicker, like a bulb’s about to blow or a thousand moths have gotten stuck behind the glass casing.
