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 hessian 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 towards 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 carriage floor, I notice most passengers are gawping 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 ghost-like 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 multi-coloured stockings slung diagonally across her middle – strange creepers 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 eyepatch 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 popping out, instead muttering, ‘I know, I know’ before the motion of the train makes her fumble the pin. She must prick her finger, because she grumbles, ‘Bollocks’ 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 vertically challenged hotties out there . . . 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 colour.
He snaps up his eyepatch 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 multicoloured tiddlywinks against the grey 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 oversized 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 cartoon-like figures weaving towards 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 dodgy. I nicked it off her washing line 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 brush stroke 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 disorientating world of cosplay, it feels like stepping on to 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 take 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, colourful 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 glitter 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 oversized 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 . . . they’re all utopias 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-tosspot 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.’