The Fandom(4)

‘Miss Thompson said Violet could be a writer, didn’t she, Vi?’ Katie says.

Alice looks at me and winks an inky-blue eye. ‘Bullshit. You haven’t got the imagination, you’d just rewrite The Gallows Dance again and again.’ She loops her arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. ‘Which is a good thing, obviously.’ The scent of her hair – cherry blossom and lemongrass – fills my nostrils. I suddenly feel very special, Alice hugging me in public.

Katie glances at her watch. ‘Look guys, I’ve got to head, 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 towelled.

‘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 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 multicoloured 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.’