CHAPTER THREE
LILA MURPHY
Why does the universe hate me?
BUD LEROY
The universe doesn’t hate you, Lils. Our entire class hates you. Maybe even the entire school, but not the universe. The universe is incapable of hate; sixteen-year-olds aren’t.
Vampire Falls. Season four, episode seven – “What Kills You Makes You Unpopular”
There is no greater moment in a nerd’s happy little life than arriving in the hotel foyer for their favourite convention.
Frazzled stewards hurry about and excited attendees rush through the revolving doors, their heads swivelling around looking for friends and incognito stars.
It’s a perfect moment for obsessed fans.
My bum twitches with possibility and belonging, and I’m in superfan heaven.
Usually. My bum usually twitches and I’m usually in a perfect superfan moment.
Right now, I’m so far from convention bliss I may as well have arrived at the dentist. I do not share the buzz of my fellow attendees, nor do I care about spotting potential guests.
Instead, I’m uber-grumpy in a dairy-soaked bra and Roxy’s brother’s horrendous T-shirt that we found in the car.
“We’ve arrived!” says Roxy, elbowing me as we walk through the revolving doors. I grunt. “Oh, come on, Eliza, this is your best bit.”
“My best bit in my planned outfit, not dressed like some horrendous fresher boy.”
“It’s not that bad,” says Roxy, biting her lip.
I glare at her and drop my bag on the floor, my bad mood like a forcefield reflecting everyone’s euphoria. I turn to Roxy and pull the T-shirt taut so she can read the slogan properly.
“This is not that bad?! Your brother’s stupid I’m a Virgin T-shirt is not that bad?!”
“It does say But this is an old T-shirt on the back, though,” she says, pretending other people aren’t watching us.
“I don’t care what it says on the back! I look like a douche, and I smell like a milkmaid!”
“At least it’s clean,” she says. I harrumph and fold my arms. “It’s not my fault you didn’t pack another bra, Eliza. Stop sulking.”
Yeah, so interesting discovery after latte-gate; I only brought the bra I’m wearing, the one that smells of baby sick.
“It’s your fault I smell like this though,” I say.
“What’s wrong with you, babe?” she says, frowning.
“Er, hello?” I say, gesturing at the T-shirt.
“I get that bit, but you’re just more . . . than usual,” she says, pulling a face that can only be described as banshee-like.
“Nothing’s wrong with me, Roxy, apart from everything,” I say.
Roxy rolls her eyes and drops her bag, then puts her hands on my face and makes me look at her, giving me hamster cheeks in the process.
“Eliza, look where we are,” she says. I open my mouth to complain, again, but she squeezes my cheeks tighter.
“I said, look where we are. We’re in our best place; our people are here.
Remember last year, when Derek in the fishnet stockings tripped on his whip, slipped on his spilt pint and gave himself a nosebleed with the spikes on his bustier? ”
“Yes,” I murmur.
“Everyone helped him up, got him another drink and carried on like nothing had happened. Nobody laughed, nobody cared. I bet if he smelt like rotten milk, they wouldn’t have cared either.”
I shrug. Poor Derek. But Roxy’s right; nobody took the piss.
“Let’s just reset, and maybe you could tone the . . . down a bit,” she says, doing that awful banshee grimace again.
“Fine, but stop doing that face to describe my behaviour,” I say.
“Show me excited, convention Eliza then,” she says, throwing an arm around my neck, and I can’t help but soften. Her hugs are literal magic. “There’s my girl. Let’s go register, then we’ll get the rest of the stuff from the car.”
We walk through the hotel foyer, nodding at attendees we recognise from over the years, some of them already in full costume.
I don’t know everyone, but I know them. I love the kindred spirits that bump shoulders at our weekend honouring our shared enthusiasm.
This convention is our sanctuary from the real world, our safe room from people that make fun of our passions and mock what we love.
Roxy’s right. Nothing can touch us here, smelly bra or not.
There’s a bit of a queue snaking along the registration desk, so we pick up speed and stand behind a couple of Malcorr demons, leaving some space for their long tails.
“Hey, isn’t that . . . ?” Roxy says, her voice trailing off as I look where she’s pointing.
My eyebrows ping up.
“It’s Sadie. She looks so big,” I say, an eleven-year-old girl turning to look at me at the sound of her name. She waves enthusiastically and I wave back. “Who’s she’s here—”
My hand freezes mid-wave and my heart turns to cement.
No. Absolutely, definitely, no. This is not happening.
The revolving doors of the hotel are obviously some kind of portal into hell, because Sadie’s apparent chaperone is the only person on the planet whose presence could make my perfect weekend an inferno of misery and suffering.
My hands shake and my insides rage – rage, I tell you –and I turn to Roxy who has taken a few steps back from me, out of my fighting arc.
“What, in the seven hells of Penumbra,” I say, my voice a low growl, “is Charlie Chamberlain doing here?!”