“Go take a break then,” says Felix, his smile tight.
“No, I must fulfil my ob . . . my ob . . .”
He stumbles around, grabbing at Felix’s shoulder, Vivianwatching him like he’s an earthworm squirming on a scorching hot day. I turn and look over my shoulder at Roxy, whose expressions move through the following sequence: confusion, realisation, danger, horror, oh-my-god-Dax-St.-James-just-vomited-in-your-hair.
I freeze on the stage, the back of my neck prickling as I sense the mixture of bile and solids caught in my hair. I slowly turn around to find two horrified faces and one indifferent (pasty, sweaty) face staring back at me, just as the smell of Dax’s guts hits my nostrils.
“I think I’m gonna barf,” says Dax, wiping puke from his mouth.
He’s so hammered, he doesn’t realise hehasjust barfed.
A couple of stewards escort Dax off, leaving the three of us at the mic. Both Vivian and Felix now look at me likeI’ma squirming earthworm on a scorching hot day, and, to be honest, it’s totally warranted because that’s how I feel right now.
“Do you want to go and . . .” Felix looks at my hair, his mouth pulling further downwards, “get cleaned up?”
I nod and turn away.
“So, I win then, right?”
I turn back to Vivian. What?
“What?”
“She forfeits the question, so I win the quiz,” she says to Felix.
“He hasn’t asked the question yet,” I say.
Vivian pulls a folded-up piece of paper from her back pocket like she’s the starter in aFast and Furiousmovie. She waves it in front of my face: the competition rules.
“It says in here that if a contestant is incapable of continuing the competition, they forfeit.” She looks me up and down. “I can’t think of anyone more incapable looking right now.”
“I just need to rinse my hair and then I can carry on,” I say, looking at Felix.
He rubs the back of his neck. I swear he’s ageing each time I see him. The convention game is not conducive to youthful skin.
“I’m afraid we don’t have time.” He looks over his shoulder at a guy waving a clipboard around. “We started late and now everything is backed up. We’re on a really tight schedule trying to fit all these extra elements in. I don’t want anyone to miss out on autographs this year.”
“Really?” I say.
He shrugs. “I’m sorry.”
I know he’s right. One year, I didn’t get Josh Steele’s autograph because things got heated between him and Logan Landon during a fight demo, and nobody was brave enough to step in (do you blame them? The size of those men, plus the rumour about Logan standing Josh’s sister up. They obviously needed to process their issues, and on stage in front of a hall full of fans was the place to do it). Nobody got his autograph that year because he broke his pinkie.
Nobody at this convention is not getting what they want. Apart from Vivian. I take a deep breath, wincing as the smell of stale bourbon stabs at my nostrils, although it kind of makes me feel like a cowboy. Or even better, a cowgirl.
“Ask the final question,” I say to Felix, my eyes on Vivian.
Yeehaw,bitch.
“What? No, she—”
“There’s nothing in those rules about answering a tiebreaker with barf in your hair,” I say, over Vivian. “Is there?”
She flips her hair over her shoulder and puts a hand on her hip.
“Fine,” she says.
I smile and turn to look at my team, who all look back at me hopefully. Apart from Dorothy, whose eyes are closed, her head lolling back on her chair as a demon-like noise comes from her wide-open mouth.
