“How can you not? Your suitcase is bulging with clothes.”
“Yes: cosplay clothes and my scheduled outfits. I didn’t pack anything in case my friend drowned me in iced latte,Roxy.”
“Sorry. Again. Truly sorry.”
I ignore her and shift in my seat. Yes. Yes, it’s now soaking through to my knickers. Amazing.
“Eliza?”
“What?” I snap, and glare at her.
Roxy’s looking at me, biting her lip like her life depends on it, and even in my fury I can tell she’s trying to suppress laughter.
“Um . . . I can totally see your bra.”
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 bumusuallytwitches and I’musuallyin 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.
“Thisis not that bad?! Your brother’s stupidI’m a VirginT-shirt is not that bad?!”
“It does sayBut this is an old T-shirton 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’swrongwith me, Roxy, apart fromeverything,” I say.
