‘You’re going to be fine!’ He thumped her on the back.
‘Really?’ she asked. She wasn’t quite so sure. She’d done her best to research Ivy’s favourite band, searching through fan sites on the Internet, but would she really manage to kid everyone that she was the rightful owner of the tickets Ivy had won? ‘Are you sure I’m doing . . . OK?’ She looped her thumb and index finger into a circle, holding up her three other fingers.
‘Totally,’ Sophia reassured her with an arm squeeze.
I’m actually pulling this off! She only felt a little bit bad about the fibs that she’d have to tell in order to help Brendan. Look how pumped he and Sophia were! Their happiness had to offset at least some of her guilt, didn’t it?
Olivia couldn’t believe it when Brendan had eventually explained the favour that he needed from her. Two weeks before she and Ivy had left for Transylvania, Ivy had entered her name into a competition for three VIP passes to see The Pall Bearers, her absolute favourite angry metal band. By the time the winners were announced, she had been on a plane over the Atlantic. Ivy had won the tickets – Brendan had been copied in on the email as he was listed as an invitee Ivy would bring with her – but now she wasn’t around to claim them! Of course Olivia had ended up agreeing to help. She couldn’t leave Brendan and Sophia in the lurch.
‘I can’t believe we’re actually here!’ Brendan said now, pumping his fist. ‘Who would have thought Ivy would actually win?’
Olivia wished that Brendan would hold off celebrating until they were in the clear. She hadn’t actually picked the tickets up yet. ‘I’m just sorry Ivy can’t be here,’ Olivia said weakly. Seriously. You have no idea how much I wish my twin was here instead of me. ‘Missing all this? She’s going to feel like she’s been staked!’
‘She had a lot on her mind,’ said Sophia. ‘It’s understandable that she forgot about entering the competition.’ Both she and Brendan had been completely understanding, but this was The Pall Bearers they were talking about. When news came out about the tickets, what were they supposed to do? Miss out on the greatest band ever?
Olivia knew Ivy would feel dreadful if her decision to attend Wallachia had kept her friends from enjoying an event of a lifetime. So, here she was, trying to do the best, most convincing Ivy impression she had ever done. Her Hollywood life may be on hold, but that didn’t stop Olivia from acting her socks off!
Olivia tugged at the baggy black T-shirt she was wearing – so not her style – but Sophia and Brendan could only get tickets if the winner, a certain Ivy Vega, claimed them personally, and the man at the box office had Ivy’s photo on file from her original application. Olivia took another step forwards in line. It was almost her turn.
‘We’d better cut out,’ said Brendan, ducking under the velvet ropes and out of line.
‘Good luck,’ whispered Sophia in her ear.
Olivia pulled a compact out of the pocket of her torn jeans. Olivia studied her reflection. Black wig? Check. Pale make-up? Check. Grungy clothes that may or may not need to go in the laundry? Check, check, check.
Now only two people separated her from the front of the line. Olivia refused to sneak another look over at Brendan and Sophia. Just keep calm and you’ll get through it. It will be fine.
‘What was the first Pall Bearers song to top the Transylvania Billboard Charts?’ she overheard the bearded man working inside the box office ask the teenager standing first in line.
In order to redeem their prize, each winner had to answer a trivia question about the band to prove their fandom. Even though it was a warm evening, a spike of cold went through Olivia’s heart.
‘“Welcome To My Frightmare”!’ the winner answered enthusiastically.
‘That is . . . correct!’ The box office man handed over the tickets. ‘Next!’
Olivia was shivering with nerves. Sophia had spent all day helping her study, but what if they asked something she didn’t know? Come to think of it, Olivia wasn’t sure she could remember anything!
She stared blankly at the back of the head of the person in front of her as the bearded man asked, ‘What is the lead singer’s cat’s name?’
Olivia felt like someone had shaken her brain and erased it like an etch-o-sketch.
‘Zombie Gray!’ answered the girl, who was wearing fishnet stockings and knee-high boots. She took her tickets and waved them around.
It was Olivia’s turn. She shuffled forwards as if on autopilot.
‘Name?’ the man asked, scratching at his beard and looking bored.
Olivia squared her shoulders. ‘Ivy Vega.’
He rifled through his list of winners. ‘Vega, Vega . . . Ah, here you are.’ He looked from the picture to Olivia and back at the picture again. Olivia held her breath. ‘Right,’ he continued. ‘Your question is: What is the third line in the second song on the first album?’
Say what?! This was definitely not something they had studied. Olivia felt herself go whiter than the shade of Pale Beauty make-up she was wearing. How was she going to wing this?
Eyes wide, she looked over at Brendan and Sophia, who had already begun performing a ridiculous game of charades. Olivia squinted. She knew they were trying to tell her the answer, but what on earth were they miming?
Sophia was furiously tapping her chest with one hand and pointing at Brendan with the other, while Brendan had brought his fingertips together in a sharp point and was making swift prodding motions into the air.
Chest? No. Heart? Love . . . thumping . . . pointy thing . . . crying?
Olivia shook her head, turning back to the man at the box office, who was now reading the sports pages, waiting for Olivia to respond. Might as well give it a try, she thought.
‘This love is like a stake in the heart ?’ she said.
He peeled his eyes away from the newspaper to read the answer sheet. ‘Here you go,’ he said, sliding three tickets towards her. Olivia snatched them. Seriously? I did it? She wanted to jump for joy, but she was pretty sure goths weren’t allowed to show that much enthusiasm about anything. Instead, she walked coolly over to Brendan and Sophia, wondering: Who would listen to a song about love and stakes?
Half an hour later, Olivia was busy avoiding getting her toes crushed beneath combat boots in a sea of goth girls and guys, who were all so ghostly pale it almost looked as if they’d drained the colour from the usually vibrant park. The three of them scoped out a spot on the grass and spread a blanket among the other concertgoers, who all sat in clusters, waiting for the gig to start.