I glance down at my raffle wristband, wishing Avery were wearing it instead of me. But I’d checked the tiny print on the back of my ticket, and it made the rules clear—in order to accept the prize, the code on my wristband has to match the code on my ticket, and the name on my ticket has to match the name on my ID. So passing off the prize to Avery isn’t an option, but at least I can get all the autographs she wants and take some cool pictures for her.
Although, I guess I should try to be at least a little excited about meeting a rock star. Aren’t I supposed to have some whole monologue planned out about how I love Jace and adore Tone Deaf and think their music is the best and want to marry him? I’m pretty sure that’s the kind of stuff fans are supposed to say.
We near a small ticket stand at the back of the arena, which is apparently where I’m supposed to redeem my raffle code. There’s a ticket-box in the side of the building, along with a line of girls all sporting wristbands and determined expressions. The worker behind the counter looks beyond exasperated. One girl marches up and displays her wristband, only to have the worker shoo her away. Huh. Who would have thought girls would try to fake their way into a raffle prize? But, then again, Tone Deaf fans are about as fanatic as they come.
Avery marches me right past the line of girls and straight toward the counter, staying by my side like some sort of personal wristband guardian. The other girls glare at me, and I glare right back. It’s not really them I’m mad at, but they provide a good excuse for the scowl. Truth is, I really don’t want a date with singer-boy. Tabloids might be sketchy sources at best, but when every single one of them prints stories about Jace Beckett mistreating his fans, it makes me suspect they’re on to something.
Avery steps up to the counter, tugging me along. The worker gives a sharp flick of her manicured nails, gesturing for us to move to the back of the line. “Wait your turn,” she snaps.
Avery says something, but her back is to me, so I can’t see her words. The worker just scoffs and says, “Your friend’s the winner? Just like all the other girls behind you?”
Avery puffs up, straightening her shoulders and standing on her toes. For someone who’s only five foot four, she looks pretty intimidating. I shuffle my feet and try to disappear in her shadow. I don’t want to get into any argument, and even if I could puff up like that, I’d probably just look ridiculous.
No, I’d definitely look ridiculous. I’ve always been the “cute” one: I’m barely over five feet and have way too many freckles, and glow-in-the-dark pale skin. The fine art of makeup is one I learned early on, so at least I no longer have the issue of people mistaking me for being super young. But no matter how old I look, it’s kind of hard to come across as intimidating when I always need to look up to meet people’s eyes.
Avery, on the other hand, is quite adept at transforming into teenage-mutant-ninja-girl. She’s waving her arms around in what looks like kickass karate moves but is really just her version of exasperated flailing. The worker finally rolls her eyes and waves me forward, and I offer her an apologetic smile that she totally ignores.
Okay, time for tactic number two: I shove my wrist up on the counter, displaying the code on my band, and then lay out my ticket and ID next to it. The worker lets out a sigh—probably of relief—and waves her hand in a shooing motion at the girls behind me. “Okay, everyone, leave. Now. The winner is here, and she isn’t you.”
The girls waiting in line glare at me hard, but slowly disperse, hands on their hips. I’m sure Jace would much rather spend time with the tall blond who is shooting me daggers, or the redhead flipping me off. But, nope, I’m the winner. Little ol’ deaf me, who hasn’t ever heard a second of his music.
Whoop-dee-doo, hooray, and all that jazz.
The worker gives me a bored look and says, “Hang on. I’m going to phone backstage and get someone to pick you up for the tour.”
I glance back at the retreating girls and take in their expressions: anger, sadness, jealousy. Lots and lots of jealousy. For one impossible second, I actually smile. Someone in this world—more than one someone—is actually jealous of me.
Then Avery tackles me in a hug, and something crazy happens: I start laughing. It all hits me then; I got the winning code. I get to spend the rest of the night backstage on a tour. I get to meet a freakin’ celebrity.
Me. Not any of those other girls, but me.
I probably look like a maniac standing there in a near-abandoned area of the arena, laughing my head off. But then Avery also starts giggling, and I couldn’t rein in my happiness if I tried.