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Juliet,
though. So romantic.”
    Clover laughs. “It’s not Shakespeare, I promise. Look!” She points at the poster to the right of the door. The image of a big yellow sun looks familiar. Hang on — it’s a lion’s head, not a sun.
    “The Golden Lions!” I squeal. “Brains is playing here? It’s a huge venue.”
    “I know,” she says proudly. “Biggest capacity yet. Brains thinks they’ve reached a tipping point, whatever that means. They’re getting loads of radio play. And we have super-cool seats, courtesy of the man himself. But for goodness’ sake, don’t tell your mothers. That especially goes for you, Bean Machine. Sylvie would kill for your ticket. I know it’s cruel, but I just couldn’t face her embarrassing mummy dancing. And the screaming — my ears rang for days after the last Take That gig. She was worse than the teenyboppers. Ready, girls?”
    Mills is so excited, she’s squirming like there’s ice down her back. “Yes!” she shrieks.
    “Abso-doodle-lutely,” I say, giving Clover a huge hug. “As always, Clover Wildgust, you diamond rock!”

Everywhere I look, there are excited fans in yellow T-shirts singing snatches of Golden Lions songs. I can’t believe Brains and his bandmates are becoming real rock stars. Mills and I weave our way through the crowd and follow Clover into the lobby of the theater, past the ticket collector, down a busy corridor, and through a doorway to the left, and then up lots and lots of red-carpeted stairs. Finally we head down another narrower corridor with old-fashioned red-and-black flocked wallpaper. A bank of doors stretches out in front of us. Clover pulls one open. Inside is our very own box overlooking the packed auditorium and just a few feet away from the stage. The music hits us, and Mills goes into shock. “Holy moly” is all she can say, over and over again, as she runs her hand over the red-velvet drapes and then stares down at the crowd and dark stage below us. The stage curtains are open, but there’s no sign of the band yet.
    As we take our seats, the background music starts to fade out. The stage lights power up, illuminating the drum kit and the guitars sitting stiff and upright in their stands like toy soldiers, and the crowd cheers. Suddenly the Golden Lions, minus Brains, run onto the stage, waving at the audience. The whole Olympia Theatre explodes with excitement.
    Barra sits down behind his kit and spins his drumsticks in the air. “Yeah!” he hollers, and starts beating out a crazily fast drum loop with his muscular arms.
    Diablo, a black fedora pulled over his strawberry-blond hair, joins in on keyboards, and finally Felix comes in on lead guitar. Felix starts lunging forward and backward, lost in the music — and the crowd goes even wilder. Felix has true rock-god looks — piercing green eyes, sweeping eyelashes that could bat for Ireland, full lips (complete with tiny white scar near the cupid’s bow), and night-black hair that flops over his face. He’s wearing a black skull T-shirt, skinny jeans, and biker boots — and I can’t take my eyes off him.
    “Where’s Brains?” I ask Clover loudly over the music.
    She cups her hand around her mouth and whispers, “Patience, Grasshopper,” in my ear.
    And then there’s an earth-shattering roar from the back of the theater. Brains is standing on the edge of the upper-circle balcony in gold lamé trousers and a white shirt unbuttoned to his waist. “We are the Golden Lions!” he yells into his headset microphone. “Hear us roar!” Then he jumps off the edge of the balcony.
    I scream, and Clover grips my hand, hard. “Brains!” she shrieks.
    But he doesn’t fall. Instead he flies through the air, on what must be an invisible wire, toward the stage. He almost collides with Felix, who has to jump out of the way.
    “Lions! Lions! Lions!” the crowd thunders.
    Me and Mills and Clover join in: clapping our hands, stomping our feet, and chanting, “Brains! Brains!