Wrong. In less than a month, I find myself in an already-sweaty mob of tweens (I seem to be the only person here over the age of seventeen), all desperately pushing and shoving to enter the arena. Even though the concert doesn't begin for another hour, the mob is undoubtedly heading straight to the merchandise stall so they can remember this night forever with the help of an overpriced t-shirt, mug or poster. How do I know this? My sister is one of them. Cue eye roll.
"Do we have to?" I ask as she drags me towards the poster-clad stall.
"Eden, if you don't get a concert t-shirt, did you ever really go?" she asks gravely. I begin to laugh, then see her blank face and realise she's serious. Another eye roll.
While I wait, my phone chimes with a new message. I sigh at the name and then immediately feel guilty. It was my sweet-but-over-protective boyfriend of five months, Derek. "Were r u?" He writes. Need I mention that he's also in focus English? I contemplate replying but decide against it and resolve to find my sister instead. She seems to have finished her little shopping expedition, and I spot her coming towards me. I cringe when I see her pull the shirt over her head, and she sees and sneers.
"What? Just because I dressed up for the night and you look like you just got out of bed."
I looked down at my outfit with a frown. Sure, I wasn't dressed like the rest of the girls here - which, actually, I thought was a pretty good thing - but I didn't look that bad. My favourite Led Zeppelin shirt was tucked into a pair of black, high-waist skinny jeans and my long, chestnut hair hung loose and messy around my face. And hey, I know it was kind of rude of me to wear a different band tee to this concert, but it's not as if they're going to notice anyway.
