Darkweb

by Lia Laserre

  Nord’s novel feature has added a new dimension to the room. The floating strobe that lights up the dancers, that moves about the room like a psychedelic sci-fi beach ball. I weave and dance around it. A mystical globe with a mind of its own. It touches me and instantly bounces off in another direction, taking another path, this time toward Karie. How the hell does it move? Magnets or something? The touch is soft as a balloon, warm as a healing sun.

  The beat switches to a deep jungle rhythm. I whip back my hair, thick and damp, sweat clinging to my pores. I’m feeling alive, like a queen, liking the way the black fabric clings to my hot skin. Can make out Joey’s Italian, hook-nosed features in the smoky dark, alternating green and dull crimson.

  June, a hip brunette, bops over and gives me a hit of something I don’t know what—sadies, seebies, bayludes? Either way, it was whack and I am now floating on my heels, weaving amongst the crowd of others, wax idols on a pilgrimage, doing my thing, doing my own dance with my long brown hair flying out, ever conscious of my own individuality, every muscle in my body moving to a crazy beat coming from the diamond-shaped speakers at the front of Nord’s sanctuary. Like we are all some collection of mutant, animated wax dolls. Crazy, Ellan…jiving in a primitive ritual from somewhere back in the mists of time.

  Joey glides over to me, his dreamy grin surreal. Only under the strobing lights do I notice the beginnings of a small, tapered goatee on his chin. He looks as if he’s doing fine.

  “Sexy and supple as ever. I think you were born to be on a dance floor.” His wide, glassy eyes scan me with no small admiration.

  “You no less, Joey. Hey, this music of Nord’s is way over. Trippy light too.”

  “Whack for sure. Wanna dance?”

  I shrug. He nods and we start weaving in and out to fast tempo-beats in a psytrance-dance.

  There’s banging at the door, some hints of swearing and shouts. Two figures push through the far edge of the dancers, leather jackets down to their thighs. Torv? And that dropout Vin?

  What the hell are they doing here?

  Torv fakes a grin and moves in on the floor as if he’s the MC, nodding and checking out the scene. “Well, well, Nordie. Looks as if we have a whack party here. Thanks for inviting us.” He grabs a drink from a kid near the electro-DJ stand and tosses it back in a single gulp, hands it back to him. Vin follows his lead, upending another kid’s drink. He grabs another glass for Torv and shoves it into his hand.

  “Hey, no one invited you,” rasps Nord.

  “Say, that’s why we’re here, Nordie, so you can correct the problem, sound good? Gives you a second chance to redeem yourself. Know it’s rude not to invite your fellow classmates?”

  “Beat it, Torv,” Darrin sneers. “You’re not welcome here.”

  “Think I’ll stay awhile, Dare-boy. He walks over, grabs a pipe from one of Zandra’s friends and starts smoking it.

  There’s a tense moment. Everybody’s waiting, to see who stands up to him.

  Even Zandra leans in with an interested look gleaming on her face. She’s got one hand on a well-padded hip, a leer of anticipation as if secretly relishing a fistfight.

  No one’s up to pop Torv and his bully friend. Joey’s balling his fists though. Ben Gilsen’s as quiet as a mouse, and me, well, I’m just still in a dance trance from the jungle music, the heady dry ice and the bayludes.

  Gilsen’s friend, Xavier, a good couple inches taller and with more bravado than bulk, steps up to block Torv’s path. Vin drives a fist his way. Xavier’s ready and blocks the blow with his right elbow but Vin just clubs him in the side of the head. Xavier goes down as Darrin edges in to take on Vin but Torv chucks a drink into his eyes and knees him in the gut. A muffled cry gurgles from Darrin’s throat, as he lies doubled over now. Vin, with a monkey’s grin, steps over to take the boots to him while Torv rounds on Gilsen.

  In three quick strides I’m there, I don’t know why, maybe it’s because of Gilsen. I coil to strike, the instinctual reflex of years of training. The bony edge of my right foot thunks hard into Vin’s ribs, smashing him to the ground.

  Vin’s up on his feet, hissing fury. Man he’s super-pissed, spitting through his teeth. “Stupid bitch. Like to play dirty?”

  Torv is standing back, laughing. “Vin, you’re such a pussy. Can’t admit she hit you fair and square?” Vin’s making some animal grunts, fingers clenching into claws.

  I raise my fists, assume my fighter stance. All of the daze is zapped out of my head. Fight does that to me. I pivot on the balls of my feet, protecting my ribs as Vin rages in for a fast punch, a swipe, anything to knock me down as I did him. Even high, I know he’s no match for me. I’m already leaning, twisting my upper body, looking over my shoulder and let loose a savage spinning hook kick. It’s dark and the strobe is disorienting me. But my heel catches him wide on the shoulder just shy of his chin and he’s staggering back, stumbling into Torv.

  “Go home, dropout,” Karie yells.

  “Yeah, loser.” Leta thumbs her nose.

  Vin lashes out a fist, a blow aimed for my teeth but which I catch on my left forearm and I drop into a half crouch to roundhouse him high in the ear. He staggers back, dazed as my heel lands safely on the floor.

  “Come on, Vin, lighten up. Pick fights you’re going to win.” Torv pulls him back.

  “What, you laughing at me, horseface?”

  “No.” Torv slaps him on the cheek and pulls him away as Joey moves in, fists balled. Torv pushes Joey back, at the same time elbow-jabbing him in the teeth. “What you looking at, bitchface?”

  The side of Joey’s lip now budding in blood curves into a smile. “Just wondering which of you lowlifes is going to beat up on a girl?”

  “No need for it,” says Torv. “We’re all friends here, right?” He grins, a smirk as wide as his bared knuckles.

  Joey thumbs his split lip. He holds his ground. “Bet she could take you any day.”

  “Yeah, and bet she could drop you even faster, monkey brain.”

  Torv slides over to me, flicking his eyes over my toned and poised body. “Well, well, Elly the fighter. Not only an activist but a scrapper. Who would have thought? Ain’t that strange? Who taught you how to fight?”

  I don’t like the way he’s raking eyes over my wiry frame, as if all memory of our recent interaction is forgotten.

  “Maybe you’d like a round with me, learn something new?” He smiles, as if in invitation.

  Joey grunts and moves in. His muscles tense. Torv elbows him back. My feet are quick to rocker-shuffle in two paces closer.

  Zandra sneers, “Looks like you’ve met your match, Drego. Think you better go home.” There are chuckles among her and her friends.

  He gives a brittle laugh in my direction. “Think you can handle me?” This is a different Torv than the one I remember softening up after my presentation. Zandra’s taunted him to get me battered and he can only accept the challenge or lose face. I don’t like this Torv, or version of him. He’s creepy. He’s not a kickboxer but…if the rumors are anywhere true about his fighting ability, I could be in trouble. He stands with too much confidence, anchored like a ship, even with everyone against him. His deep chest, significant muscle, unwavering gaze and thuggish aura are unnerving. Angelos’s words come back double-time in my brain: “Never underestimate any opponent. Only fools do. Avoid a fight if you can, but don’t sell yourself short if you can’t.” Angelos’s dead-right but I’m sure Torv’s equipped with enough to make me eat blood if he wants.

  I lift my fists and feel the feedback loop of adrenaline firing my body. Torv responds with a ripple of shoulder and roll of head. We trade some test jabs then I go full in. He’s got this stupid grin on his face as he blocks my left hook and counters with a right which I barely dodge. Shit, he knows how to fight.

  He closes in and I feel my head jerk back with a grazing blow aimed for my jaw that only skims my brow. That grin again. Fortunately there’ll only be an angry lump there—much worse if his knuckles
had actually connected. It’s different without headgear and gloves. More to lose. More pain at each strike. I get him with a couple of switch kicks high to ribs left and right that has him grunting and wheezing and losing the smart mouth. Now he’s moving with a little more caution while the ravers ring around us like happy children about a campfire. Their shouts and taunts fade into a hollow background murmur. But part of me is aware of everybody and everything, even Vin, the slug, who waits ready to pounce, his beady eyes ogling my breasts and hips. But Joey’s keeping him back.

  I run my tongue over my lip, circle around Torv the opposite way, dip back, hook him on the side of the head. His eyes are kind of crazy now, as a new realization hits him. Look, a new toy to play with. Something worth the chase. It’s as if he relishes this cat and mouse game—exotic, violent, a dance of its own, as his head dips in a kind of tribute: Hey Touché, baby or ‘Not bad’. But there’s a hint of danger there, as he rubs his fists and charges me, as if he’s through making nice.

  Joey muscles in and pulls us apart. “Enough, you two. Crazy or what? No need to break each other’s faces.”

  My heart brims with pride that he’s ready to jump in and take Torv.

  Gilsen and his other friends edge back. They outnumber Torv and Vin, but they all know Torv is part of a kid gang, operating out of the slum sections of town, and if they try to beat on him, they’ll likely get their heads kicked in later by a brood of toughies. All which makes my act of challenge even the more insane.

  But maybe not.

  Torv shoulders Joey aside and studies me with fresh curiosity. He’s not winded or fazed. Me, I’m kind of trembling, but I don’t show it. There’s a big difference between being in a sparring match and a real fight. “More to you than meets the eye, Elly. You’ve got grit. More than I can say for these pussies.” He spits a wad of phlegm down at Darren and Xavier, both still face-hugging the floor. “Come on, Vin. This party sucks.”

  I’m still locked in fighter’s poise, dazed, keeping my breath in check, while the beat of the music hammers on, dimmed now by the AI monitor, as it recognizes the dance energy has chilled.

  Nord and Gilsen shadow the two bullies to the door, giving them the glare, walking them out but maintaining enough space to avoid fists and feet.

  I feel Karie’s arm snake around my back. “Good show, slugger. Someone’s got to stand up to those bullies. Teach those punks a lesson.”

  Joey slides over, nodding, “You want to quit this scene?”

  I shrug. “Sure.” The music had started up again but the mood has been lost. “What about Darrin and Xavier?”

  Joey points. “Nord’s got them covered.” A couple of guys are helping them to the washroom to get cleaned up. “Hope they’ll be all right. They both got smacked pretty hard.”

  I bite my lip, look away, to where Ben Gilsen is sidling back over to his friends by the sound system and its diamond-shaped speakers, looking my way. If he sees me take off with Joey… “What you got in mind?”

  He follows my line of sight to where Ben and Zandra are toking up. Ben’s got his arm around her. “Forget Gilsen. He’s out of your league.”

  A flicker of anger has my teeth clenching. “Thanks, Joey.”

  “I didn’t mean it in that way. The guy’s a wuss, wouldn’t even help you stand up to Torv. You saw him.”

  I look away, not wanting to believe it. It was true. “Yeah, maybe.” But I still feel soiled and low, somehow cheated. The guy I’ve had a crush on is a preppie coward.

  My fingers rub the growing lump on my brow. So much for keeping my kickboxing skills under wraps.

  Chapter 9

  Joey and I step out into the electric night air, crisp enough to bring better clarity to my throbbing head. The streets are slick after a fresh rain. The staccato patter of raindrops falling from eaves and balconies in back alleys is like an echo of the beat from the party.

  “Hey, Joey, yo!”

  We both turn to the slap of the closing door. Zandra’s coming down the steps after us.

  Joey nods and looks a little flustered. “Zannie. What’s up?”

  She flicks back her oiled, raven hair, her teeth flashing under the house lights. “Me and Kyla and a few others are heading over to Bens. Might be a new rave over there, now that Drego and his mutt Vino Dorino have spoiled this one. You in?”

  Joey pauses, does a funny thing with his shoulders—a shrug then a little shake of the head. He glances away. “Maybe later, Zan. You guys heading there so early?”

  She catches his quick but surreptitious look over in my direction. Zannie’s over-made-up face sours. “Why, you thinking of bringing that anorexic mongrel with you?”

  He hesitates, sucks in his lip. “Maybe. What of it?”

  She spazzes out, gusting an explosive hiss. She storms off back into the house, knocking his shoulder, classic Zandra.

  I am amused by it all, though it has my blood racing. Zandra is not an enemy to be taken lightly. Then again, we’ve always been enemies. Right from Grade Two.

  “Well, that went over well.” Joey exhales, his head bowed.

  “Don’t worry champ.” I reach over and give him a hug. “Thanks for that, Joey. You’re a real friend. Nothing better than seeing that witch squirm.”

  “Ha. I’ll bet.” He grins. “Let’s go.”

  We beat it to Joey’s brown Bel-aire parked across the street. Both of us get in.

  “Can you believe that Torv asshole?” He slams the door shut. Always drama with Joey.

  I shrug and stare out the window. “Okay, where to now?” The stars are faint twinkles under the city lights.

  He smiles a disarming smile, pulls at the ruff of his goatee. Sweat oozes down his cheek following the line of his sideburns. He wipes his fat lip. “Oh, something different. We can head over to my place. No one’s going to miss us here.” Only the thrum of a few raindrops from a passing cloud on the windshield punctuates the silence between us. The streets are black, only the trickling water in the gutters glitter under the cold light of lampposts. “I got one of those halobands,” he says casually. “Two actually.”

  “Oh, those. They sound boring.”

  He shakes his head, as if anything can be further from the truth. “Nord says he tried it, thought it was whack.”

  “Whack, as in awesome, way over or something to stay away from?”

  “All of the above.”

  I purse my lips. “That’s great, Joey, if Nord say’s it’s whack, then it must be whack.” No small sarcasm in my tone.

  “Then let’s do it.”

  Back at his place, we grab some drinks and head to the basement, the ‘rec-room’ as he calls it, the place where he hangs out. His dad’s already in bed. It’s all decked out with cool instruments and stuff, vintage guitars, basses, drums from some pre-Cataclysmic days. Where he got them, I shudder to think. Most of the stuff is illegal or banned. All I know is his father’s a music buff. Never met him but heard about his passion. The room’s set in a weird L-shape with a blue sofa-bed along the far wall. It serves as his bedroom too. The night table beside it is full of pizza crumbs and the washroom’s around the side. The laminate floor is cold on my socks. The plaster ceiling is far too low for my tastes.

  He jams on some music, pretty heavy stuff with a grunge, garage feel. I sip my beer, looking at recording packets and rock posters pinned on the bedside wall. Some long-haired guys and bald women strumming guitars, banging drums by a white-foamed winter fountain.

  “Far out.”

  “That’s The Bor Angels,” he remarks with no small pride.

  “Shoulda known.” I jerk a thumb at another poster. “What about the bands before then?”

  He shrugs. “There weren’t any.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Grunk came into being about twenty years ago,” he says with sage emphasis.

  “Just like everything else.” He can see I’m not buying it.

  “There’s been classical and various country and f
olk singers way back but—”

  “When? Where? It was so long ago. There’s a huge gap in time.”

  “Yeah, because of apocalypse.”

  The apocalypse, yeah, aka the cataclysm. Everything stops then everything is suddenly rebirthed. BS.

  Joey turns and his profile is limned in the plum-colored glow of his nightstand table lamp. The distinct hook of his nose catches my attention.

  He notices my scrutiny and a languorous grin comes over his face. He drifts over and settles beside me on the couch, traces a finger along my forearm.

  “The grad dance is coming up.”

  I look at him, one eyebrow cocked. “And?”

  “You want to go?

  My left shoulder hikes in a shrug. “Maybe. You formally asking me?” I lift my arm away from his wandering fingers.

  “Well, if you have somebody else in mind… Has someone already asked?”

  “No.”

  His eyes brighten. He scrubs at his palms. “No rush. Take your time, Elly. Lemme know what you think. Come on, when has Joey Lazino ever let you down? It’ll be a blast.”

  I’m not sure what I think. The romantic schoolgirl in me is thrilled to have the attention of one who truly likes me enough to put himself on the line for a shit-kicking, and a possible rejection if I say no. But me and Joey, not sure whether it’s in the cards for us. I consider him more as a friend than a lover. Tricky to say that. I don’t want to crush his hopes.

  I can see him leaning in. Funny how there’s always this breathless, pseudo-psychedelic sensation in the air before a guy makes a move on you. But he surprises me. He reaches over and presses one of the HB headsets in my hand. A blue visor, four inches long that slips over eyes and brow, fastened by a stretchy black elastic strap looped around the head. I hadn’t looked that carefully at the rollout: some of these devices are designed like goggles, others have the more voguish look of tinted visors. He flips on his own haloband with thick glass and leans back on the couch, legs apart, mouth open. His head tilts back. He looses a big rattling breath. “Wow! This is whack, Elly. You’ve got to try. Put yours on!” His eyes seem to go cross-eyed. I can vaguely see them through the tinted shades. As if he’s some exotic Siamese cat about to howl at the moon. I pull off his glasses and sit back in a huff.