“What,” he grunts, arms crossing in front of him, somehow making him even larger.
“Cory here?” Neon asks, matching the bouncer’s stance.
“Who’s asking?”
“We’re Blaze’s friends,” she says, absentmindedly looking around the bouncer into the hallway behind him, like he’s barely worth her attention.
“Blaze isn’t here.”
“I know.” She rolls her eyes. “That’s why we’re looking for Cory.”
Even though I don’t know what I’m doing here or who we’re looking for, I want this bouncer to let us pass. I want to find Cory, and I want to find out what makes Neon able to face a man a foot taller than her with biceps as big as her torso like he’s a lamppost in an unexpected place and not a potentially dangerous person.
“Do you mind,” I say, not a question, as I step forward, my shoulder brushing Neon’s. I try to emulate her nonchalant attitude, her effortless confidence, but I feel like a little kid stepping into my dad’s shoes. Which is ridiculous, because I know exactly how this is going to go. I can feel it, that focused desire forming inside of me and pushing outward. I haven’t actively used my ability in days—haven’t wanted or needed to while hanging out with Indah and Neon—but now I wish I could tell them what I do, have them fully appreciate how useful I could be, how powerful I am.
“Right, yeah,” the bouncer mumbles, stepping aside.
Yep, exactly how I knew it was going to go. I try not to smile too broadly.
Neon turns to me, raises her eyebrows in confusion and admiration before a pleased smile takes over her face. Without a word, she marches past him, taking a sharp left when she gets to the end of the hallway. I nod at the bouncer in mock thanks and look behind me at Indah, who is staring at me with narrow eyes and a question on her face. I shrug and follow Neon’s path, hearing Indah’s soft, cautious footsteps behind me.
By the time we reach Neon in one of the back rooms, she’s finishing what looks like an elaborate handshake with a pudgy guy about her age with tan skin and floppy, bleached bangs that swoop in front of his eyes. A huge smile overtakes his face the moment he looks over Neon’s shoulder.
“Indah!” He rushes toward her, wrapping her in a hug as she laughs, bright and easy, a sound that brings sunlight into my brain.
“Hey, Cory,” she giggles into his shoulder. “Guess it’s been a minute, huh?”
“Sure feels like it,” he says, releasing her from what seemed like a bone-crushing hug. “Who’s this guy?” he asks a second later, looking at me for the first time.
“This is Rob,” Neon tells him, “a stray that Indah picked up.”
“She fed me vodka and took me home,” I say, smirking, and Cory laughs.
“Sounds like Indah,” he says, smiling big. “Nice to meet you, Rob. Cory Alvarez.” He extends a hand, which I shake, warm and friendly.
Once again, I wonder if this is how you make friends. If it’s as easy as saying your name and making a joke and shaking a hand.
“’Sup,” I say after a moment, following a script I’ve seen other people perform. I want Cory to like me, want anyone in Indah and Neon’s orbit to like me, but it’s so quiet, low stakes, that I wonder if my power is doing any work at all.
“Is Blaze with you?” Cory asks, looking toward the doorway like this mysterious figure will suddenly appear.
“We were actually hoping he was here with you,” Indah says, her smile fading into worry.
“No, I haven’t seen him in a few weeks,” Cory says, face crumpling. “He missed a gig last week and hasn’t been returning any of my calls. I had to get my cousin Ricky to play drums tonight. Are you guys sticking around for our set?”
“Yeah.” Neon shrugs. “I think we were planning on it.”
“Oh.” Cory deflates. “Well, then you should know that my cousin isn’t really that good. He’s definitely no Blaze.”
“When was the last you heard from him?” Indah asks.
“Um…,” Cory starts as he looks down at his shoes. “I guess the last time we played? So, like, a month ago maybe?”
Neon’s mouth twists in disappointment and Indah sighs. This isn’t the answer they were looking for. I don’t know what we’re looking for, but I have a feeling that this guy isn’t telling us the whole truth.
“Are you sure?” I ask casually.
“What?” Cory looks confused and takes a quick glance at Neon and Indah to see the look mirrored on their faces. Annoyance surges inside of me—if they didn’t want me to take part in whatever Nancy Drew–ing they’re doing, then why did they invite me along at all?
“The last time you saw Blaze,” I continue, the name sounding foreign on my tongue. I don’t even know what this guy looks like. “Are you sure that it was when you played?”
Cory’s brow is furrowed, sweat gathering on his face. He’s nervous, hiding something. I want to break him open and see what comes tumbling out.
“Yeah.” He gulps. “We played a show at the Three Clubs and I called him the next day but he never called me back. I just assumed he ran out of minutes but then he didn’t show up for our gig, so … have you guys not heard from him either?”
Cory looks properly worried now, eyes darting back and forth between Neon’s and Indah’s wincing faces, but I don’t want to let him off the hook that easily.
“What happened at the gig?” I ask, keeping my voice level and easy, the focus rising back up in me.
“What do you mean?” Cory looks back to me and I just stare him down, wanting to know whatever it is he’s keeping all locked up. And then:
“Okay, so”—Cory exhales, looking at the ground—“we were packing up the gear and the other guys were inside and I think Blaze was a little drunk because he tried to kiss me.”
Neon’s eyebrows shoot up, both in surprise and as a challenge to whatever Cory will say next.
“And like”—Cory swallows, still staring at his shoes—“that’s totally cool or whatever, I don’t really care. But, you know, it’s not my thing.”
“Oh no…,” Indah mutters, a realization breaking on her face.
“Yeah,” Cory says, sneaking a look at Indah, “you know how Blaze gets. I kinda pushed him away—not mean or anything—but he got so embarrassed and he ran off. I tried to call him to tell him everything was cool with us but I just figured he still needed some space. I didn’t know that he liked me like that and I didn’t want to … I don’t know, I wanted to give him time, I guess.”
My shoulders drop and I let go of the thread I strung between me and Cory. That wasn’t as exciting of an answer as I hoped. And, taking a look at Neon’s face, I see it wasn’t the answer she was looking for either.
“So … you guys haven’t seen him?” Cory’s eyes dart between the three of us, the furrow in his brow getting deeper.
“You know Blaze.” Neon half smiles. “He’s probably just blowing off some steam.”
* * *
And that’s what we do for the next few weeks—we blow off steam that I’m not sure I had in the first place, but that Neon seems to have an endless supply of. Punk shows, vodka shots, and strange parties at odd after-hours bars tucked into residential neighborhoods like pockets of nocturnal activity. I feel alive and vital and like I never know what’s going to happen next. I’ve never felt that before, never felt that there were so many things to do and see, so many possibilities laid out in front of me that I’m overwhelmed in a positive way, overwhelmed with choice and desire. I begin to learn the city, to learn the differences in Neon’s laughs and how to draw them out in her; I learn that the way Indah looks at Neon is the way I wish she would look at me—the way I wish they would both look at me—but I also learn that there are some things my wants can’t manifest.
I also learn why Los Angeles is so quiet at four in the morning: all the bars close at two a.m., a cockeyed choice for a city that revels in its degeneracy. But scattered throughout the urban sprawl are run-down houses with big yards that don’t see
m to belong to anyone. It’s in these pop-up gatherings where Neon knows everyone and everyone knows Indah that I, the complete unknown, start to find my rhythm with the couple I’ve found myself sandwiched between.
“You’re Neon and Indah’s boy, right?”
I pull my eyes back from searching the darkened yard for Indah’s warm skin to look down at the petite and pretty woman in front of me. She’s got short, spiked hair, piercings all up and down her ears, and I’ve already forgotten her name.
“What?” I ask, thinking I must have misheard her question. There’s no way they’d consider me theirs, make that claim to other people. Not even They felt that degree of loyalty or possessiveness, and those things were supposed to be hard-wired into Them.
“I work at the shop with Neon,” she says, smiling, “and she keeps talking about a stray puppy they’ve adopted.”
“I am not a puppy,” I snarl, suddenly defensive in my disbelief, and the easy smile on the woman’s face drops.
“Right. Sorry,” she says sarcastically, eyes widening.
She turns on her heel and walks into the party, leaving me blissfully alone in the shadows on the edge of the yard. The glow of a heat lamp warms my face and I close my eyes, tilting my head toward it and soaking up the artificial sunlight. I’ve been here for a month and already I feel addicted to the daylight. I’ve spent so much of my life in darkness—the shadows of corn stalks, the hollow shade of a house when the electric bill hasn’t been paid, the inky black of the desert—that the triplet suns of Neon, Indah, and the Los Angeles sky have warmed me so thoroughly I never want to slink back into the blackness.
Just as the rays from the heat lamp are starting to singe my eyelashes, a shadow crosses over my eyelids, a solar eclipse. I blink open my eyes, expecting to see Neon’s grin, ready to make fun of me for falling asleep standing up, but instead I find myself staring at a narrow chest wrapped in a black button-down. My eyes roam upward, until I’m looking into the face of a tall, thin man, his bright green eyes peering silently at me.
“Uh, hey, dude,” I say dumbly, shifting from foot to foot. “Can I help you?”
“What’s your name?” he asks, his head tilting unnaturally to one side. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I catch Neon’s eye across the yard. She tilts her head at me as well, but it’s fluid and human. A question—a friend checking in on a friend. I widen my eyes at her, the “rescue me” look I’ve seen Indah give her from behind the bar when we hang out at Lubitsch during her shift and a slimy agency bro won’t stop hitting on her. I see Neon start to walk toward me before my eyes snap back to the man, who has repeated the question.
“Um, Cory,” I lie, wanting this guy to leave me alone and wondering why he hasn’t. It’s chilly out, the kind of desert winter cold that ignores how bright and hot the sun is during the day, but the long black coat hanging from the man’s shoulder seems more decorative than utilitarian. He’s standing perfectly still, except for the tilt of his head, like there’s no air around him, like he’s not even inside his own skin.
“Nice to meet you, Cory.” He smiles, the gesture stretching the tight skin across his gaunt face like a Halloween mask.
“Yeah … you too…,” I say, feeling distant and disassociated. I try to reach out, push my desire for him to leave onto him, but it’s like he’s a moving target and I can’t get a grip.
“So … Cory,” he continues, chewing the name like it’s in a foreign language, “what do you do?”
“What do I do?” I echo, before switching tactics. “Listen, I should—”
“Hey, Rob, you okay?” Neon’s voice pulls my eyes away from the man’s rubber face and I internally curse at the sound of my real name. Even though I’m now looking at Neon, I can feel the man’s gaze narrow at me.
“Rob?” he asks, his voice smooth and expressionless.
“Gotta go, man,” I say, not looking at him. I grab Neon’s hand and she pulls me out of the spotlight of the heat lamp and into the different warmth of the crowd. I didn’t notice how cold I got with the man blocking the lamp, and between the hum of the people milling around and the heat of Neon’s hand, I come back into my body.
“Who was that guy?” Neon asks, dropping my hand now that we’re a safe distance away. I only take a moment to mourn the loss before she grabs it again, intertwining her fingers with mine. The surprise nearly stops me from answering before I remember to relish the comfort she’s giving me, asked for but unverbalized.
“I have no idea,” I say, gripping her fingers a little more tightly. “But I think he brought the end of the party with him. What do you say we find Indah and get out of here?”
* * *
“I bet he was an agent,” Indah suggests lightly, her eyes on the road. We’re in her car, Neon in the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard, me in the middle seat in the back. Despite Indah’s insistence that everyone wear their seat belt, I’ve unhooked mine so that I can lean forward between the front seats and regale the two of them once again with my impression of the creepy tall man, now a lot less scary in my overdramatic retelling.
“You think every creepy guy is an agent,” Neon teases.
“Well, it’s usually true!” she says, sending Neon laughing in a way that I haven’t unlocked yet. “I bet he was trying to get our dear, handsome Rob to model for him or something.”
She smiles at me through the rearview mirror, somehow both genuine and teasing. Neon turns to make cooing kissing noises at me and I playfully push at her shoulder, the close atmosphere and late hour making me more confident. I don’t touch people much and people don’t touch me. But Neon held my hand earlier, so pushing softly on her shoulder feels safe, and when she smiles and pushes back, it feels like sunlight brightening on my face.
“What do you think, Rob?” Neon asks. “Think you’ll become a model?”
“What, with a face like this?”
“It’s a good face.” She shrugs and I realize that she’s not teasing me.
I know the truth about how I look—soft, blank, and unremarkable. I’ve seen the billboards that line the streets of LA and know that I don’t measure up to the most generic of models, know that I’m too short, too chubby, too speckle-faced to be one of LA’s glamorous residents. But without my focusing on it, I clearly want Neon and Indah to think I’m attractive. It’s not the first time something like this has happened, but it’s no less embarrassing than it was the last time.
“I don’t really think the lifestyle of the rich and famous is for me,” I say, trying to change the subject.
“What is for you, then?” Indah asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Like, what do you want to do next?” Neon clarifies. “You’ve been here a few weeks now, you must have some reason for being here.”
They’re both looking at me with open and interested expressions—Neon twisted in her seat to face me, Indah glancing through the rearview mirror every few seconds. I haven’t been thinking about next steps. I’ve been driving from place to place for so long, looking for a place to settle but finding that so impossible that I stopped trying to settle a while ago. But I’ve also never met people like these two before.
“I’ve never seen the ocean,” I say, reluctant to reveal anything more than that, reluctant to even think about anything more than that that I might want. “I hear surfing is big out here,” I add.
“Ugh,” Neon groans. “Don’t tell me you’re staying in Venice.”
“Uh, no,” I say, confused. “What’s wrong with Venice?”
“Anything west of the 405 is another planet,” Neon explains.
“Wait,” Indah interjects, “where are you staying?”
* * *
“You’re staying here?”
“Not too shabby, huh?” I smile, walking farther into the villa, leaving Indah boggling in the doorway.
“What were you saying about not wanting the life of the rich and famous…?” Neon asks, looking around in awe.
&nb
sp; Pleasure rushes through me at their faces—they’re impressed. And I don’t think they’re even impressed because I want them to be. They’re impressed because this is impressive. I’m impressive.
Suddenly I want desperately to tell them both what I can do. Show them just how powerful and impressive I can be. But, if past experience is anything to go by, people’s knowing about me doesn’t make them more inclined to like me. In fact, it sometimes makes using my ability on them that much harder.
Still, the tall, pale man continues to loom large in my head. Joking about him in the car was one thing, but now that I’m back in my own space, which is in a hotel with dozens of other people and big glass doors that lead to the courtyard, I remember the powerlessness I felt in his shadow. It makes me want to prove what I can do. I flex my hand as I flop down on the couch, the phantom sensation of Neon’s grip and the feel of her shoulder beneath my palm both still lingering on my skin. I’m not broken, not too buzzed to have my ability work—that much was proven by Indah and Neon’s complimenting my looks in the car—so why did that man linger when I wanted him so badly to leave?
“Yo, catch me up here,” Neon says, stepping toward the baby grand in the corner. “Are you secretly loaded? Are you actually some trust fund kid on their gap year or something?”
“Ha, definitely not,” I scoff.
“Then…” Neon sweeps her arms outward, gesturing to the grandiose surroundings.
“I have my ways.” I shrug, mock humble.
“You know, you say that a lot for someone who doesn’t even have a wallet,” Indah murmurs, still standing in the doorway. There’s that crinkle between her eyebrows, like she’s looking at an optical illusion, trying to find the cracks in the image. I guess that isn’t far off—me, a dumpy eighteen-year-old kid in beat-up Converse sneakers and a too-big hoodie, staying in a lavish rock star hotel, is its own kind of optical illusion.
“Do you guys want anything to drink?” I say, deflecting. “The fridge is pretty well stocked.”
A Neon Darkness Page 4