by Anna Hecker
Driving to the Pine Barrens party feels like careening into the middle of nowhere. The roads keep getting smaller until I’m jouncing down a dirt track barely wider than the LeSabre. Pine needles brush the roof softly and my car feels like it’s full of ghosts in the dark, lonely night: Yelena yelping and bouncing in the back seat. Grandpa Lou holding a cigarette out the window as he fiddles with the tape deck. Britt cracking a joke and putting her feet on the dashboard, and Crow and Nicky arguing over who was better: Billie Holiday or Ella Fitzgerald.
But as lonely as it is driving through the darkness of rural south Jersey, it’s better than staying home in our house made of lies. I feel like if I exchange more than two words with Mom, Dad, or Britt I’ll turn into a puddle of ugly-crying, accusation-flinging emotion—the same Sad Trombone spectacle I’ve spent the last three years trying to avoid. Instead I’ve been escaping to Brooklyn once my Gym Rat shifts are over, bringing my laptop so I can practice DJing in Derek’s room and then sinking onto his bed and letting my body dissolve into his and my anger dissipate under his touch.
Just as I’m beginning to wonder if I made a wrong turn somewhere, I hear the faint pulse of drumbeats ahead. A violet light draws me in, the sound growing deep and rich until I can make out strains of reedy electric melody. I pull into a parking lot that’s really just a ring of dirt, cars and vans and a few psychedelic-painted school buses parked in haphazard lines. Beyond it the party glistens between slender tree limbs. I lock the car and start through the forest, under fabric triangles that dance with video projections, pink and green fractals branching endlessly into the night.
Through a clearing I find a larger stage covered with painted plywood butterflies. A thick crowd dances enthusiastically to a driving, tech-heavy track that reminds me of factories and assembly lines, grease and metal and concrete. Shay bounces up to me from inside a puddle of shifting turquoise light.
“I’m so excited!” The gold chains around her neck jingle as she gives me a hug. “My friend Bo mastered our track—I can’t wait to hear it over this system.” She looks over my shoulder, then all around me. “Where’s Britt?”
I try not to let her see how much Britt’s name rankles. “I don’t know. Probably in the city or something.”
“Bummer.” Shay pouts. “Is she doing okay?”
I shrug. I don’t want to think about Britt right now. I’m here to get away from her, and my parents, and their lies.
Shay looks like she wants to say something more, but thinks better of it. Instead she asks if I want to hang out in the booth during her set. I hesitate for a moment—if Derek sees me there, will he be upset? Then I shake the thought out of my head and accept her offer. I told him I wasn’t going to stop hanging out with Shay, and I meant it. He’s just going to have to get over his trust issues.
Shay leads us to the DJ booth, which is really just a small plywood platform next to a cluster of trees. As she messes with her equipment I train my eyes over the field of bobbing heads, looking for Derek. But it’s dark out here, darker than it was in the warehouse or at Summerfest. In the drifting lights I can barely make out the difference between bodies and shadows and trees.
Shay’s first track settles over me like a warm bath. It’s one I know well and my hips start moving to the beat. But when I look out at the crowd I notice she’s losing her dance floor—the clumps of people are breaking up, wandering away toward the vendors.
Her tongue sticks out from between her teeth as she transitions. Her new song has a lilting, ethereal melody of distorted pan flute, with jungle sounds swinging through the beats like monkeys on a vine. I love this track, but I can tell right away the dance floor doesn’t. There are big dark spaces between the dancers now, large patches of nothing but pine needles.
Shay notices too, and her face falls. She curses quietly as she flips through her tracks, tiny beads of sweat popping up on her forehead.
“Maybe they want something harder?” I suggest. Her music sounds too light and delicate after the last DJ’s industrial mayhem; it’s throwing the dancers off.
“Fuck.” Shay wipes her forehead. “I planned this whole, like, fairy-music set. I mean, look at this place!” She gestures at the towering trees, the twinkling lights, the butterflies above the stage.
“Yeah.” I bite my lip. “But …”
“I know. It’s not working.” She turns to me. “Did you bring thumb drives?”
I nod. I’ve been keeping them on my key chain.
“Want to tag in?” She shakes her head in disgust. “Maybe you can get them going. I read this crowd all wrong.”
There’s a note of bitterness in her voice, and I flash back to Derek’s words in his van. Is Shay a jealous person? And if so, is she going to be jealous of me?
“Come on.” She’s already yanking out one of her thumb drives, gesturing for me to plug in. “I just need a couple minutes to regroup.”
I fish my keys from my pocket. I’m pretty sure I know exactly what to play right now, a perfect way to bridge Shay’s ethereal world-music with the harder sound I think these people are looking for.
I plug in my thumb drive and cue up the track, bringing in a beat that’s all tribal, organic bongos that meld with Shay’s jungle sounds. Then the effects come in: the ping of hammers on steel, the steamy chug of the bass. I feel the dancers pick up their heads and sniff the air like hound dogs sensing meat; people who have been chatting on the sidelines start to drift back. Shay shoots me a tense smile.
For my next track I go even harder. More people stream onto the dance floor and they hit the ground running, feet churning pine needles and dirt. A sense of power rises in me like a mushroom cloud. I think about what Derek said: I have great instincts, and dance floors love me. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I really was made for this. Because right now, I find myself loving the dance floor right back.
Shay taps my shoulder. Her eyes are gleaming, all traces of bitterness gone. “I can tag back in,” she offers, so I hand her the headphones and watch as she mixes in the next track, my body one step ahead and already anticipating the beat.
This time she nails it. She drops a tech-heavy banger that has the dancers packing in like sardines and turns the clearing into a whirlwind of shuffling feet and drifting dust. I know the perfect song to come after it, and even though Shay’s back in the driver’s seat I can’t help shuffling through my tracklist and finding it.
“Hey.” Shay’s at my elbow, holding out her headphones. “Want to tag back in?”
My grin blossoms like flowers after a rain. It feels like the whole world is spinning in perfect sync: me and Shay and the dance floor, all hurtling together on the same spaceship into the great unknown. I take the headphones. Shay starts flipping through her tracklist. And just like that, we’re tag-teaming.
We spend the rest of the hour going back and forth, building from deep and techy to whimsical and wild, the crowd hanging on every note. When the next DJ appears in the booth we look at each other and nod. We still haven’t dropped our track yet, the one we wrote together, and with only ten minutes left we both know it’s time. By now we’ve worked the crowd into a lather; I can smell their sweat and excitement in the sharp night air.
I try not to hover as Shay cues it up, but my eyes are glued to her fingers flying over the rig, one hand on the jog wheel and the other working the levels. I can hear our beats in my head even before she turns the volume up, bringing it in steady and sure. I glance out at the crowd but they’re oblivious, still dancing like tonight will never end. So slowly I can feel each beat stretch out like a rubber band, she slides the crossfader to the right, drowning out the old track and bringing the new one in. The night fills with the music we created from scratch, each note swelling until even the treetops seem to sway along.
The crowd notices. The crowd responds.
They throw themselves into the music like children diving into a ball pit, faces split open with joy. Their hands grasp the air, reaching for the next note.
They reach. They keep reaching. And then they stop.
Because it’s not there, whatever it is they’re reaching for. It’s so close—we can all sense it, the intangibility of whatever this song needs. But even on the big sound system, even with a packed dance floor, even with the volume turned all the way up, this track is still missing something.
And I still can’t figure out what it is.
I can feel Shay’s disappointment radiating off of her, echoing my own. We are so close with this. But we’re just not there.
The dancers sense it too. Their shuffling slows; their arms begin to look tired. They haven’t left the clearing yet, but we’ll lose them if we don’t drop something else soon. The next DJ paces in tiny circles below us, looking worried.
I turn to Shay. “‘Just a Little Lovin’’?” I suggest. It’s the track we first bonded over back at the warehouse, the one that made the whole crowd leap in the air.
Shay nods. She cues it up and brings it in fast, and just like it did in the warehouse, it gets the dancers back on their feet. The next DJ looks relieved.
“Come on,” Shay says as we palm our thumb drives and high-five the new guy on our way out. “Let’s go dance.”
I can tell she’s still trying to shake the disappointment of our track falling flat as we jump from the lip of the stage into the crowd, into the fray.
As the last notes of “Just a Little Lovin’” pour honey-sweet into my ears people start coming up to tell us they loved the set and ask what our duo is called. We look at each other and shrug. Are we a duo now, I wonder? If Derek is right about Shay she would never want to share the spotlight, but right now she’s as happy as I’ve ever seen her, hopping in circles and giving me a big sideways hug.
As the next DJ mixes in I push my way through the crowd, looking for Derek. I finally find him at the edge of the dance floor, leaning against a tree with his nose buried in his cell phone.
“Hey, babe!” I tap him on the shoulder, prepared with my biggest, sweetest smile.
He doesn’t return it. “Oh,” he says, slumping further against the trunk. “Hey.”
I feel the smile fall from my lips. He doesn’t peel himself off the tree, doesn’t take me in his arms or give me a kiss.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“As okay as it can be, I guess.” He shoves his phone into his pocket, crossing his arms.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
“It’s obviously not fine.” I straighten my shoulders, trying to hold on to the rosy afterglow of our set even as it slips away. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You’ll be mad.”
“I won’t be mad,” I assure him.
His eyes cut to the DJ booth, then back to me.
“Hold on,” I say, as it slowly dawns on me. “Is this about Shay?”
He looks down at his shoes, his voice quiet. “I knew you’d be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I try to explain, even as something hot and bitter rises in my chest, something that actually does feel a bit like anger. “I just want to understand.”
“I can’t believe I have to spell this out for you.” He gives a deep, wounded sigh. “First you tell me you’re going to stop hanging out with Shay, and next thing I know you two are tag-teaming?”
I stumble back, my mind reeling. “I never said that.”
He steps forward, until we’re almost nose to nose. “Yes, you did. You promised me, at the mall the other day. Did that mean nothing to you?”
I shake my head. I feel like I’m going insane. “You must have misheard me. Or misunderstood or something.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” His eyes bore into mine, and I can feel his breath hot on my cheek.
“No.” A hot, sticky tar of frustration fills me, slowing my thoughts. “I don’t understand why you’re being like this. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
He looks at me for a long time as lights flash blue and green over our faces. We’re eye to eye, nose to nose, our breathing heavy and synced. Every time I’ve been this close to Derek it’s felt wonderful; it’s felt absolutely right.
Now it feels all wrong.
Finally Derek deflates, like the fire’s been extinguished from his chest. “Why am I even wasting my time on you?” he mutters.
Then he turns and stalks into the forest, leaving me alone at the edge of the dance floor with a hard little pocket of tears lodged in my chest.
CHAPTER 35
I slump against the tree trunk, breathing hard. I don’t want to cry, not here at a party when I’ve just come off the kind of DJ set that should keep me smiling all night. But Derek’s words clang against my heart.
Does he really think he was wasting his time on me? I thought I understood what we had, but now it seems like he wants things from me that I don’t know how to give him, like every word that comes out of my mouth is wrong.
I pull myself off the tree and start into the crowd. I can’t stay here at this party, pretending to be happy when my heart is shredded. My tears blur the lights into watercolor streaks and I can’t find the parking lot and I feel like I’m going in circles, getting further away from what I want with every step.
In the darkness between clearings and I stumble over roots and fallen branches, using my phone as a flashlight and cursing myself for ever thinking this party was a good idea. A cloud of blue light blooms in the distance. I’ve almost reached it when I hear my name, scratchy and broken, from the ground.
I jump back, a scream bursting through my lips. Tangled in the roots at my feet I see Yelena’s big patent leather boots, her lacy midriff-baring top and silver belly chain, her flouncy miniskirt. Her backpack lies between her legs, the doll’s face smeared with dirt.
My heart flings itself at my rib cage and I feel dizzy, nauseous, weak. This isn’t like imagining Yelena’s ghost in the back seat of my car. This is real.
Then I see the corkscrew hair and tawny, muscled thighs. It’s not Yelena’s ghost lying prone against that tree. It’s my sister.
“Britt!” I throw my arms around her shoulders, forgetting for a moment that I’m furious with her for almost ruining my life. “I didn’t know you were going to be here. Did you catch my set?”
Britt makes a strangled, croaking sound. Her skin is cold, slimy with sweat. “Are you okay?” I ask. Her shoulders are tense and I can feel her heartbeat through her shirt, erratic and way too fast.
Britt doesn’t respond. Her head lolls against the tree bark, her skin waxy and her eyes unfocused.
“Britt!” I scream, waving my hand in her face. Her eyes swim into focus and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“I don’t feel good.” She’s grinding her teeth hard, her jaw working into grotesque positions. Her pupils are huge, eclipsing all but the thinnest rim of golden-brown iris. She looks terrified.
“You took something.” I try to keep the anger, the fear, the frustration out of my voice.
Britt doesn’t try to deny it. “Yelena would have.”
“Of course Yelena would have,” I mutter. “Stay here. I’m going to find you some water.”
“No!” Her hand claws the air and lands on my arm, cold fingers scrabbling at my skin. “Don’t leave me here.”
“Then you have to come. Can you walk?”
She bites her lip. I look around and the blue light ahead of us swims into focus. It’s a geodesic dome, I realize now, with a few figures silhouetted inside.
“Come on.” I point to the dome. “Just over there.”
I stand and help Britt up, supporting her under my arm as the bulk of her weight collapses against me. “I feel like I’m full of bees,” she mumbles as we half walk, half stumble toward the light.
Two women and a man with a long, scraggly blond beard sit in camp chairs in the dome, illuminated by ghostly blue rope lights. They’re older, maybe in their late twenties, and they all have dreadlocks even
though they’re white.
“Jesus.” One of the women stands and hurries over to help. We get Britt settled in an empty camp chair and the woman grabs a plastic gallon jug of water, holding it up to Britt’s mouth so she can drink. Britt swallows and coughs, sending water spluttering down the front of her shirt.
“What’d she take?” the man asks.
“Molly,” I tell him. “Right, Britt?”
Britt groans, and a sickly feeling settles over me. “Britt?” A note of panic creeps into my voice. “Oh my god. What did you take?” I think about Yelena and the meth and butylone, about Miles Davis and heroin and cocaine. It feels like drugs are infiltrating my life from every corner, destroying everything and everyone I’ve ever cared about.
Britt’s head rolls to one side, but she manages to look up at us. “Just molly,” she gasps. “I swear, that’s all it was.”
The guy snorts. “Like hell it was.”
“What do you mean?” I glance up quickly.
The woman next to him shakes her head. “You think pure MDMA makes you feel like that?” She points to Britt, whose eyes are rolling back, leaving nothing but milky slits.
“So maybe she didn’t take pure MDMA?” Suddenly my legs feel like jelly, and my body feels full of bees. I lean against the dome.
“Jesus, you kids.” The guy picks something out of his beard, examines it, and flicks it away. “Of course she didn’t. It’s never pure. There’s all kinds of adulterants in molly these days … cough syrup, cannabinoids, meth, butylone …”
Butylone. Meth. Like the drugs Yelena took, the ones they found in her system after she died.
“Get a test kit already,” the guy sighs, shaking his head. “They’re like forty bucks on Amazon.”
I ignore him and turn to my sister. “Britt.” My voice is cut glass, slicing through the night. “Where did you get that pill?”
She says the name so quietly it might as well be a pine needle drifting to the ground.
I make her say it again.
This time I can’t help hearing it, and wishing I could un-hear it, and knowing I never can.
The woman who’s been helping her clucks her tongue. “Oh yeah. We don’t buy from that guy anymore. His shit is the worst.”