It was like standing in the mouth of a cave. The place was cramped and dark, lit only by some strategically placed lamps Christine had draped with colored scarves, and a row of Christmas lights along the bar.
“Whoa, Katie.” Lyle seemed to appear out of thin air. “You look . . .” He shook his head. “Whoa.”
“Yeah,” said Kinky, who was standing farther down the corridor, his bushy hair bobbing up and down. “You do.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t quite understand what they were saying, but I liked it. “How come you guys aren’t playing?”
“We’ll start up in an hour or so,” Lyle explained. “Now’s our chance to mingle.”
“Plus we need to find an extension cord,” Kinky added. “That one outlet keeps giving off sparks.”
Great. Now I had to worry about a freak fire as well.
“Come on. Let’s go check the van,” Lyle said. The two of them loped off toward the front door.
Here goes nothing. I smoothed my skirt and ventured out into the living room. An odd, hyperaware feeling came over me—like the nightmares I’ve had of walking through school naked. I’d never gone to a party by myself before. I’d always been with Chuck. Before him, on the rare occasions Mom allowed me to go to a party, I at least had a couple of friends in tow. But not now.
Christine and Robot were nowhere to be seen. And except for Lyle and Kinky, who were heading out the door, I didn’t know a single person. The others looked like irregular versions of Christine and Robot. All were dressed in dark, trashy-hip clothes, which disappeared in the dim light, making their pale faces look like floating, disembodied heads. Almost everyone wore heavy black eye makeup—the guys too—and had obviously dyed hair that was either ironed straight or stylishly messy. They even had matching expressions: apathy with a touch of cynicism.
The parties I’d gone to with Chuck were all jock keggers, but this one seemed to follow the same dynamic. People stood in small clusters, sipping beers or puffing on cigarettes, talking in low, bored tones. When someone else spoke, they’d nod along while scanning the rest of the room, taking careful mental notes of who had arrived and who was with whom. As I walked through the room, a few pairs of eyes passed over me. Some seemed momentarily interested, as if trying to figure out who I was. But no one spoke or otherwise made contact.
I wended my way through the crowd, trying to look as if I had a purpose, while secretly hoping a conversation or other opportunity to mix would present itself along the way. Eventually I reached the patio doors, which had been propped open with cinder-blocks.
There were twice as many people on the balcony, all hovering around the keg as if it were a watering hole in the middle of the Serengeti. Robot was manning the pump, and Christine stood against the balcony railing—the queen surveying her royal ball.
She saw me and waved me over.
“Look at you,” she said as I approached. “I bet the guys are leaving little slobber trails on the carpet.”
“Just Seamus,” I said. “And maybe Lyle and Kinky. But don’t they always?”
“Right, huh,” she said, laughing. Suddenly she grabbed my elbow and pulled me closer. “See that guy next to Robot?” she muttered in my ear. “You should totally go after him. He just broke up with his girlfriend. Total hag—couldn’t stand her. But don’t you think he’s cute?”
I squinted at him. He was . . . okay. Long bangs, Elvis sideburns. And he obviously thought painting a checkerboard design on a pair of boots was some sort of anti-fashion fashion statement. I tried to picture myself with him. Going to clubs, sharing eyeliner, sucking on the same Thai noodle à la Lady and the Tramp. Of course, we could only go out after dark due to the whole sun-aversion issue. And I’d probably end up chucking him on his butt when he painted bull’s-eyes on my favorite wedges.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled back. “He’s not really my type.”
Christine flashed me number seven of her perturbed expression collection: eyes hooded, mouth open with a slightly curled upper lip. “Then what is your type?”
I stared over her head at the darkness beyond, trying to assemble my thoughts. My type? Chuck’s face loomed in my mind. I always thought he was cute, but was he my archetypical dreamboat? I didn’t think so. Or rather, it was impossible to tell, since any mental image of him made me feel punctured and shriveled inside.
I then thought of Seamus—the original Seamus. Seamus the hunky Irish guy. His face still made me swoon. And I never felt gutted thinking about him. But there was no one at the party even remotely Seamus-like.
“I don’t know,” I confessed.
“I was just trying to help,” she said rather irritably. “But if you think my friends aren’t good enough for you, then fine.”
I stared at her blankly for a moment, too stunned to speak. “No,” I said finally. “That’s not what I think at all. I just . . . need more time.”
“Whatever,” she said, turning back toward the assembled crowd as if dismissing me. “Just don’t expect me to hang with you all night.”
Two hours later I was in the exact same spot. Christine had blown me off in the first thirty minutes, and I was too terrified to actually wander up to anyone I didn’t know. So I interjected myself into a conversation with Lyle, Kinky and a Kelly Osbourne look-alike named Genesee.
“No, man, the acoustics at the Hidey-Hole are much better,” Lyle was saying.
I nodded like I knew what he was talking about.
“No way, dude,” Kinky said. “The Danger Zone totally kicks its butt. Besides, they have cheese fries.”
“I think both clubs have an excellent vibe, but”— Genesee paused to take a dramatic puff on her cigarette— “the Hidey-Hole does have better feng shui. The energy flow is much stronger there.”
“Hah! Told you,” Lyle whooped.
Kinky shook his bushy head. “You guys are high. What do you think, Katie?” he said, turning to me. “Which club is better?”
They had obviously mistaken me for one of them, and I realized I was about to be revealed as a trendie in clubber’s clothing. “Actually I like anyplace that has a clean rest room,” I quipped.
The guys cracked up, but Genesee gave me a penetrating stare—looking very much like Mrs. B. I supposed in her mind, two-ply toilet paper had nothing to do with good energy flow.
“So, how about that new place on Red River?” she said, angling her body ever so slightly away from me. “I hear they do yoga workshops there during the day.”
I leaned against the wall and blinked several times to keep my eyes from glazing over. This was easily the least fun I’d ever had at a party. For one thing, the creepy Euro-disco tunes and everyone’s black clothing and listless expressions made it feel more like a wake. And as the night wore on, the consumption of alcohol only made the scene more surreal.
Some partygoers got louder the more they drank. Others got quieter and quieter until they were reduced to head-bobbing mutely along to the music with their eyes closed. Then there was the Romeo Christine had wanted to set me up with. After positioning himself at the keg and drinking an unfathomable amount of beer, the guy suddenly took off his T-shirt and started dancing spasmodically to the techno song on the stereo. At one point he even climbed onto the bar and tried to dance up there—the low ceiling requiring him to squat like a chicken. When Christine marched over and started yelling at him to get down, he hollered, “Stage dive!” and fell backward into the crowd. It was amazing to see everyone simultaneously step aside, protecting their beers. The guy hit the carpet and lay there looking a little cross-eyed until someone dragged him onto the balcony.
“. . . because music is like water,” Genesee was saying. “It’s like, if you don’t have it, you die inside . . .”
My ears shut down. I just couldn’t fake it anymore. I scanned the crowd for another spot to retreat to, but couldn’t find anything. By this time the small huddles of people had begun splitting into pairs. It was past midnight and couples were everywhere, talking
in low tones with their heads bent together or fading into dark corners to make out. No matter how hard I tried not to think about him, my masochistic mind kept dredging up memories of me and Chuck. Me sitting on Chuck’s lap at Debby Ellis’s party. The two of us cuddling under a blanket at the lake. Chuck pulling me onto the school dance floor during a slow song . . .
“Katie? You all right?” Lyle asked. He peered at me worriedly, his eyes as round as his eyeglass frames.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied. My tongue felt thick and my face got all twitchy. I knew I was close to crying. “Excuse me for a sec.”
I weaved around several couples until I reached the bathroom. Luckily it was empty, save for the cigarette smoke. I locked the door and braced myself against the sink basin, filling my lungs with the noxious air and trying to get a grip. Eventually my breathing steadied and the glob in my throat dwindled. I lifted my head and glanced at my reflection in the square chrome-rimmed mirror. My hair was all frizzy and staticky-looking, and my eye makeup was starting to smear, making me look like a feral raccoon.
But that didn’t bother me as much as the glint of fear in my face. Christine had been right. A deep furrow had been cleaved down the middle of my forehead, and my gaze constantly darted from one eye to the other, as if too freaked to stay in one place for long. What was wrong with me? I used to have a cool boyfriend and popular friends. I used to welcome the chance to hang out with people. Now I was hiding in a bathroom during my own party.
“Hey! Check out that dog!” someone yelled.
“What’s he got?” shouted someone else.
Dog? Oh no! I charged out of the bathroom and ran into my room. “Seamus?” I called, flicking on the light. The room looked as if it had been ransacked. Stuff had been knocked off my dresser and desk, much of it soggy and chewed. But Seamus wasn’t there. Instead a guy and girl were lying on my bed in the middle an extremely steamy make-out session.
“Hey!” the guy said, squinting at me as if the light hurt him. “Do you mind?”
“Do I mind? This is my room!” I shrieked. “That’s my bed!”
“Sorry,” the girl said in a snooty voice. They got to their feet and began straightening their clothes.
“There was a dog in here,” I said. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.” The guy answered impatiently. “Out there somewhere.”
“Katie!” Christine’s voice cut through all other noise like a pneumatic drill.
I followed it into the living room, knowing full well what she was screaming about.
“Your dog is going bonkers again!” she shouted as soon as she saw me.
“But where is he?”
Right when I said that, I saw a dark shape streak through the living room. “Seamus!” I called, lunging after his blur. It was hard to follow him in the dim light and dense crowd. But even when I lost sight of him I could tell where he was by how the partygoers bobbed upward as if they were doing the wave.
Eventually I cornered him beside one of the big black amps set up for the band. “Come on,” I muttered. “We’re going for a walk.” I carried him, babylike, back through the throng of onlookers.
“What’s that in his mouth?” someone asked.
I glanced down. Sure enough, some frilly piece of clothing was between Seamus’s jaws. Without thinking, I pulled it out and held it up. Immediately, the people around us started laughing.
It was one of the panties I’d thrown in the bottom of my closet. The big ruffly ones Grandma Hattie had sent.
“Come on, boy! Hold still!”
I was in the corridor outside our condo trying to wrestle the leash onto Seamus. Ten minutes had already passed and I still hadn’t managed to get it on him. Each time I tried, he would hunker way down and lower his head.
Wang! Wang! Waaaanggg! K’boom! Bow! Bow! Bow!
The sounds of New Bile’s instrument tuning penetrated the walls, making Seamus go even stiffer. Why do they have to be so damn loud? I grumbled inwardly. Someone was going to call the cops. That or our ear-drums would shrivel up like rotting vegetables.
Suddenly the door to unit 303 opened and Hunky Elevator Guy stepped out onto the landing.
“Hi,” he said without smiling. “You guys having a party?”
“Actually my roommate—” I paused, sighing wearily. “Yeah. I guess we are.”
“Do you have to have a live band?” he went on. “I can’t hear myself think!” He was obviously mad as hell. His voice had a growling quality to it that amazed Seamus. For the first time since we stepped out there, he relaxed and lifted his head. I quickly snapped the leash on his collar.
“Please.” The guy clapped his hands together in a prayer gesture and pressed them against his chest. “Could you please just make them stop? I’ve got to work tomorrow. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
I tried to picture myself going back in there and hollering for the band to quit playing. I pictured them laughing at me or simply ignoring me altogether. On the slim chance they actually obeyed, Christine would still be majorly pissed. I then pictured her gabbing with my mom on the phone, sneering smugly as she listed various true and untrue crimes.
“No,” I replied. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
He glared at me. “You can’t? Or you just won’t?”
I heaved a weary sigh. “I’d like to help, but it’s just not possible.”
“Why? What’s the big deal?”
“It’s just . . . complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
Something inside me, some loose cog of machinery, seemed to snap into place. Before I realized it, I was on my feet, yelling. “I just can’t do it, okay? Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you! People are making out in my room, throwing trash off the balcony, smoking everywhere, asking me about my vibes! Meanwhile my mom’s trying to set me up with a gay guy, my roommate is miffed because I won’t date the drunk stage diver, and my dog is eating my underwear!”
For a second, no one spoke or moved. Both the guy and Seamus wore matching looks of shock.
Oh God. Delete! Delete! If this were at all a kind and just universe, it would smite me down with a freak lightning bolt and turn my red-faced, flashlight-waving body into a steaming lump of jelly.
Eventually the guy’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Are you drunk?” he asked. “Or are you always like this?”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, backing up a step, not wanting to look at him. Now that my pent-up rage had spewed out like the contents of a punctured aerosol can, I felt completely drained—and petrified with humiliation. Dear Lord, did I actually scream about my underwear in front of him? What is wrong with me?
“You okay?” he asked. All the anger had left his voice. Now he just sounded concerned. After all, loud rock bands pale in comparison to living next to a raging psycho.
“I’m just sorry,” I repeated morosely as I fumbled with Seamus’s leash. “Maybe you should just call the cops or something. We’ll probably get kicked out, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. It’s not like things are working out here anyway.” I turned and trudged toward the stairwell.
“Whoa. Wait a minute. . . . Wait!”
I spun around, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Let me see your flashlight,” he said, holding out his hand. “I have an idea.”
I followed him outside, not saying a word. After screeching about my panties, I decided not to take any more chances with conversation. He led me along the front of the building, beneath the balconies. The noise of our party spilled into the night, shrill and discordant.
“Here it is,” Elevator Guy announced, stopping just around the corner and pointing to a spot on the building’s north wall. “Could you please take the flashlight and shine it on my hands?”
“Sure.” I hooked the handle of Seamus’s leash over my wrist and clumsily grabbed the flashlight. I had no idea what he was doing and wondered if I should be worried. After all, he clearly didn’t like Seamus, and he couldn�
��t be all that fond of me after I refused to help him and had that grand mal hissy fit. But for some strange reason, I trusted the guy. Even Seamus was more subdued around him. Too bad the guy didn’t like dogs, because Seamus clearly liked him.
As he reached toward a dark rectangle on the brick exterior, I shakily aimed the flashlight beam over his shoulder. I then recognized the shape as the building’s breaker box. What the hell? I wondered, feeling the first stirrings of doubt.
“A little higher, please?” he asked.
I dutifully complied.
“Three, three, three,” he mumbled. “Yes. Here it is. Three-oh-one.” I heard a couple of clicks and then suddenly the screeches and throbbing rhythms of New Bile’s music died away, leaving only the faint rat-a-tat of Lyle’s drumming. I poked my head around the corner and looked up at our balcony. The condo was pitch dark. Only the red glowing tips of lighted cigarettes remained, like a large cluster of fireflies.
There came a few shrieks of surprise and someone exclaimed, “Aw, dude! I think you blew the electric!”
I retracted my head and leaned against the wall, laughing into my hand. “That was brilliant,” I whispered. My grip loosened on the flashlight and the beam hit Elevator Guy square on the chest, illuminating the outer tips of his face as if he were sitting at a campfire. His mouth was open in a wide grin, teeth gleaming, and the tops of his cheeks pushed his droopy eyes upright. My heart tumbled inside me. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it seemed like there was something between us—most likely just the camaraderie that stems from being partners in crime.
“Do you have anywhere you need to be tomorrow morning?” he asked.
My face felt suddenly hot. Are all college guys this direct? “Uh . . . n-no,” I stammered truthfully.
“Good. ‘Cause your alarm might not work with the power off. I promise I’ll flip the switches back before I leave for work tomorrow.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Stupid. Stupid. He’d only been concerned about our lack of electricity. He had no idea my hellhound alarm clock had a backup battery.
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