We always get past the velvet ropes. (Always.) We weave through the crowd. Past the blue-collar and fur collars clambering to be noticed. Waiting to be judged. The three of us, shy of 16 with glammed-up hair, smokey blue eyes, and pink lacquered lips. Our hearts thumping to the beat of black beauties. We separate once inside. Farrah to dance it off on a monster speaker. Jaclyn to tease some shirtless bartender into buying her a Mai Tai. And me, forever Kate (not our real names), heading to the bathroom to pee.

We always check in with each other by the lounge. (Always.) But tonight, I am panic-attacking in the restroom, my heart exploding from the pills that Jaclyn (borrowed) from her mother’s purse. While a guy sexier than a cover girl stares me down in the mirror, applying lipstick like a pro. His eyes are two Fourth of July sparklers. Mine, two moons eclipsed. Girl, he says as he lights up a joint, you really need to breathe.

We always meet up for a toke on the balcony. (Always.) But tonight, I’m sucking in air by myself, trying to turn the beat around, watching the action below. That’s when I spot Jaclyn’s mom?! dancing with a man wearing nothing but a speedo and a peacock feather headdress. Jaclyn’s mom, Jaclyn (not her real name), is a panther in black spandex. A Rockette in red stilettos. Jaclyn’s mom, Jaclyn, is white-hot hot, partying under a moon with a spoon with a man wearing nothing but a speedo and a peacock feather headdress.

We always sniff out trouble. (Always.) But tonight, someone is ninjaing into the seat next to mine. I smell him before I see him, Paco Rabanne, maybe Aramis. Heavy and thick like the gold chain around his neck. Jaclyn’s mom would call him bridge and tunnel. I’m thinking Greased Lightening. He whips out a teeny bottle with a teenier spoon and takes a hit. His friends slide in through the other side. One of them leans over, a spritz of rum and coke in my ear. You know what goes on up here, don’t ya, pretty baby? The disco lights strobe. Black. White. Yellow. Red.

We always get lost in the music and lights. (Always.) But tonight, it’s a madhouse assault on the senses, a twilight zone of faces, glitter, and skin. I try to get up. Greased Lightning pulls me down. Where you going, pretty baby? I just got here. Someone is yelling, Get a load of Catwoman! Greased Lightening thrusts his tongue inside my ear. The disco lights strobe. Black. White. Yellow. Red. Jaclyn’s mom is slinking down the aisle, flexing her claws to the beat of “Devil’s Gun.” Jaclyn and Farrah (teen angels) in tow. I get to my feet, peep toe Candies sticking to the floor. There you are, Jaclyn’s mom purrs. White-Hot-Hot.

Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and was included in Wigleaf‘s Top 50 Longlist 2023. Her work has appeared in Maudlin House, Spry Literary Magazine, Emerge Literary Journal, Cheap Pop, 100 Word Story, and elsewhere. You can find her on twitter @KarenCrawford_ and BlueSky @karenc.bsky.social.