Page 13 of The End of Summer

“Nah,” Saffron said. “I’ve done Christmas photos with those. They get a little warm, but nothing crazy. Just be careful not to slam into the pole. If you break one, you could get all scratched up.”

Indigo nodded. “Maybe I’ll tape them in place, too.”

“Can’t hurt,” Cherry added.

“So, Summer,” Saffron wondered aloud, “You gonna dance with us?”

“Not wearing that,” Cherry laughed, gesturing toward my outfit with a nod.

I looked down at the not-quite-couture situation I was sporting. Admittedly, the tank top looked, well… ratchet, but I sort of thought that tracked with the kind of party we were throwing. I didn’t realize there were legit costumes we could be wearing. Also, Jenna did not mention anything about me having to –

“She’s only here to babysit,” Arrow interjected, laughing. “Besides, I doubt she could dance.”

“Damn, Arrow. That’s cold,” Cherry said.

“No, she’s probably right,” I interjected. “I don’t think I could do all that upside-down business you were doing when I got here.”

“My moves are advanced,” Arrow replied, rubbing a fingerful of Icy Hot on the back of her shoulder, atop a tattoo of a glass heart shattered by – you guessed it – an arrow. “We don’t teach that at parties. We just like to show off.”

“It impresses the clients,” Indigo added, pressing a piece of tape to her ribcage.

“You could learn,” Cherry said. “But you’d have to upgrade your look. Although, I’m obsessed with your hair color. Where did you get that done?”

I touched my ruby locks. “4Cs. I was a cosmetology final.”

“Super cute.”

“Anyway, we all started from scratch. We could teach you how to pole.” Saffron offered.

“I took dance as a kid,” I offered.

Arrow rolled her eyes. “Totally different.”

“You should try it. We work out on Mondays and Tuesdays, when there are less likely going to be parties,” Cherry said. “We do all our own choreo. It’s great exercise.”

“Plus, it’s fun,” Indigo added. “You might like it.”

“I could never wear what you guys are wearing, though,” I admitted. “I thoughtthiswas scandalous.” I gesture at my current getup.

“You’re a grown ass woman,” Arrow said with a smirk. “No shame in flaunting it.”

A few minutes later, the hot-mess-express came roaring into the station just shy of the party’s designated 8:00 p.m. start time. 27 girls barreled out of a huge white party bus, already lit from whatever pre-game cocktails they’d enjoyed. Arrow rolled her eyes. “Ugh. I hate early birds.”

Arrow pushed up her boobs in her bra before swinging open the door. “Hey, ladies!” she waved, welcoming them in with her fakest smile. “Who’s ready to get fucked up?”

“Woo!” the one dressed in a short, tight, white lace getup who I could only assume was some lucky man’s bride-to-be screamed out, punching a fist high in the air.

Arrow brought the girls into the studio, Cherry cranked up the music, Saffron climbed one of the poles and began spinning up by the ceiling, and Indigo launched into a headstand from the floor which resulted with her wrapping her legs around a different pole. Arrow showed the partygoers where they could put their personal belongings. I was grateful to not have to worry about collecting car keys because that would have been akin to herding feral cats; there was no semblance of order whatsoever among these women. Instead, I tried to gauge the vibe of the room, but felt so overwhelmed that I was tempted to just start handing out bottles of water. (As it turns out, Arrow may have chosen the wrong girl for the job, seeing as how my idea of a party vibe involves a mug of hot cocoa and a nice crossword puzzle.)

“You okay?” Cherry asked me.

I nodded, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her in close so I could whisper-yell. “What color shots would you start with?”

“I’d go middle of the road. This group seems okay so far.” She pulled back to look at me. “Relax, bae. This is nothing.”

I took a breath and grabbed the raspberry Smirnoff Jell-o shots. I counted ten trays of 32 shots each, two of which were the “lemon drops” (aka glorified Gatorade). I put on my best attempt at a cool-party-girl face, which may havecome out doppelgangering as a constipation face, and held the plastic platter out in front of my stomach, heading for the ladies who were already dancing in a weird junior-high-school-type circle.

“Hey, girlfriends!” I screeched at the group, bopping my way on my clunky shoes into the middle of their proverbial “Ring Around the Rosy” formation. Carrying a cafeteria tray of shots through the strobe-lit-darkness, I was desperately trying to make sure none of them fell while DMX barked at me through the speakers, God rest his soul.

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