Page 59 of A World Apart
“Not the scrunchie!” Becka begged, pulling it away from me and holding it behind her back. Silently, I stared her down and held out my hand.
“No, babes, if you put this in your hair, I’m never getting it out again tonight and I want to go dancing!”
“Go then,” I urged, “I’m not stopping you. Give!”
“I can’t dance on my own, I need the divine beauty of two babes in order to tempt the men-folk.” She had a point. Every time two women danced together, it was like moths to a flame. Law of nature, I guessed.
I shook my head. “I’m having a moment, I don’t want to go out.”
“That’s precisely why you should!” she insisted, “you can’t mope all the time, it won’t make anything better, it’ll just make things worse. Believe me, I know.”
And she did, I knew that, just like I knew she was right. Sighing, I said, “Fine, but I really don’t want to be out until all hours, ok?”
Becka held up her hands, making a small effort to not gloat. “Scout’s honour.”
Barely an hour later, we were in the back of an Uber and heading downtown to a club where Becka knew a promoter who who had sworn up and down he could get us a free round of shots.
Becka texted him to secure our spot and I was just staring into space. I was resolutely ignoring my phone, knowing there was nothing on there I wanted to see. I stared out the window at the bright lights of LA in the evening, a cacophony of noise and bustle so much like London that I very briefly, but still deeply, got homesick. I supposed it was about time that I would start to long for home, I had been here nearly two months, the novelty was wearing a bit thin. The past week had made me forget, but the phone call I had earlier this evening with my mum and dad had only settled me further in to the melancholy I had been feeling all day.
Finally, we pulled up outside the club and Becka’s friend was true to his word. He was waiting for us at the curb and ushered us through the doors to the club, completely bypassing the line that was already half-way up the street. I didn’t react to the calls of protests, but internally, I grinned and felt my spirits lift, just a little.
Immediately I was hit by a wall of sound as we went further into the club, past the foyer. The lights strobed just above head height, a kaleidoscope of acidic greens, razor-sharp reds and effervescent purple cutting through the haze from the heat of hundreds of dancing bodies, all pulsing to a beat that vibrated up from the soles of my feet to my chest, pulling me into the throng as though by a tether.
“I’m going to get our drinks,” Becka shouted, leaning closer to me to be heard over the music. I gave her a thumbs up and then moved forward to stand against the railing of the raised platform we were on that overlooked the dancefloor below.
Bodies pressed firmly against each other, all moving to the pulse of the music, and I let it in to block out the noise of my phone and its deafening silence.
Becka returned with not just two drinks, but a whole tray of shooters and a grin on her face that suggested mischief.
“Whoa, what happened to one drink each?” I had to shout to make myself heard.
“Carlos is trying really hard to get in my good books.” She put the tray down on a tall table on my other side.
“Your good books, or your pants?” I eyed the tray of drinks sceptically.
Becka laughed, but I didn’t hear the sound. “He’s not interested in my pants!” She waved a hand at me, as if this suggestion were completely outrageous.
“He wants me to put in a good word for him with his ex-boyfriend.”
Ah. “What did he do?”
“You don’t want to know.” Becka shouted, shaking her head, eyes wide.
Becka arranged our drinks on the tray, half on the side closest to me, half on the other, the almost-luminous colour of the artificially flavoured drinks visible even in the dim light.
“Ready?” She grinned at me as she held the little cup of bright green liquid out to me. I took a fortifying breath. To hell with it all. I took the shot from her and together, we downed our first drink.
“Blech,” I stuck my tongue out as Becka visibly shuddered.
“Again!” she shouted picking up another and handing it to me before the taste of the last one had even fully registered on my tongue. Together, we threw the drinks back.
And so, it continued until the whole tray was gone and I’ve counted six shots, all in various colours and all now decidedly mixing in my stomach. It’s at that moment I realised I had forgotten to properly line my stomach before coming out, my last meal some hours ago.
“Oh, fuck me,” I groaned, holding a hand up to my forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Becka shouted close to my ear, “Are you feeling sick?”
“Not yet,” I shouted back, and then giggled at her confused expression. “Let’s go fucking dance!” We might as well, I thought to myself.
