Black Bird of the Gallows(10)
The energy of the packed dance floor floods my veins, pounds through my bones, but there’s a weird agitation to the floor tonight, as if everyone is dancing slightly off beat. The clientele is usually docile, but two guys have already been kicked out—one for threatening the bartender and another for punching a guy who bumped into his girlfriend. A few others got stern warnings. None of this is typical. The Strip Mall’s bouncers usually stand around bored out of their minds. Tonight, they’re prowling the floor, watching the crowd with sharp eyes.
My gaze flickers over the unsettled floor as I fade in a six-minute house remix I made myself last week. I signal Deno, who works the booth with me, to adjust the pre-amp settings. There’s some weird feedback going on.
Aside from Deno and Lacey, no one knows I am Sparo, the Friday night DJ. It blows my mind, honestly. I never let anyone near enough to look at me closely, but just in case, the lighting is set up to make it hard to get a good view at the girl in the booth. Plus, my outfit is pretty intense. Six-inch platform boots make me super tall, and my transformation includes an array of wigs, massive green sunglasses, and about three pounds of makeup. If my dad saw me in full Sparo gear, he’d die. Thankfully, he’s given up asking to see my set. “A lot of teenagers,” and “very loud music,” were both effective in deflecting him. Instead, I make him playlists for his iPod.
Most patrons are looking more at one another’s asses than at me, but I thought someone eventually would see through my disguise. I figured Deno would blow my cover or people would figure it out, since we’re together so much in and out of school, but no. It helps that Deno is always here. The Strip Mall is his second home. He assists three other DJs and fills in whenever the owner has an empty shift. He could have his own set if he didn’t prefer working behind the scenes.
Someone appears at the booth for another song request. I glance over and see Kiera Shaw, writing her song on the Post-it note Deno gives anyone with a request. She would lose her mind if she knew Sparo is me—Angie Dovage—the “little freak” she likes to spew verbal bile on. It’s been three days since her lunchroom humiliation. I’m over it, but I cannot wait until I don’t have to see her face every day.
Kiera hands the yellow Post-it over and tries to peek around him to get a look at me. Deno deftly blocks her view, but I’m not worried. Sparo looks way older than seventeen and nothing like me, anyway. My shoulder-length hair is hidden under a vivid purple wig and huge headphones. Angie doesn’t wear lipstick, but Sparo’s lips are slicked up Blow-Pop pink. Sparo’s clothes are flamboyant, weird, colorful, while Angie wears dark, don’t-notice-me clothes. I like to think maybe somewhere in between Sparo and Angie is me.
Deno hands me Kiera’s request with raised brows. It doesn’t matter what she requests or how many Post-its she hands Deno—I’m not playing her requests. I ball it up and flick it to the floor, and Deno firmly waves her off. She makes a pouty face, says something to Deno, and then huffs away. A smile tugs at my lips. It’s not nice of me, but I do enjoy denying her. She shouldn’t get everything she wants.
She returns to her group of friends. A guy comes up behind them with a cup in each hand. He hands one to Kiera, and the smile falls off my face.
It’s him. Reece. Here with Kiera Shaw. We share a few classes and lunch, but we haven’t spoken since his first day. His mom, or someone, drives him to school, I guess, because that champagne Lexus rolled by while I walked to the bus stop every day. It had been a relief and a disappointment to not face him every morning. I wasn’t sure if he was giving me space after the lunchroom incident, or if he decided I was too much of a social liability, or if he was just busy. Whatever the reason, I must have misread him. Maybe that connection I thought we had was another thing my head invented.
Still. I hadn’t thought he’d want to hang out with Kiera after what she said. He’d appeared upset at that. But that’s the problem these days: few things are what they appear.
My teeth gnash. I guess Kiera does always get what she wants. She sips her drink and starts to dance, like on him. He does shift away, but whatever. He’s here with her. The next song I was planning on was a chill tune, perfect for slower dancing, but instead, I queue up something angry and fast. Probably not going to ease the edgy vibe in here, but I won’t make it easy for Kiera.
Deno notices the change in the playlist and gives me a puzzled look.
I shake my head, but Deno can see my scowling brow above my glasses. His gaze traces the general path mine had just been on, and his brows go up. Kiera. Her friends. Reece. Obviously, Reece. Deno is thick sometimes, easily distracted, but can tune in at the most inopportune times. He leans in close. “You can’t play techno for the next hour and a half just to keep those two from dancing.”
My face burns. I should have hidden my reaction better. I shouldn’t have reacted at all. Denial isn’t an option with Deno. “Watch me,” I say.
But instead of frowning, he lets out a chuckle. “My-oh-my. I’d say it’s confirmed that our little Angie has finally found a boy she likes. A sporty boy.” He sighs. “I just lost a bet, you know.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask who he made a bet with, but it’s undoubtedly Lacey. I start up the next track, a sexy downtempo tune that’s impossible to not slow dance to. “Fine. Now we can stand here and watch them make out. Happy?”