In Her Skin(31)

“The train stopped two hours ago,” you say, opening the door to the warehouse.

I am not a fan of EDM—it gives me a headache—and I wouldn’t have thought you were, either, with your fancy opera training. We are way young for this crowd, and I wouldn’t be concerned except you’ve got me breaking every one of my survival rules. Don’t wear clothes that show off your body, for starters. But maybe I’m wrong, because no one is sizing us up: no one is even paying attention to us, not really. This crowd is here for the DJ, who stands on a second level, and they look up to him like he is a god, jumping, dancing, shuffling, waving their hands. This is a neon rave, and these are throwbacks, kandi kids and not-so-young kids, and for sure, lots of people here are on something, but this is a happy crowd. You grab my arms and drag me to the front row. The music booms, its pulse in my ears and veins. It feels like something is trying to punch its way out of my throat. You start dancing and I am awkward. Then I close my eyes and let go.

This is exactly what I needed. A familiar heat builds inside me, a heat I’m liking. A heat I don’t want to release just yet.

An out-of-place-looking guy watches us. He is older, hooded. He stands behind us, too close, until we both stop dancing and back away. He swoops fast and whispers something in your ear, and the urge to grab your arm and run is strong. You dig in your pocket and pass him a wad of cash, and he places something in your hand. You turn and show me two beige tablets printed with the letter M.

“We don’t need it,” I mouth.

You smile as if you don’t understand me and shrug, popping both. I try to pretend you didn’t just do that, try not to worry that you have no idea what was in them, and dance, but honestly, it’s ruined for me. Rich kids think drugs make them edgy, when the opposite is true: it just makes them dull. I want to leave the front line, but I’m crushed by bodies, and twenty minutes later you abandon the shuffle moves everyone else is doing for grinding on guys, and then the beat changes, and you’re hanging on me. I know you’re playing, but soon I’m swept up in it, too: the pounding bass, the flashing lights, the neon. No one cares what I look like out here: it’s just us, and you seem fine, maybe it was filler in the pills.

You reach for my arm but miss as you dive toward the sawdust floor. I yank you upright before you hit it. You’re pale and sweaty. I throw your arm over my shoulder and shove people aside, and people are pissed, and I don’t care, because you’re giving me nothing, no help, you’re so weak, and I need to get you out of this place but I can’t find the door we came in. When I see people with water bottles, I realize we have been dancing for hours with nothing to drink. Finally, I spot the exit sign and push through the door, leaning you against a cement wall.

“So thirsty,” you gasp.

I jab my finger in your face. “Stay here. Do you understand me? Stay. Here.”

I walk among packs of people, mostly having cigarettes, and I beg but no one has water to share, and someone does have a beer, and that’ll do. I bring the beer over and you accept it gratefully. I consider taking a sip myself, but I should save it for you.

Your pupils are fat olives. “I love you for saving me,” you say, licking your dry lips and holding the beer in both hands like a mug of something warm.

“I didn’t save you,” I say. “We need to get home. Tell me your phone still has juice.”

You look at me as though I have proposed the most brilliant idea, and fish in the pocket of your mini, which in addition to you looking so vulnerable is getting us unwanted attention. We need to move, soon. You pull the phone out and hit the car service app.

“I hope it will find us,” you say weakly.

You hope. I am thinking of the Lovecrafts’ disappointment when we vanished from the dinner table. What will happen if they realize we’re not in our beds?

“You look so sad,” you murmur, moving a chunk of sweaty hair from my eye. “What are you thinking about?”

“How much trouble we’re going to be in if your parents find out,” I say.

You laugh, at first weakly, then it spreads to your belly and grows into something hyena-pitched and hysterical. Two large bald dudes are checking you out and I wish you would stop.

“It’s not funny,” I hiss.

You ignore me and twirl, looking up at the sky and talking about the stars, how they look like frosting, and you love doing Molly, because you feel things you can’t normally feel, and you wished I’d done it, too, because friendship is about sharing, and we are new friends, and I don’t bother correcting you by reminding you that we are old friends.

“If your parents find out we came to a rave, they could send me away,” I insist.

You stop twirling and stagger for a moment, then swoop toward me, taking my face in your hands. Underneath, my cheeks flame. “Oh sweet, dumb Vivi. They’ll never let you get away.”

We are framed in a car’s headlights, and you check the license plate to your phone. Satisfied, you climb in. To my surprise, a potbellied woman busting out of a Coachella T-shirt climbs into the front seat, and when I say, “Hey,” thinking she’s stealing our ride, you say, “Carpool,” and that explains it. The driver cranks the air conditioner aggressively, and my sweat is drying. I shiver. You collapse and draw your knees up, head in my lap, smiling up at me dreamily.

“You have the most beautiful skin. Like melted coffee ice cream,” you say.