I hand Joe the scissors, flip the chair around, and sit. “Finish.”
“Well, after that cut, I have to, just to make you look okay. Either that or you’ll be wearing hats for a year. You don’t want to watch?” he asks.
“No.”
I don’t want her watching me.
“I trust you,” I tell him with a squeeze to his hand. “Make it really short.” Nerves fire off in my belly as the metal blades slice together. A snarled ringlet coils on the floor. I close my eyes.
“I gotta say,” Joe says, standing back and admiring his work. “It shows off your face. It’s weird, though. You look three inches shorter without all the fluff on top.” Skull and soft fuzz are all I feel when I rub my hands over my head. But when I turn around, I don’t like what I see. “I look like a cancer patient,” I say, swallowing inexplicable tears that rise up with those words.
Joe hugs me from behind. “You look like the rebel you are.” Then his voice softens. “You look like a fresh start.”
We hang for a couple of hours, watching a movie and talking until the sun dips below the mountains. He’s pulled together a pretty cute outfit, though I still don’t know where we’re going. Jeans roll up my calves, a couple of tank tops are layered, and he wraps one of his mother’s scarves over my newly shorn head.
“Where we’re going, no one will care how you look.” With that he hands me a cargo jacket and we wave his mom goodbye. This feels good. Some kind of normal. I was right to go with Joe; I needed to get out of my own head for a while.
Getting to the larger city of Palmdale is a bit of a drive. We pull into In-N-Out Burger, order Animal Style cheeseburgers and fries, then head to Joe’s super-secret fun place, which is apparently located in a strip mall with a doughnut shop, laundromat, and nail salon. Small groups of guys and a few girls cluster around the front door. Intermittent flashes of light slide by as the door opens and closes. Music thumps from inside.
I clap my hands. “A dance club!” The excitement I feel is a welcome change. Misery begets misery as . . . someone used to say. Who used to say that? It’s another of those moments when memories feel as intangible as fog. Through the fog a man’s voice spits lofty phrases and Bible quotes at me: For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us!
“Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one suffering.”
“What did you say?” Joe asks over the noise.
Rattled, I shake the thoughts from my head. “Nothing.”
“This isn’t just any club, sister. This place is my new discovery. You’ll love it.”
Our hands are stamped, even though we must look underage. No one seems to care, and when we enter, I see that we’re not the only kids here. Forget talking. The music is loud. It thumps in my bones, reverberates deep in my chest, competing with my heartbeat. It drowns out every other sensation. I love the all-encompassing soak of sound and vibration.
Joe yells something into the din. “What?” I yell back. Then he makes this exaggerated funky-dance face and swooshes his body around. He steers me up a small flight of stairs to an upper-level dance floor and grabs my hips from behind. Can I do this? I feel weedy, and the music is so powerful, it lashes against my tender skin. People’s hands wave in the air, but no one else looks as I must look, as if the music is a snake charmer that’s coaxing my skin over my head like a worn shirt.
After a few hesitant moments, I close my eyes, lean back against Joe, and let myself go. Just ride the music, forget everything in the past, and stop worrying about the future. I’m here now, wrapped in music and dancing with the best friend I’ve ever known.
I swing around to face him, resting my arms on his shoulders. He glances into my eyes briefly, but his eyes are too busy scanning the crowd to linger there. Familiar, this invisible feeling: it stabs me with antagonism. I place my palms on his face. He zeroes back in on me with a laugh. “Oh no,” he hollers into my ear over the music. “I’m not falling for that one again.”
I have the strongest urge to pull his face closer. Even as I’m wondering why, I’m tilting my head and brazenly grazing his lips with mine. When I open my eyes, his are narrowed, perplexed. His dancing has slowed to a sway. I press against him and kiss him again. His mouth is stiff, unresponsive to my lips. The walls of our teeth clank together awkwardly.
Joe recoils, stunned. “You meant that!” he yells over the music. “Why would you do that?” There is accusation in his voice, in his eyes, which flash with anger and confusion.