“You’d fly out with me?”
His whole body goes rigid. “I was going to say that I’d drive to your parent’s house and have them convince you to stay.”
“They already know what’s happening.” I have a very hard time lying to my parents. I went to one party in high school and blabbed to my mom and dad the minute I snuck back inside. My mom made me ice cream, and I dished to her about the uneventful night.
“And they’re okay with it?”
“They’re a lot like you, actually,” I say with a smile.
“It’s not funny, Thora.”
I think I’m smiling and scowling to hide my fear. It grows the longer he talks to me, and I’d rather stay confident.
“He could be a dude,” Shay adds, pointing at my cellphone. “He could want to fuck you…or worse—
kill
you.”
Chills run down my spine. “We’re meeting at a nightclub where
she
works. It’s a public place.”
I’ll know if she’s a pervy dude or creep then.
Shay is quiet for a second, and he stares hard at me, like he can break my optimism and my plans with a single, narrowed look.
He can’t. I won’t let him.
“You have one year left at college,” he says, “and you’re going to throw it all away?”
I shake my head. “It’s the opposite,” I tell him. “My life is just beginning.”
Act One
I roll my suitcase along the indoor cobblestone, a pathway leading towards The Red Death. It’s the club where Camila works, inside The Masquerade Hotel & Casino. She told me the club’s name was a play on Edgar Allen Poe’s
Masque of the Red Death
, maybe to alleviate any worries that I’d be catfished and end this trip in a body bag.
I blow out my stress with a breath. “You can do this, Thora,” I whisper to myself. The pep talk helps some.
I trek forward, struggling to avoid the pack of stiletto-heeled girls in glitzy dresses. They line up behind a velvet rope, fitting among the bright lights of Vegas like chameleons. Off to my left, casino machines glow and flash and ring while people bustle down the wide corridors with places to be, parties to attend, money to gamble.
I am the elephant, trudging around with my worn Adidas sneakers, spandex pants and oversized Ohio State shirt. Add in the frizzy hair from a four-hour flight and a bright red suitcase (almost pink from sun-fading) and I stand out. Badly.
The wheels of my suitcase clink against the cobblestone, drawing attention to myself. This breaks my usual straight-rigid posture. My shoulders begin to curve forward in ways I don’t like. I take another breath and then slip out my phone and text Camila while I walk.
I’m here. The line is really long. Should I wait in it?
I press send. I have no idea whether bartenders have the power to let their “couch-surfer” cut the line.
My phone pings.
I gave ur name to the bouncer. Go up to him and he’ll let u in.
– Camila
I continue striding forward then. Eyes zone in on me like lasers finding a target. The hot judgment sears my skin but I try to waft it off. Keeping my focus only on the bouncer—big, burly with tattoos that decorate his bulging muscles.
“Line starts at the back, sweetheart!” a guy yells near the front.
“Shut up, Trent. Maybe she’s lost,” a girl rebuts.
I clear my throat as the bouncer eyes my suitcase. “I’m Thora. Thora James. Camila’s…”
Friend?
Couch-surfer makes more sense, but I don’t know if he’ll understand.
“ID,” the bouncer says gruffly, a clipboard beneath his armpit.
I fish out my wallet from a pocket of my suitcase and pass him my license, hot sweat glistening my forehead. I wipe it with my forearm and peek at the door behind him, the unknown tossing my stomach.
The bouncer crosses my name off his list, and then pushes the large black door open.
Groans fill the air. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Trent complains. “I’ve been waiting for over an hour. You better be a fucking dancer or something!”
He has to shout that last bit because I’m already headed inside the hallway. The door closes behind me, plunging me into darkness. The faint sound of a thumping bass fills the otherwise silent room. I guess there are curtains somewhere for an entrance.
I take a few cautious steps forward and notice the outline of fabric, shielding my view of the club. The music grows as I walk closer, and when my hand brushes against the soft velvet curtain, pulling it aside, I finally see The Red Death in all its glory.
Flashing red lights illuminate the packed bar in the back left. Everything else is in near complete darkness. Except for the glow necklaces. Every person wears one, brightening their faces. Red. Blue. Green.
“Are you single?!”
I jump at the voice on my left. A young woman in a slim, tight-fitted purple dress mans a podium. She wears a green glow necklace, her arms layered with neon bracelets.
“Are you single?!” she screams at me again, trying to be heard over the electronic beats.
I can’t make sense of this question. Is it a weird cover charge? Instead of cash, I have to tell her my relationship status? The longer I take to respond, the more her brows knot in aggravation.
“Yeah…” I say, not loud enough. Her eyes widen like
what was that?
“I’m single!” I scream it. And she passes me a blue glow necklace.
More people start to push through the curtains, easily snatching a necklace from the hostess. So I take mine without question and hightail it to the crowded bar. My heart drills into my ribcage. I hate looking lost, like a tourist—or worse, a goldfish slowly flapping and gasping for air outside of its bowl.
I don’t want to be a water-starved goldfish.
So I stand taller, straighter. No more curved shoulders. And I roll my suitcase like I have important places to be. Like I’m an important person altogether. I march straight to the crowded bar. I’ve memorized Camila Ruiz’s features on her Facebook profile: curly brown hair, caramel skin, and honey-colored eyes.
My suitcase bumps into a dancing couple. “Sorry,” I tell them. Important people can still apologize.
The girl gives me a royal stink-eye. I wonder if my RBF is flaring up.
I scoot near the bar, unable to reach the stools just yet. I crane my neck and scope out the bartenders. Within a couple minutes, my anxiety pops. I spot her loose braid, her green glow necklace on her mane of pretty curls, like a crown. Her lips are bright yellow with pink eye shadow just as bold.
I haven’t been catfished.
I take this moment to text Shay:
She’s a girl. And pretty cool from what I can tell.
In seconds, he replies:
Still, keep your guards up. Stay safe.
– Shay
I kind of wish he just said
I’m glad
and left it at that.
By the time I squeeze to the bar, she’s pouring shots for a couple girls on the other end. I try and fail to scoot my suitcase closer to me. The hard frame hits a guy in the ass. He gives me a world-class glower for the accidental assault.
“Sorry,” I say.
He makes a grunting noise and mutters under his breath.
I notice his blue necklace before I turn away. “Camila!” I shout over the music. She slides the shots to the girls and then grins widely as she sees me.
“Hey, Thora!” she yells back and starts pouring another shot. Then she slips closer to my end. She doesn’t bat an eye at my wardrobe. She merely says, “We’ll swap! Give me your suitcase and you can have this.” She already passes me the shot of vodka.
I stare between my giant, hefty suitcase and the bottles of expensive liquor on the bar. I imagine tossing her the suitcase and knocking over all of them. This sounds like a strategy made from hell.
She reads my features and nods to the guy next to me, the one my suitcase most definitely struck. “Hey, John.” She leans forward on her forearms. “If you can hand me my friend’s suitcase without breaking any of
this
.” She motions to the bottles of liquor. “I’ll give you a free shot.”
He wears an unamused smile. “Three shots.”
She snorts. “This isn’t a negotiation, cuz. If you don’t like the price, I can find someone else who does.” I try to find the family resemblance, but it’s hard in the dark.
“You just gave her a free shot for showing up.” He’s already standing off the stool. “Pardon me for trying to barter a better deal.” He grunts as he hoists the heavy suitcase. Much taller than me, he’s able to pass it to Camila and avoid any collisions with breakables.
In her possession, she drops the suitcase on the ground, not able to hold it for long. I watch as she stores it underneath the bar.
John gives me a weird look. “You know, you could have just left that with concierge.”
I shift my weight uneasily. “They do that here?” Now I feel strange. Like that dry goldfish. I need to put myself back in water. But honestly, I’m not sure how.
Camila mouths to him,
stop.
And then she says to me. “He shouldn’t be bitching. He just got two free shots.”
“Oh two free shots?” John wears mock enthusiasm. “My cousin, the real giver.”
“I am a giver. What do you call this?” She waves towards me.
“Crazy,” John says flatly. His honey-brown eyes meet mine again. “Are you a lunatic or a sociopath?”
Uhh…
“Hey.” Camila snaps her fingers at him.
“What?” He steals my free shot and sips it innocently. “Can I not be concerned for my little cousin? You’re letting some stranger crash on your couch, who could very well murder you in your sleep.” He makes a slashing motion across his neck.
Okay. At least the worry works both ways when it comes to couch-surfing.
Camila plants her hands on the bar. “Are you a sociopath, Thora?” Her lips twitch into a smile, finding it way more entertaining than John.
“No. I’m normal, I guess.”
“See, she’s normal,” Camila says.
“She guesses,” John retorts. He downs his shot and says to her, “The longevity of your life dwindles each day I talk to you, Camila.”
“And your pessimism, cynicism and general attitude is going to turn you into a big dark raincloud that vacuums all your energy like a vortex.” She inhales deeply like she’s sucking out his soul.
He doesn’t disagree. He just sits back on his stool and spins to me, outstretching his hand. “John Ruiz.”
“Thora James.” I shake his hand, his grip firm. Not surprising, since he was able to lift my fifty-pound suitcase with relative ease. Closer to him, I now notice his darker features: the caramel skin, an unshaven jaw, and pieces of wavy dark brown hair hanging along his forehead.
He’s about to say something to me when a huge commotion erupts from the center of the dance floor. Everyone breaks apart, forming a circle. People begin to cheer and whistle, hands clapping together at something beyond my view.
At first, I think it might be some sort of break dancing competition. But John starts cursing, “When the fuck is The Red Death going to ban these acts of juvenile delinquency?”
Camila passes me a new shot, and John steals that one too. “When Aerial Ethereal doesn’t provide for fifty percent of Saturday night sales,” she tells him. “And stop taking Thora’s shot.”
He downs it in one gulp.
I fixate on the name of the circus troupe. My heart keeps skipping. “The performers from Aerial Ethereal come here?”
Camila opens her mouth, but it’s John who replies.
“Every godforsaken Saturday,” he snaps. “You’d think since they’re athletes or acrobats or whatever—they’d choose somewhere that isn’t a floor below where they work. It’s lazy.”
“It’s convenient,” Camila retorts.
Aerial Ethereal has three different shows running at The Masquerade Hotel & Casino, about fifty artists in each. But only locals probably know where they all blow off steam after a performance.
“You know,” Camila begins with a grin, “Thora is here to audition for one of Aerial Ethereal’s shows.”
John gapes. “You’re one of them?” he says it like I’ve suddenly turned into a cyborg.
“I still have to audition,” I tell him the truth. I’m not an artist yet. I’m just a wannabe acrobat with large hopes. Which Shay says will be crushed soon.
More cheering erupts and splinters my thoughts. People clap and chant, so loud that I distinguish the words over the music: “TAT! TAT! TAT!”
“The God of Russia wins again,” John says sourly, searching the counter for another free shot. It’s empty. He suddenly stands. “Want to see what your kind is up to?”
“My kind?” My brows rise.
He latches onto my wrist. “Come on. The ‘fun’ is this way.” He makes air quotes and the word
fun
sounds just the opposite. I glance over my shoulder, expecting Camila to interject, maybe even save me from the unknown. But she’s a few feet down the bar, filling beers from the tap.
John maneuvers me around a couple who kiss aggressively, their hands lost in each other’s hair. Both wear matching green glow necklaces.
“It’s really not that interesting,” he shouts back while he tows me along. “In fact, it’s pretty stupid. But you should see the stupidity you’re about to associate yourself with.”
I stiffen, and my shoulder knocks into another girl’s, so hard it makes a
pop
noise. I wince, “Sorry.” I barely catch a glimpse of her pained features before I’m whisked further into hell’s inner circle.
I don’t want to believe John. About Aerial Ethereal being stupid. I always place my money and chips on me, even if it’s the losing side. But I imagine AE’s set decorations: the night sky of Viva, said to be painted so realistically that people believe they’re watching from a forest. The intricate costumes: where every performer glows like lightning bugs and they move as swiftly too. I’ve seen pictures.
It looks majestic.
Not stupid.
“It can’t be stupid,” I suddenly tell him, aloud.
He gives me another weird look.
I clarify, “The circus is art.”
Which is nothing short of precious.
I don’t add this last bit, on account of his humored smile, more mocking than appreciative.