SPIT DRIES ALONG MY CHEEK. I’M DESPERATE TO wipe it away, but the man’s sticky fingers dig into my arms, pinning me in place. A tattoo of a snake eating a rat twists around his wrist.
I want to scream, but music throbs around me, drowning my voice. I scan the crowd. Someone has to see what’s happening. Someone has to help. A girl with long blond hair gyrates in front of me, and a guy with thick muttonchops stands next to the bar. Neither of them looks my way. Another cry rises in my throat.
“Quiet, pretty.” The man’s rot-and-beer-scented breath wafts over me. He clamps a hand over my lips, and fear rockets through my body. I picture my parents sobbing in the police station, my face on Missing Person posters. I didn’t think this sort of thing happened in real life. But the man is very real. Lipstick seeps into every crack around his too-dry mouth, making it look like he’s bleeding. I squirm, but he pulls me closer, until I’m pressed against his hairy chest. I stare at him in horror.
He moves his hand to the side of my face and cocks his eyebrow. Then he pulls a sparkler out of my ear—like magic. He drops my arm and produces a cheap gas station lighter with the other hand. I try to slip away, but the man angles his body in front of me. The sparkler crackles to life, shooting blue flames. My heart leaps in my chest.
The club around us falls eerily quiet as everyone turns to watch the crackling sparkler. The song ends and even the band seems to take notice.
The man claps his hands together, sending a spray of blue sparks to the floor. I jump back, knocking my hip against the bar. His red-painted lips part in a manic grin.
“You’re all invited to play!” He spreads his arms wide and spins on the ball of one foot. “The second Survive the Night rave happens tonight,” the man says. “Midnight.”
Someone catcalls. The man waves the sparkler over his head and dances through the club. He steps out the door and onto the street, his blackened toes curling on the dirty sidewalk. The glittering blue sparkler disappears into the night.
My horror fades. It was a publicity stunt. Jesus.
The music starts up, and I push my way back through concertgoers who’ve started dancing again now that the clown man is gone. A pins-and-needles feeling pricks my arms and legs. A guy wearing a white fedora touches my shoulder.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks. I flash him a wobbly smile.
“Peachy,” I say. I shove up to the bar. “Can I get a glass of water, please?” I ask the tattooed, lip-ringed bartender. She nods and disappears.
The guy in front of me hops off his stool, and I slide past him to steal it before anyone else can. I pull my purse onto my lap, my fingers trembling as I try to work the zipper. I swear under my breath and clench and unclench my hands until the trembling fades. I dig out my bottle of Tylenol and pop it open, shaking two small white tablets onto my palm. The bartender sets a water glass in front of me. I thank her and toss the pills back, taking a deep drink.
A girl with spiky green hair perches on the stool next to mine, her back to me while she talks with a curvy girl whose shaved head gleams in the dim light.
“. . . so many rumors about Survive the Night,” she’s saying. I cock my head toward her, listening. “I can’t believe anyone would actually go.”
The girl with the shaved head removes a flask from inside her leather jacket and tosses back a swig. Technically the Cog is dry, but everyone sneaks in booze. I take another drink of water.
“Are you kidding?” The girl tucks the flask back into her pocket. “Jenny said everyone was at the last one. She talked about it for a month.”
Shana bursts out of the crowd and grabs my shoulders. She’s wearing an orange baseball hat I’ve never seen before; the color clashes with her pink hair. Her heavily lined eyes look positively gleeful.
I flick the hat with my finger. “What the hell?”
“What? I made friends.” Her gaze shifts to the Tylenol bottle sitting on the bar next to me. She cocks an eyebrow.
“I had a headache,” I mutter. I take another drink of water and set the half-empty glass down on the bar.
“Jumpy, much?” she asks.
I think she’s talking about the Tylenol again, but she nods at my foot. I’m tapping it against the bar so hard that my glass shudders, the water rippling. I hadn’t even noticed. I drop a hand on my knee.
“Maybe a little.” That’s an understatement. I’ve been buzzing since that man grabbed me. I keep waiting for the adrenaline to fade but, if anything, it feels stronger. Energy courses through my arms and legs. It’s like I need to do something to get rid of it. I slide to the edge of my bar stool. “Let’s dance.”
Shana takes my wrists and pulls me to my feet. She spins me in a circle. I giggle, trying not to crash into the person behind me.
“We should go,” she says, her eyes glinting with excitement. My smile freezes. I don’t have to ask what she’s talking about. Before rehab, I’d been dying to go to some illegal underground rave. But raves mean drugs.
“Remember what I said about taking it easy tonight?” I remind her.
She frowns and leans forward. “Don’t I always take care of you?” She rubs my buzzed head, grinning. “Remember the pool party?”
“Of course I remember.”
A few of months ago, Shana had dragged us all to this rave at an empty pool. Three concrete diving towers soared above the party. A bunch of kids crowded on top of them, dancing as close to the edges as they dared.
The highest platform rose nearly forty feet in the air. No one was brave enough to go up there, but I was drunk and a little high and I wanted to do something dangerous. I wanted to feel alive.
I still remember how the wind whipped my hair around my ears and the way my heart thudded in my chest as I climbed. I felt invincible. Like I could fly.
Then, halfway up the ladder, I looked down.
The people below were tiny, like plastic army men. My eyes clouded, and all at once, I realized how high I was, how sweaty my palms were. The wind was too strong, and the ladder felt rickety beneath my fingers. The ground spun. I was going to fall.
But before I did, Shana was there, her hands on my legs. Her cold fingers circled my ankle, and she gave me a comforting squeeze. A second later, her gravelly voice rose above the music.
“You’re okay,” she called. “One step down.”
I nodded, and lowered my foot down a single rung.
She talked me down the ladder that way. I was too scared to climb back to the ground, so she stayed on the second-highest platform with me for hours. She sent people off to get me water and ice, and she held my hand and told dirty jokes until I felt sober enough to try the ladder again.
I down the rest of my water in one gulp. As terrifying as that night was, it was also exhilarating. We told the story for weeks afterward. Shana pushes me, but she protects me, too. We’re a team.
“Please.” Shana flashes me her little-kid smile. I hate saying no to that smile.
“We don’t even know where it is,” I say instead. “You have to know somebody.”
“Woody knows a guy.”
Of course he does. On cue, Woody, the lead singer for Feelings Are Enough, pushes through the crowd, his forehead still slick with sweat from the bright stage lights. He runs a hand through his blond, surfer-dude hair and winks at the girl with the spiky green hair sitting next to me.
“Hey, Amy.” His lips curl into a pouting half smile that he could only have learned from studying old posters of boy bands. He’s wearing a cow costume zipped up to his waist—the arms and head flap around his legs. Pink plastic udders cover the front of his crotch.
“Did you wear that onstage?” I ask. Woody pretends to squirt me with an udder.
“Didn’t you see me? I was standing right in front of you,” he says, dropping the udder. “I had a Funky Chicken show earlier.”
“You’re still doing that?” I ask, wrinkling my nose. Funky Chicken is Woody’s other band—a two-man rap group that performs in farm animal costumes and sings about chicken sandwiches and bongs.
“You kidding? We’re blowing up. New video on YouTube every week.” Woody does a little air guitar, twisting up his face like he’s concentrating. “We were on tonight.”
“We didn’t suck.” Sam walks up behind him and drops a hand on Woody’s shoulder, and my heart nearly stops in my chest. “Hey,” he says. “Nice hair.”
I touch my newly buzzed hair, and a blush creeps over my cheeks. I picture brushing the sweaty strand of hair off Sam’s face and burrowing my head into his T-shirt. I already know what he’d smell like: fabric softener and pine needles. I blink and look away. Don’t stare, I tell myself, though I’m not sure my brain will register that as a command. I can’t not stare at Sam. It’s as natural as breathing.
“Oh. Hey,” I say, but he turns back around without another word. I bite back my disappointment. We dated for eight months and all he has to say to me is nice hair? I want to add something else, but what would be the point? My chest twists.
“Careful,” Shana whispers. She leans behind me and slides the Tylenol bottle off the bar. My face flushes. I glance back at Sam to make sure he didn’t see her. Before rehab, I used to hide oxy in old aspirin bottles so I could take them in public without anyone giving me a hard time. Sam found my stash once, and he was pissed.
Shana slips the bottle into her purse. The only thing inside is Tylenol, but Sam doesn’t know that.
Thank you, I mouth to her. She winks at me.
Sam turns around. His eyes find mine then flick away. “So,” he asks. “Are you guys going to this thing? Survive the Night?”
A thrill of adrenaline charges through my body. He might have asked both of us, but it felt like he was talking to me. Just like that, I make up my mind. This isn’t just an illegal underground rave anymore. It’s an illegal underground rave with my perfect ex-boyfriend who never should have dumped me.
I sneak a look at Shana, thinking of the possibilities. Another chance with Sam, maybe. A chance to make things right. “Yeah,” I say, ignoring the heat climbing my neck. “I’m in.”