I don’t know how long I’ve been walking and I don’t want to take my phone out to check. I should turn back, but I’m not ready to leave all of this yet. Just thinking of Violet makes my hands tremble, and I’m standing next to the open door of a club that’s beckoning me inside with the techno remix of an old jazz song. I reapply my lipstick in the darkened window—for myself, not for Lehna—and then I step inside. It’s so dark it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, but soon I spot the bar. I’ll just try to get a drink, give myself some time to calm down. Then I’ll walk back to the house, ignore Lehna’s disapproval, and meet Violet.
The boy serving drinks is paper-doll perfect, and the crowd of men waiting to order from him seems to be in direct proportion to his attractiveness. But at the other end of the bar a cute girl with short hair and tattoos all over her muscular arms seems to be coming back from a break, so I make my way over to her and flash her a smile. She locks eyes with me and nods a nod that means she’ll take my order.
I lean over the bar toward her until our faces are close. She tips her head to the side so that she’ll hear my voice over the music.
“Tanqueray and tonic.” Lehna learned this from her older sister and taught me how to say it with confidence. It’s the only drink I know how to order.
The bartender turns away from me and grabs the green bottle and a glass.
I wish I had Violet’s number because I would text her and say: I got a little sidetracked and ended up in a bar. Meet me here? I would say: I’ve been really looking forward to meeting you.
I avoid looking at my lit-up phone as I dig in my purse for my wallet. The bartender plunks my drink in front of me on a bright pink napkin, and I hand her ten dollars in exchange. Then I make my way to a tall table with a single bar stool. It’s been shoved against a wall and left unoccupied, because everyone here is either standing or dancing, pushing their way into the center of the party. I take my first sip as the paper-doll bartender makes an announcement and cheering follows. It’s for a contest; I can’t hear what kind, but soon “Umbrella” is playing and almost-naked men are climbing on top of the bar. Some of them look superconfident, some of them look self-conscious, but they are all having fun and their happiness fills me up. I watch them strutting around and then I watch the crowd watching them, and I notice that most of the guys are focused on one particular dancer. I follow their gaze to a boy who seems too young to be in here but who also seems totally at home.
All he’s wearing are those tight boxer things I’ve seen in Calvin Klein ads, red and blue, and with his close-cropped blond hair and general wholesomeness he could be the gay poster boy for America. Unlike one of the older guys who is practically humping the bar, he doesn’t even seem like he’s trying to be sexy. He’s just doing his thing, singing along. I sing along with him. He points into the crowd and a dark-haired boy whoops back at him. And it’s crazy, but I know that boy. He’s a junior; his name is Ryan. He used one of my landscapes for the cover of the literary journal last semester. I couldn’t tell if he was gay, but I guess this answers my question.
And now I’m starting to think that the dancing boy looks somewhat familiar, like I’ve seen him in a commercial or something, like he’s played in the background while I’ve been thinking of other things. But no. I know him from real life, I guess, because he’s caught sight of me now and his whole demeanor changes.
He freezes. Mark Rissi! We’ve never even talked, but we sit next to each other in Calc. Now the song is over and the crowd is going crazy. Mark jumps down from the bar and Ryan is trying to high-five him, but Mark is still looking at me, taking his clothes from Ryan and muttering something.
When Mark reaches my table, he’s still fumbling with his belt buckle.
He stops in front of me and says, “Oh my God.”
All of that confidence and happiness is gone, and I want it back for him. That rush. I want it back for all of us. I feel like we share something, in what we’re missing right now.
“Hey, Mark,” I say. “It is Mark, right?”
He nods, but all he says, again, is, “Oh my God.”
“I have something serious to ask you.” My heart is pounding because I’m not the kind of person who just opens up to anyone. I tend to be more of a listener, not a sharer of problems, but tonight is not a typical night. Violet is less than a mile away from us, the bass is pounding, the disco ball casting diamonds of light through the darkness, and it turns out that the shy jock from Calc is in reality a heartthrob jailbait of a boy who dances practically naked in gay bars.
“Please—” Mark starts.
But I am not a ruiner of squeaky-clean reputations. I’m ready to move on to bigger things with him. So I cut him off and say, “I thought it was an excellent performance. By the time you leave I’m sure that every available guy in here will have given you his number.”
Ryan appears next to us.
“It’s my fault,” he says. “I kind of coerced him into doing it.”
“God, you two,” I say. “Lighten up! I won’t tell anyone. But, Mark, just listen, okay? Because I’m about to ask you something and, like I said, it’s a serious question.”
Mark’s panic fades into relief. He sighs and runs his hand over his face. When he looks at me again, he is ready to listen.
“Do you want to be friends with me?” I ask him.
He cocks his head.