“Shut your mouth,” said Cyn, hers hanging open. “I assumed you broke it off.”
The brunette, sitting at a card table covered with cosmetics and balled-up tissues, paused while applying glue to a false eyelash the size of a tarantula. “I thought you were serious about Crosby.”
“I was. It was a one-time thing. I didn’t even get his name. God, I’m such a slut.” Oona touched her hot cheeks, fingers cold from the frosted cocktail glass. Her buzz softened the edges of the room, softened everything.
“You’re not a slut, sugar, you were just ready to move on.” Cyn rubbed her arm. “You always said you weren’t sure if you could settle down with Crosby.”
“All right, kids, gather ’round.” Jenny cut a three-inch segment off a drinking straw and gestured at the CD case with pale yellow lines of powder. “You’re up first, Oona.”
Am I really going to do this?
Oona took the straw and paused. There was a time such a scene would’ve horrified her. She’d made her disgust plain any time she caught a whiff of marijuana on Madeleine’s clothes. And what about the way she came down on Corey when she caught him with cocaine? What would either of them say if they saw her now? Not to mention Dale.
What did it matter? Nobody was around to judge or admonish her.
So she leaned over and snorted a line. The ketamine smelled soapy and had a bitter aftertaste. After she inhaled, there was a roar in her ears like a plane taking off. She returned the straw to Jenny, settled back on the couch, and closed her eyes. Her body floated up to the ceiling, past the ceiling, through each floor of the battered building, up to the smoggy city stars. She hovered in a tactile darkness, a velvet she could put her hands through, dotted with pinpricks of light. All sound became muffled and garbled, like deep voices underwater.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Can someone pass me my pager?” Jenny asked. “We gotta go. My customers are waiting.”
How much time had passed? Oona opened her eyes, but her lids were heavy, like waking up from sedation. A white-hot light pierced her retinas, a bare bulb dangling from a rusted chain.
“Don’t move, I’m almost finished,” said Desi.
There was a feathery dabbing at Oona’s mouth, then a finger pressing along the outer ridge of one eye socket, then the other.
“The breakup has been great for your body, but your makeup skills have gone to shit. Have you forgotten everything I taught you about contouring? Okay, open.”
She squinted as Desi brushed loose powder along the bridge of her nose.
“And she’s back.” He held up a hand mirror.
“Jesus, how long was I out?” Oona did a slow wink to take in the peacock effect he’d created, replete with blue and gold stick-on rhinestones and tiny green feathers glued along her lash line. Her cheekbones appeared higher, her nose thinner. She was a dazed, half-starved, glamorous cartoon rendering of herself.
“Just tell me you love it and get your coat on.”
“It’s amazing.” Who was this wide-eyed, spaced-out girl staring back at her?
Another series of beeps as Jenny’s pager went off. “Come on, Oona. Unless you want to party with my cats, you better mosey.”
Oona grabbed her coat and followed the others out.
* * *
They arrived in the Meatpacking District, their destination a graffiti-covered, squat beige building with columns two stories high flanking the entrance and arched, bricked-over windows. Where some of the other nearby clubs were converted slaughterhouses and fostered a BDSM scene, Antenna was a converted bank and dedicated itself to more diverse debauchery.
The club was reaching capacity as they entered. Some of the original interior had been preserved, including marble plinths dotting the cavernous main room, a teller window repurposed as a coat check, and a massive silver vault door. A pulsing throng of colorful bodies moved in choreographed chaos to a techno remix of a Madonna song, its bass so heavy it pulsed through Oona’s fingertips. Streams of tiny bubbles blew over the horde like iridescent snowfall.
A giant panda in a sparkling red vest waved at Oona.
“Are you real?” she asked.
“I’m Johnny Panda. Of course I’m real,” he answered. “I bring joy and delight. Want a hug?”
Arms stretched wide, she let herself be embraced by the panda and was flooded with affection and relief.
“Everything is gonna be okay, right?” she asked.
“Of course, sweetie.” An oversize paw patted her head. “Nothing bad ever happens here.”
And nothing I do this year will matter, because I know how it all turns out.
“Thank you.” Oona stepped back and hurried to catch up to her friends.
She wove through a motley crowd, some in goth and bondage gear, others in striped Adidas jackets and soccer shoes; some in drag pageant regalia, others in little more than body paint.
Jenny was chatting with two teenagers dressed as Catholic schoolgirls wearing small backpacks. A nod and she handed each one a heart-shaped lollipop from her I Dream of Jeannie lunch box in exchange for a folded-up bill, which she slipped into her bra.
“Refreshments first, dancing later,” Jenny called out to the group.
The vault door led to a basement labyrinth of VIP rooms, mini dance floors, and shadowy nooks. Jenny navigated them to a room cordoned off with a velvet rope, guarded by a goateed man with arms the size of Oona’s thighs. When he saw Jenny, he unlatched the rope and bent down to let her plant a kiss on his cheek. She slipped a plastic packet into his palm as she ushered them inside.
The room was black-lit and painted in floor-to-ceiling Keith Haring murals, neon outlines of sexless people framed in squiggles on a glowing white background. The sweaty, skunky odor of marijuana permeated the space.
They headed for an empty banquette. When all were seated, Jenny began to cut more powder on a low glass table. Across the way a woman in a red leather harness snorted lines off a hand mirror, and in the corner, a group of skinny men in gold hot pants passed around a glass pipe.
Be cool. Stop gawking. A tremor of uncertainty coursed through her.
A magnum of champagne was brought over and Desi uncorked it, filling and passing around glasses.
“You must be pretty important,” Oona said to Jenny.
“Oh yes, darling,” she replied. “They named the VIP room after me, don’t you know? Very Important Pussy.”
Everyone but Oona howled with laughter. Their teeth glowed white, faces lit with glee, eyes glittering, bodies decorated like birthday parties on acid. Oona brought a glass of champagne to her face and let the bubbles tickle her nose.
I don’t have to be lonely this year. I have friends. People who like me. A silly giggle to herself and she joined the group’s laughter, magnified by alcohol, drugs, and the need to have an uproarious, fabulous time. And if the real thing evaded them, they had ingredients for artificial fun.
Jenny waved an open palm with a flourish, presenting a row of five neat lines. She handed a rolled-up twenty-dollar bill to Oona. “The prodigal doll goes first once more. Don’t leave us for that long again, missy. The party’s not as fun without you.”
Was this powder more K or something else? It didn’t matter. She belonged here, belonged with them, an impostor as much as the others.