Page 31 of Saving Pookie

We'll see about that.

A group of about twenty others hopped off the train with us once we reached Brooklyn. We're traveling in a missorted pack of dancers, druggies, straights, and queers. Braxton has made friends with the strangers. He's a people person, and I'm... not. I keep to myself, walking on the outskirts of the crowd, but he doesn't let me out of his sight nor his grasp. His arm remains fixed around my shoulder as he chats up a tall woman with purple streaks slashed through dark hair. I overhear her say her name is Lindsay and she's with three other friends, all lesbians.

My teeth chatter, so I swish the gum around in my mouth, pulling the hardening orb to rest between my teeth. Up ahead, the party arrives with the roar of music echoing off the abandoned buildings and warehouses.

Braxton calls it "the tracks." It's not a club, so much as a rave. He says the location changes constantly, and nobody knows where it's going to be until a few hours before the party revs to life. I check the watch on my wrist, and it's about to be four in the morning. On every level, this is a terrible idea, and yet, I'm drawn to the sound of music in the near distance. The beat courses through my veins, pulsing and thumping, twisting and careening through my arteries, where a chorus of synthesized beats drums in tandem with my racing heart.

Bad, bad idea.

And yet, a half-cocked smile hitches across my lips.

Before I know it, we find ourselves in a short line. Brief flashes of light tear through the front door every time it opens, painting over the crowd with streaks of neon pink and blue lightning.

A bouncer stands on either side of the door, only letting one person or small group in at a time, and only after they've been cleared by security. A drag queen with a high pony and a beat face patrols the line, shouting out rules. "No weapons, no cameras, and absolutely no phones." She points to a trash can to the side of the line. "If you have any of the above, throw it in the trash. You can dig it out when you leave."

I pat the pockets of my shorts and let out a shriek. "Fuck."

"What are you doing?" Braxton asks, an amused expression on his face as he chomps on a piece of gum.

"I can't find my phone."

"Your phone is safe and sound back at the apartment, remember?"

I narrow my gaze on him. I don't go anywhere without my phone in hand, but then I vaguely remember a conversation about leaving them behind. I can't believe I agreed to this. "Oh, right," I say. "What happens if we get separated?"

"That's not going to happen," he says flatly. He's nowhere near worried enough about the logistics of getting messed up and not having our phones on our persons. He holds out a flat palm. "Gum."

Instinctively, I know what to do. I spit the old gum into his hand, and he passes me a fresh piece of strawberry goodness.

The door rips open again, the neon lights inside blinding me, as the lesbians we walked here with hustle inside. There's only one more person in front of us. That man stretches his arms out to the side as a guard waves a metal detector over him.

I turn into Braxton's shoulder and whisper, "They're going to know."

Braxton grits his teeth and whispers back, "Know what?"

"That..." I clear my throat. "About the stuff."

He chuckles quietly and tightens his grip on my shoulder. "Trust me, they don't give a shit. You're fine. If drugs would get us thrown out of here, we would have turned around a mile back because your eyes are buggin' out of your head, all dilated and shit."

I glance up at his eyes. They're dark and seedy until the neon lights splice through the door, lighting up the familiar blues that remind me of the ocean. A paradox. Braxton himself is a chaos demon, but his eyes... always so calm, so steady. More a quiet sea than a raging ocean. And yet, when he looks at me, it's like a wave crashing over and ripping me into the currents.

I'm way too high for this shit.

I'm walking on a fucking cloud, living inside the house music. It doesn't so much echo off the walls as it does echo my soul. Words riding on wavelengths that ebb and flow, dancing to a beat that makes sense now, even if it never did before.

I, myself, am entirely held together by some kind of glue. It holds me here, on the ground, even as my eyes drift to the catwalks above where crowds have assembled.

And to myself, I think, this is freedom. That is something I've never truly known. A thousand eyes hover in the shadows between the neon lights, but they don't judge. They just exist. And there's something to be said about existing, just fucking existing, in a space where everyone else is doing the same.

No rules.

No limits.

No judgment.

Just people embracing freedom.

Braxton takes the lead, reaching behind to take my hand in his own. I follow him into the crowded space, squeezing through a sea of bodies that parts like the sea. Like they're all making room for us. We find an opening that's big enough to catch our breath and Braxton decides it's the perfect spot to let loose. He turns in a slow circle, his head swaying side to side as he's swept into the abyss of music.