—
Luckily, by Thursdaynight, all our haphazard plans come together. Rather successfully, if I may say so myself.
The Disco Diner still doesn’t have electricity, but we do have battery-powered black lights, strobe lights, and—thanks to my ransacking of every Target in a twenty-mile radius—enough neon necklaces and glow sticks to host what might as well be a roller-rink rave.
If the past ten days have taught me anything, it’s that I can’t control everything. And sometimes what pops up instead of all your best-laid plans is something even better.
The rink doesn’t look as perfect as it usually does, with the arching lights and the glow-up tables, but tonight it’s packed with nearly two hundred customers, and the ticket earnings beat out all our profits from the past three months.
Money aside, it’s also comforting to see familiar faces. Although, admittedly, they’re a little trickier to make out beneath the black lights.
I do a loop—skate a loop—and welcome guests. Mac is herewith his boyfriend, and probably his megaphone. Katie’s in line at the skate desk with Earl, who tells me he’s here for the people-watching, and Juliet, the dental hygienist, brought her two sons.
Even Mrs. Baker is here. She taps me on the shoulder and thanks me for thinking of her.
It was Penn, of course, who thought of her.
Seeing everyone come out, and come together, I’m proud of myself—of all of us—for making tonight happen. I only wish Ryan were here, too. He’ll lose it when I show him all the selfies I’ve taken today. Bridget and I have our hair pulled back in butterfly clips, and our temples are covered in the same pink body glitter she used on my actual birthday, back in reality. The connection feels comforting.
I skate up to the merch table, where Bridget’s manning the ship. “Selling like hotcakes,” she says, shoving a box forward. “Here. Help me unpack.”
Theo found boxes of clothing in the storage room. Apparently, I stashed them away a few months ago when merchandise wasn’t selling. There are tie-dye T-shirts that sayRollin’ With The Homies, a pink version of the collared Disco Diner uniform, and blue hoodies embellished with skates that sayLet the Good Times Roll.
I start to open a box, but I’m startled by the sound of a screeching microphone.
“Hey, party people! Who’s ready to rock and rooooll?”
It’s Theo, who’s still getting the hang of his handheld microphone. His makeshift DJ booth isn’t quite what we had in mind, but battery-operated Bluetooth speakers work just fine, and at least his outfit is a crowd-pleaser. Strangely, on the one occasion when it would finally make sense for Theo to rock nostalgicNoahand the Weekendersmerch, he’s wearing aGilmore GirlsT-shirt under his uniform instead. He’s left the buttons undone to show off Lorelai Gilmore’s face, plus the big pink letters on his chest:#1 Milf.
Bridget’s got twenty bucks on Theo ripping off both shirts by the end of the night, and I hope he does. I’m not above using Theo Ford’s many abs to liven up the party.
As I unpack, I smile at the woman who’s next in line. Considering that she’s in head-to-toe black, I’m shocked she’s eyeing our shirts. “Hi,” I say brightly. “What would you like?”
“To thank you for the invitation.” She extends a hand. “Sloane Bishop, from Rollerworld.”
“Oh! Hi,” I say, flustered. “I’m so happy you could make it.”
Truthfully, amid all the preparations, I forgot I’d invited her. I sent the email early Monday morning while battling the worst physical and emotional hangover of my life. Reaching out to Sloane felt like tossing a last-ditch, desperate dart at a game board I still don’t understand.
She points to a nearby table. “May I steal you for a moment?”
I nod, then turn to Bridget, who’s staring back with a loaded expression that tells me she’s clocked exactly who this is and will happily kick her out if I so please.
Sloane and I sit down, and if the electricity were on, the table would be glowing, but instead it’s lit by two vases filled with glow sticks. Nothing but class.
“Forgive me,” I start. “I don’t usually take meetings in butterfly clips.”
“And I’m not usually out on a Thursday,” Sloane purrs. “But this is a special night. What a turnout. What fun. You obviously know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t, actually.”
She laughs, assuming I’m kidding. “The design—every detail is so thoughtful.”
“I’ve had a lot of help,” I explain, thinking of Bridget, who helped me hang decorations after work. Theo, who bought the black lights and ironed uniforms. Penn, who tackled every item on the to-do list I gave him. I managed spreadsheets, made calls, coordinated vendors, and mapped out table arrangements to ensure maximum crowd movement. I’ve been busy and tired, but I’ve had fun. I couldn’t wait to see all our hard work come together.
“What inspired you to open in the first place?” Sloane asks.
I shrug, accustomed to brushing off any questions about my MASH past.
