Page 64 of 72 Hours of You

Peter squints. “I think so.”

One of the crew members starts screeching about how there’s an actual real live jukebox in here, and about thirty seconds later the Beatles or the Beach Boys (I can’t really tell the difference) are blaring and half the people are suddenly pressing up against each other, grinding like they’re in a club and not a rundown excuse for a bar. Even the famous guy looks semi-pleased.

“Well, this got …”

“Different,” I finish.

“Should we leave?” Peter’s eyes flick from the growing crowd back to me. “Or … ?”

Someone must’ve heard that famous guy was here in this shithole, because now some girlies have shown up, pretending to take selfies while actually snapping pics of him while he also pretends to be oblivious. Theater.

We should definitely leave.

But also … this song is good. Sort of. And we have this booth. And no one in here is dying. And who knows what’s outside.

I look at Peter and shrug. “Fuck it. Let’s stay.”

Thirty-Four

THIS SHITTY NOTHING OF A PLACE is fully lit now and the poor bartender is working her ass off so hard she hasn’t even had time to leer at Peter. People are dancing and grinding on each other to these old songs like they’re hardcore bops.

Peter is holding strong at half a warm cider, but I’ve had three beers. Getting drunk is not a thing I do. But drinking a little? Getting that warm buzz in the back of your neck that makes you feel kind of cozy and a little like you might not want to die in the next five minutes? Well, that’s whatever. My face feels slightly numb in the cheeks, and I can’t quite tell if I’m smiling or looking normal but fuck it. I’m kind of having a good time.

In fact, maybe I could stay here all night. Just talking and sitting and doing nothing with Peter besides avoiding the cold, dark world outside of this crappy falling-apart red booth.

A crew member with spiky purple hair makes her way through the undulating mob and locks eyes with me. What the fuck? She slams both of her hands on the table. She’s got rings piled on all of her fingers. That’s so aggro. “All right! That’s it. You two middle schoolers”—she points to Peter and me—“need to surrender this booth. Immediately.”

“Uh,” Peter says, “we’re kind of sitting here.” Nice. Get ’em.

“Uh,” she mocks, “you’re kind of taking up a six-person booth with one and a half asses.” She looks at me. “No offense, sweetie.”

“Wait, I have half an ass?”

“Time to vacate the premises, children.”

“Listen—” Peter starts.

She tilts her purple head. “Want to show me your IDs?”

“You know what?” I say. “I was getting tired of sitting.”

Peter and I both scooch out from the leather booth. “It’s all yours,” Peter says.

The woman nods and in about two seconds what looks like the entire hair and makeup crew descends on the booth, starting up a game of quarters, guzzling shots, and shrieking at each other. Fucking vultures.

Peter and I just kind of stand there for a minute, but then two roadie-looking guys get up from the bar and make their way toward the bathrooms.

“This is our chance!” I say.

Peter nods seriously. We’re on a mission. We try to weave through the disgusting, sweaty film crew, but there’re so many of them and they’re all so … sticky.

A tiny lady in a black tracksuit knocks into me and spills what smells like a vodka cranberry on my Converse. “Sorry!” she yells. She does not look sorry.

Peter bends down to try to wipe off my shoe. “What’re you, Prince Charming?” I laugh.

He looks up at me. “What?” This music is so loud and so fucking old.

“WHAT ARE YOU, PRINCE CHARM—”