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I shake that away, too.
I stride up to the behemoth of a bouncer and hand him my ID, doing that thing where you’re trying to look bored and put-out by having to give your ID, like you do this all the time, like there’s no way you could get in trouble because of course that’s really you in the photo.
The bouncer scrutinizes the photo, then looks at me.
Looks at the photo.
Then back at me.
“Carol Ann Black?” he asks.
“That’s me,” I say, flashing him a smile as I stare deep into his eyes. No one with a fake ID would dare be this confident.
“Okay. Have fun,” he says, handing it back to me, staring off down the street like I don’t exist.
“Thanks,” I tell him, and squeeze past him through the gate at the side of the building, my nerves fluttering with adrenaline. I’m so looking forward to finally being legal so I don’t have to get so worked up every time I want to go out and have fun.
Not that I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. With my final final exam next week, I’ve been doing nothing but studying. I’m doing my BA of Arts with a major in Ancient Egyptian and Near Eastern Art and Archeology, hoping to one day get my PhD and perhaps become a museum curator. I’m supposed to go to Egypt in August for two weeks as an internship (unpaid, of course, but at least they take care of the flight), on a dig, so there’s a chance that my dream of working for a museum might change to becoming a hands-on archeologist. Only time will tell.
The Cloister is actually in the basement of an old church, so it’s not just a clever name. Though the bouncer is stationed out front, you have to go through a side gate between the church and a blue Victorian house, then round the back and down the outside stairs to the basement. Tonight of all nights I’m still a little spooked out, and the path is extremely dark.
I stop suddenly, just before I round the corner to the stairs.
The space at the back of the church is an overgrown garden, though in the night it’s just an ominous black mess. Once, I stayed at the bar until the sun was coming up and only then was I able to actually get a good look at the concrete cracked with weeds, a rotting bench overtaken by ivy, a crumbling fountain slippery with mildew.
Right now, I swear there’s someone standing right in front of me, between me and the back wall of the garden. I sense them, but I don’t see them—it’s just black space, looking somehow denser than normal, like it doesn’t stop, like it goes on and on forever, a black hole.
I suppress a shiver running through me, my scalp prickling at the thought of standing on the edge of infinity with no escape, only darkness.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice sounding small and stupid.
A sharp inhale of breath comes from in front of me.
Then the door to the basement opens, illuminating the space.
I swear for a split second I see a moving shadow, red eyes, and then there’s nothing at all except the fountain, the angels looking particularly warped with moss splashed across them like green blood.
A guy and a girl come stumbling out of the bar, giggling, lighting up cigarettes, hands tangled with each other. They don’t really seem to notice me, disappearing into the dark of the garden, only the lit ends of their cigarettes giving them away.
The moment clears the cobwebs from my head, making me realize I need a fucking drink, and I quickly walk down the stairs, opening the heavy door into the club.
Once inside, I let out a breath of relief, Billie Eilish’s “All the Good Girls Go to Hell” playing over the speakers, and start looking for Elle.
The Cloister is a cavernous space that manages to feel small, really leaning into the whole church thing. The carpet is red, the walls are dark wood, there are makeshift altars all over the place with crosses and skulls and rosaries, and the space has been divided up into seating areas by having a bunch of iron four-poster bed frames scattered around, tables and booths in the middle, surrounded by retractable red velvet curtains. Even though it’s haphazardly put together, it’s a little Twin Peaks, a lot of goth, and very, very cool. Plus, the drinks are amazing, even if they’ll suck a student’s budget back quickly.
I walk around, looking for Elle, and spot her at a booth in the corner. It’s our favorite spot because it looks out onto the whole bar, which means the both of us get to rate every guy that walks in through the door.
I give her a quick smile and slip past the curtain, taking a seat on the hard bench across from her, a former pew chopped into sections.
“You got here fast,” she says to me, sliding my drink over to me. We always have an agreement, whoever gets here first has to order the other person a drink, and the other person has to drink it, no matter what. Tonight it looks like some kind of fruity martini which is fine with me.
“I was in a hurry to get drunk,” I tell her, grasping the thin stem of the glass. “Cheers.”
We both raise our glasses, delicately clinking the rims without spilling.
“Well then, here’s to getting drunk,” she says. “And to our last exams.”
I take
