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Chapter Eight
Lyriope
Graffiti-marked walls loom around us. Streetlights don’t fully penetrate our dark and dank surroundings. I can hear the pitter patter of rodents running through the rusted garbage cans and the discarded crates that topple over each other. Mildew and urine waft around us as we cautiously walk toward our secret destination.
I have never been to this part of New York. Broke or not, I still avoid the slums. And why would Wonderland be held in a place like this? I can’t help but feel like I’m going to walk into some rave full of pacifier-sucking, Molly-popping teenagers sweating in filth rather than the magnificent Wonderland that every ambitious adult in New York has heard tales of.
After stopping at several points along the way, collecting our cookies adorned with frosted addresses, we’ve clearly finally arrived. But with the sound of sirens in the distance and walking past a Loading Zone sign that is illuminated by a car sputtering by, I’m not impressed with Wonderland so far. Maybe the hype is far more than the reality.
Sasha and I walk down a dark alleyway, and the only reason I agreed to get out of the back of the car is because I could see a crowd of Wonderland guests ahead of us turning the corner. If we get mugged, there is absolutely nothing in my purse to steal other than a cheap lipstick and my wallet with maxed-out credit cards.
Standing in front of a metal door, beneath a pink neon light that shines down on her mousy-brown hair, is a woman with a clipboard in her arms. She’s tiny, but the two large men who flank each side of her gives her a formidable ‘you don’t want to mess with me’ energy.
“Sasha and Lyriope Morelli,” my cousin says with a confidence that I can only hope to possess one day.
The doorman looks down at the clipboard, glances back up at us, centering her eyes on me, and then nods. “You know the rules.”
Sasha nods. “We do.” Sasha reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone and looks at me to do the same. We hand over our phones to one of the men who holds a metal box for us to place them in. He shuts the box, locks it, and hands Sasha the key.
Rules? I don’t know the rules but decide to remain quiet until we make it through the door to ask. Clearly there are no phones allowed, but I can’t imagine what the other rules are. I realize I’m holding my breath. I keep waiting for someone to accuse me of being a fraud and send me back to where I belong.
Nowhere.
The large man opens the door, and a flood of deep bass surrounds us. The music is so loud that I can actually feel it inside of me. I suck in a deep breath as the thumping rhythm nearly rattles my bones. It feels as if we are walking into the unknown because the flashing lights blind me for a moment as my eyes adjust to the chaos of light. Rays of magenta, emerald, and blues as bright as the Caribbean Sea swirl around us.
I glance at Sasha to see if she is in as much awe as I am, but though she appears excited, she also seems to blend in perfectly with our surroundings. The booming music makes it impossible to speak, so I silently keep my stride next to Sasha and pretend that I, in fact, belong inside.
I’m inside…
Wonderland.
If it weren’t for the fact that my eyes are wide open and my legs moving me ahead, I’d think I was dreaming. My gray life has suddenly been injected with so much color, that I can’t help but smile and feel the… wonder… around me. I feel so small in such a massive space, especially when I look up to see bodies doing flips and twirls above me.
Sasha reaches for my hand and nearly skips us toward the middle of the room.
The music, her energy, the lights, all force me to mimic her cadence, and we all but dance into the main room. As we enter the warehouse more, and my eyes adjust, I swear that we walk right by a famous hip-hop artist. I can’t think of his name right away, but I know I recognize him from the Grammys I recently watched. I must have stopped walking to gawk because Sasha turns to face me, sees who I am staring at, and nods with a smile.
She leans into my ear and shouts, “We are all VIP. One of the rules of Wonderland.”
She tugs on my hand and leads me further into the warehouse. Although there is nothing that resembles a typical warehouse inside. A massive chandelier, larger than anything I’ve ever seen, masters the center of the room. A DJ is spinning music on a raised platform with laser lights shooting out from every angle. Large drums are on the sides of the room with bright neon paint splattering everywhere with every pound of the mallet. Speakers fill every void and nook of the room, and the walls have been converted to screens with videos playing images of swirling shapes, scenery, and dancing bodies who all seem to move to the beat of the EDM music blaring through the air.
