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“No, Lou. You are not allowed to wear an oversized concert tee to the club. First off, you would die from hyperthermia and second, you agreed to let me choose the outfits for tonight.”
I lower my hand then slowly raise it again.
Sighing, Stella nods her permission.
“Why do we need free drinks if you’re not drinking?” Seemingly pleased with my question, she smiles and pats my hand.
“Oh, honey. We are getting the drinks foryou. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
Well, that’s reassuring.
Joking aside, the consumption of alcohol has never been something that scares me. I know my limits - a feeble four, but hey, it’s better than some - and have never veered into the memory-loss territory. As far as drinking goes, I am somewhat sensible.
Stella, on the other hand does not drink at all. She told me her vigorous workout routine leaves little room for hangovers, so she drinks non-alcoholic beer, which apparently tastes just as bad as regular beer. Her excuse sounds flimsy at best, but I’m not one to probe.
Accepting my defeat, I groan and flop on the bed. Seeing my surrender, Stella lets out a shriek of excitement and I can’t help but smile. If nothing else, tonight will be good roommate bonding. And really, it’s just dancing.
How bad can it be?
My expectations start to lower as soon as I see the neon red BA$$ sign. It’s safe to assume anyone who puts dollar signs in their company name probably doesn’t have the most professional work setting. And if the scantily clad girls lined up in front and behind me are anything to go by, BA$$ checks off all the boxes for questionable business management.
Standing in line outside the building, I can feel the pulse of the music vibrating through the concrete beneath my sneakers. The good news is my bandeau and skinny jeans look conservative compared to the lingerie and fishnet stockings around me; the bad news is I didn’t bring earplugs.
Stella’s silky hair brushes my arm as she laughs with the new friend she made two minutes ago. For the first time ever, Stella’s hair doesn’t have a single braid in it. Instead, it’s pulled up in a high pony, with strands strategically wrapped around the elastic band. Even put up, the impressive length hangs to her low back, swishing back and forth like a hair extension commercial. The top she’s got on glitters under the streetlights, the black sequins glistening against her light skin and outlining the muscles rippling down her arms and back. She looks intimidatingly beautiful.
Although I prefer my baggy shirts and mom jeans, I am glad Stella didn’t budge on the outfits. I would have stood out like a sore thumb before we hit the dance floor.
If you thought my social skills are bad, wait until you see my dance moves.
“Lou, meet Porsche. Poor girl has the worst luck with roommates. For a second year in a row, she got a sleepwalker!”
“That must be… tiresome.” Falling back on a terrible pun, I look at the girl in question and try not to let the shock show on my face.
When someone is named after a luxury vehicle, you can’t help but picture them… well, drop-dead gorgeous. Because really, who names their kids after sports cars? Celebrities and other outrageously beautiful people. Looking at the small Japanese girl in front of me, with her round glasses and plain face, the effect is slightly… underwhelming. She’s undoubtedly cute but far from eye-catching.
Porsche laughs at my weak joke, and I immediately feel bad for having such thoughts. Anyone who laughs at my feeble attempts at humour deserves to be admired, not judged by a parent’s poor name choice.
As we inch up the line, Porsche shakes her head morosely, “I thought first year was bad with the drawer banging. That was nothing compared to this year. Every night my roommate sleepwalks out of her room but can never find her way back. Half the time she ends up on our living room sofa, the other half she tries to break into my room thinking it’s her own. The first night I forgot to lock my door and she crawled into bed with me. Fast asleep, eyes wide open. Scariest moment of my life.”
I gasp, “Oh my god. My heart would have stopped.”
Nodding in agreement, Stella draws a cross on her chest. “Death by fright. In the dorm. By the roommate.”
“Death by theunconsciousroommate,” Porsche corrects, causing us all to break into laughter.
We finally reach the front, a burly bouncer scans our IDs, and we walk through the entrance. The pulsing beat we could feel from outside gets turned up to an ear-splitting level, the low vibrations turning into lyrics thundering against my shoes and inside my skull.
It’s like dunking your head under water, except instead of submersing yourself into a world of peace and tranquility, BA$$ submerses you into a world of chaos and noise.
Permanent hearing damage here I come.
A long bar stretches across the back of the room, with a small seating area with tables and chairs filling up the section nearby. The dance floor itself is elevated two feet off the ground and fills the remaining space, with two shabby-looking bathrooms poking out of the right-hand corner. What BA$$ lacks in sophistication, it more than makes up for in popularity. The place is packed.
Squealing with excitement, Stella grabs my arm and one of Porsche’s, dragging us all towards the gyrating mass on the dance floor. Endless bodies and humid air fill my senses as we squeeze past clumps of people, finding a few feet of minimal space near the centre. The few lights located above the bar don’t make it to the elevated platform, so the only light on us is the glowing shades of blacklight. Stella’s platinum ponytail lights up like a Christmas tree, thankfully making her easy to spot. The last thing I need is to get lost in the drunk mass around us.
A new Ed Sheeran song pumps through the speakers and both members of my girl squad start moving as though they’ve been dancing their whole lives.
Confession time: I’ve never danced before.
