At the bottom of the stairs, the floor was cement with random bits of that rough-looking industrial carpet here and there. Not completely unfinished, but close. The air set my skin into goose bumps, and I was glad I’d kept my jacket on. To my right, a long, shadowy hallway showed a couple of figures wrapped around each other, the telltale sounds of heavy breathing and low groans punctuating the faint sound of stringy music that drifted out from a door behind me. Two more figures suddenly crashed through the steamy hallway and lumbered toward me, one of them screaming “Jojo’s it! Run, you fuckers!” before shoving me backward into the musical door.

Hearing more profanities and squeals following this stampede, I turned and clumsily found the doorknob I was squashed up against. I tumbled into the room behind the door, almost crashing to my knees but managing to just falter a few feet inside instead. Saved my beer, too.

From the futon right in front of me, Shanti looked up, a book open and tucked into her crossed legs. Always a book. Her hair was in a messy bun, and she wore an oversize sweater and tights. Small speakers on the floor sent out the complicated guitar music I’d heard, and a few candles lay across the ledge above the futon. The walls had maintained their original wood paneling, which was amazing, and more industrial carpet covered most of the floor. A single mattress lay snug against the corner of the room to my left, the blankets neatly folded in around it.

I stood, somewhat embarrassed, about three feet from Shanti. “Hey,” I said, unsure of what else I could possibly say or how she was feeling after that shitty episode with Kat at practice. And still feeling the residual effect of Kat’s words, part of me was trying to lift concrete blocks into place too. Everything in this room kept shoving those blocks to the ground, though.

“Hey—I didn’t expect to see you down here.” She seemed surprised but not unpleasantly so. “Are you… looking for a palm reading?”

“Pardon?”

She pointed behind me and I followed her finger. The door had swung wide open against the wall with my forceful entry. On the side that had faced the outer hallway, a piece of paper with Sharpie on it read, Palm readings: $2.

I turned back toward her. “Oh, uh… I actually missed that. Kinda got sideswiped.”

“You must’ve enjoyed that,” she said, her face unreadable.

“Ha… yeah.” A palm reading wasn’t really what I’d been looking for—but she looked so quiet and still, and I’d already been taken out twice in the short time I’d been at this party. Usually that was my thing, but this seemed all right for a minute or two as well.