With all these super-great feelings sitting in my chest, I arrived at the party. The address revealed itself to be a pretty run-down house. It looked to be two floors, although houses like this always seemed to have sketchy unfinished basements. Pale pink paint covered the outside in splotches. The porch steps looked caved in on one end, like they were slowly disappearing into the earth. Through a couple of open, smudged windows, live music pumped across the lawn.

I walked up the front steps, carefully avoiding the droopy side. When I opened the door after fiddling for, like, a good thirty seconds with the wobbly doorknob, the full force of the music exploded over me. An electric guitar, pounding drums, and what sounded like a synthesizer welcomed me inside. A ratty roller skate sat on a table just inside the door with a sign that said, THE HONEY POT. A couple of bills poked out through the opening of the skate. Behind the table, one guy was straddling another guy, and they were making out. Unsure whether I was supposed to contribute, being a Honey myself and all, and not about to interrupt this serious tongue action, I added a five, just in case.

Four girls, one of whom was Sage, sprawled across the stairs leading to the second floor. They all looked over blurry-eyed as I walked in, and Sage gave me an exuberant wave when she saw me. A petite but ripped girl carrying a massive guy on her back galloped in front of me from the room on my right toward the music, which was blaring from somewhere to my left. Muffled but loud conversations emanated from every direction. I caught “dolly rocker,” “rainbow bright,” and “kiss my ass—it tastes like butterscotch.”

As I’d predicted, this was going to be mayhem, just like the roller disco. But I was a little surprised to find I wasn’t completely mortified by the thought of being here, despite my trepidation about Kat and Shanti. I guess I was getting acclimated to some of these roller folks—especially the other rookies. It was easier to spend so much time with people when it involved sweating and knocking each other around.

I followed the noise from the band and found myself in the living room, which had an enclosed porch off it. The band—three chicks dressed in varying degrees of Girl Scout clothing (but, like, a punk version) banged away on their instruments. Their music missed most of the intended notes, but their facial expressions and sheer exuberance made up for their lack of skill. I paused in the entryway to the living room, hypnotized by the contorted faces and flailing hair.