Once I’ve paid my two dollars and fifty cents (!) and strapped on my skates, I immediately fall down. Pulling myself up, I have to hold onto the wall when I take to the skate floor, little kids zipping by me like I’m ancient. Apparently, looking down at your feet just makes you tip forward. Pulling off to the side, I watch the decent skaters to figure out why I’m such a fail. I see that I need to shift from side to side and lean toward the toe of the skate to propel myself forward. A lot of skaters glide past with their arms out, palms down; they look like baby birds learning to fly, geeky but also adorable, and since they’re rolling and I’m not, I try it.

Sis, it’s kind of great. Unlike ice skating, it’s not freezing in here—and who can resist swirling disco lights? The music is unironically retro, though, on second thought, I guess it can’t be ironic because it won’t actually be retro for another decade or two. Picking up speed, I realize I can also put my hips into it, and it feels like dancing. There are plenty of couples (all straight, natch) who have the pair-skating thing down, and I am jealous all over as they sail by holding hands, leaning into corners in unison, and it’s kind of beautiful. I can imagine Cheng by my side, rounding those turns with me.

I’m guessing Chaz never has done pairs skating. Or if he has, it was with Tawny—her keeping up a stream of chatter, him eyeing boys he doesn’t dare talk to. This image presents itself to me so clearly, I’m suddenly emotional. Of course he can’t skate here with a boy—not in this place, not in this time, not with the Gordos of the world watching his every move. Instead, he must hold on to Tawny for dear life, which must be torture and salvation all at once. Maybe she knows it, too. And that’s also sad. For her, for him.

There, in the neon-punctuated dark of Interskate 90, the strains of Xanadu floating in the air, I realize I have a mission.