We laughed a little. You’re sure feisty, he said. You’d think you ran this town.

Can you get me some booze? I asked, and he did, and then I asked him to come with me up to where my supposed treat was on the second floor.

What was the big deal? People were dancing in a bedless bedroom. I fell over and the guy with the gun caught me before I fell on my face. I loved the Blue House right then. So many strange-looking people dancing, all singing along to a song I’d never heard before. It was way better than the whole sock hop, slow-dance-to-Stairway-to-Heaven routine. Those deranged artsy types sure can dance. You should have seen them. I guess they were trying to dance like they were from New York or something. I wished China was with me because it would have killed her to see those girls in lace leggings twirling about with their serious, gloomy expressions.

The gun guy kept trying to get me to go dance with Gramps. Gramps was really getting down on the dance floor. I careened over to the old man because I wanted to give the gun guy a good laugh. I swayed my hips a little and smiled at the old man in this over-the-top-come-hither kind of way. I saw this girl dancing, and I moved closer to her because I liked the way she looked, haughty and sexy but not in a slutty way, and when I got closer to her, I realized she was me and I was looking at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like the kind of girl I’d always wanted to befriend.

So maybe I got a couple of lewd looks, but I kept thinking of those Mount Drug fools at their graduation dance, and at last, at least, I’d found something better.

The window was open and the breeze came in, and the smell of my city was bittersweet, salty, and at the same time clean.

It’s funny how dancing with a bunch of strangers can make you realize how lonely and melancholy you’ve been, and now I felt so giddy and accepted, I even introduced myself to the girls in lace leggings. Snottily, they told me they were theater students, and I lied my face off, saying, Yeah, well, I’m going to Smith College in New England. Yeah, yeah, you’re right, that’s where Sylvia Plath went. I didn’t want them thinking they were better than I was. Nice moves, I said. What do you call that kind of dance? Improv, they said snobbily. Got it. Improv, I snickered to the guy with the gun, who had started to follow me around and kept telling me it was time for me to go get my treat.