not particularly
attractive. I point to my ear, shake my head.
“Can’t hear,” I mouth.
Peeling away, I push across the room. If I can find Henry, I’ll
hang with him. Or I might check to see if Jagger’s still talking to Hell Girl. A
sixth sense, however, tells me to turn around. Skeleton Face is giving me the
finger. Honestly. WiHi guys are such jerks.
Raul taps my shoulder. “…party!”
“Loud!” I yell.
He nods. “Your costume’s…”
The rest of the sentence is lost, although I smile in the hope
that it’s a compliment. We stand for a moment, checking out the crowd. Drunk
Fairy Godmother appears, waving her magic wand and dousing us with sparkles.
Raul laughs good-naturedly. As he brushes off his shirt, Fairy
Godmother tugs at him for a dance. He shrugs at me and I wave him away.
My beer’s gone. Nothing’s left in the ice-filled trash can,
although my stashed bottle is still behind the pumpkin. Armed with the fresh
drink, I wander about. The room’s hot, the air thick. Smoky. Cigs. Weed…
Somebody pulls my tail, safety-pinned to the back of my
belt.
“When’d…here!” Jagger shouts into my ear.
“Half an hour?”
He pushes his mask up over his hair, grabs my beer. I know his
tricks. Given half a chance, Jagger will drain it in two seconds. I pull it
back.
He coughs, eyes watery. “…some air?”
Before I can nod, there’s some kind of commotion behind us.
Holy shit! It’s not cigarettes making Jagger’s eyes burn. It’s smoke!
A set of streamers dangling from the low ceiling is on fire.
The group closest to the flames push away. But with music pumping and kids
dancing, no one gets very far.
Screams penetrate the chaos. “Every…out! Fire! Fire!”
A moment of delay before true panic sets in. The crowd surges
forward. I struggle not to get trampled. In the crush for the door, Jagger and I
are separated. Wildly, I look to my left. It’s not Jags I see but Omar. Silver
hat flashing, he’s racing toward the fire.
Something’s in his hands….
The claustrophobic squeeze of people behind, in front and to
the side overwhelm me. It’s as scary as fire. The wave inches forward. At last,
I stumble outside. Arm scratched, chest heaving, I tumble to the sidewalk and
take deep, appreciative gulps of fresh air.
Outside it’s chaos, too. People mill about, talking on cells,
yelling for friends.
“Valerie? Val…” Jagger lurches toward me. “You okay?”
“Omigod. Yes. You?”
Sirens cut off his answer. Marci and Phil, together with Henry,
rush up.
“Val—”
“Marci! Thank God. Are Omar and Raul out, too?”
Heads shake. No one’s seen them. The arrival of four red trucks
accompanied by earsplitting sirens and tire squeals seems quick. Someone must
have called while the rest of us were fighting for the door. Firemen pile out.
In a rapid but organized sequence, one group attaches a hose to the hydrant as a
second team heads for the building.
“Basement!” people yell.
My heart pounds. Several men scurry up the steps and pound on
the front door. At the same time, three guys aim for the basement. One of them
pulls the hose. I find myself clinging to Jagger as the firemen make their way
into the building.
After what seems like minutes but is probably only seconds,
Omar and Raul are escorted from the basement. The last ones out.
“Over here!” Marci yells.
The pandemonium is still monumental, so she runs to them. Omar,
in earnest conversation with a fireman, stays. She does manage to drag Raul back
with her. He reeks of smoke, but I don’t care.
I move to give him a hug. “We were so worried when we didn’t
see you out here, Raul.”
He squeezes back, muscles tight against my shirt.
The rest of the group clamors to find out why he and Omar got
out of the basement so late. As I step aside, Marci gives me a quick, approving
nod. For the first time, I seriously consider that she might have a point.
Paying more attention to Raul could be a good thing. Nothing
attractive. I point to my ear, shake my head.
“Can’t hear,” I mouth.
Peeling away, I push across the room. If I can find Henry, I’ll
hang with him. Or I might check to see if Jagger’s still talking to Hell Girl. A
sixth sense, however, tells me to turn around. Skeleton Face is giving me the
finger. Honestly. WiHi guys are such jerks.
Raul taps my shoulder. “…party!”
“Loud!” I yell.
He nods. “Your costume’s…”
The rest of the sentence is lost, although I smile in the hope
that it’s a compliment. We stand for a moment, checking out the crowd. Drunk
Fairy Godmother appears, waving her magic wand and dousing us with sparkles.
Raul laughs good-naturedly. As he brushes off his shirt, Fairy
Godmother tugs at him for a dance. He shrugs at me and I wave him away.
My beer’s gone. Nothing’s left in the ice-filled trash can,
although my stashed bottle is still behind the pumpkin. Armed with the fresh
drink, I wander about. The room’s hot, the air thick. Smoky. Cigs. Weed…
Somebody pulls my tail, safety-pinned to the back of my
belt.
“When’d…here!” Jagger shouts into my ear.
“Half an hour?”
He pushes his mask up over his hair, grabs my beer. I know his
tricks. Given half a chance, Jagger will drain it in two seconds. I pull it
back.
He coughs, eyes watery. “…some air?”
Before I can nod, there’s some kind of commotion behind us.
Holy shit! It’s not cigarettes making Jagger’s eyes burn. It’s smoke!
A set of streamers dangling from the low ceiling is on fire.
The group closest to the flames push away. But with music pumping and kids
dancing, no one gets very far.
Screams penetrate the chaos. “Every…out! Fire! Fire!”
A moment of delay before true panic sets in. The crowd surges
forward. I struggle not to get trampled. In the crush for the door, Jagger and I
are separated. Wildly, I look to my left. It’s not Jags I see but Omar. Silver
hat flashing, he’s racing toward the fire.
Something’s in his hands….
The claustrophobic squeeze of people behind, in front and to
the side overwhelm me. It’s as scary as fire. The wave inches forward. At last,
I stumble outside. Arm scratched, chest heaving, I tumble to the sidewalk and
take deep, appreciative gulps of fresh air.
Outside it’s chaos, too. People mill about, talking on cells,
yelling for friends.
“Valerie? Val…” Jagger lurches toward me. “You okay?”
“Omigod. Yes. You?”
Sirens cut off his answer. Marci and Phil, together with Henry,
rush up.
“Val—”
“Marci! Thank God. Are Omar and Raul out, too?”
Heads shake. No one’s seen them. The arrival of four red trucks
accompanied by earsplitting sirens and tire squeals seems quick. Someone must
have called while the rest of us were fighting for the door. Firemen pile out.
In a rapid but organized sequence, one group attaches a hose to the hydrant as a
second team heads for the building.
“Basement!” people yell.
My heart pounds. Several men scurry up the steps and pound on
the front door. At the same time, three guys aim for the basement. One of them
pulls the hose. I find myself clinging to Jagger as the firemen make their way
into the building.
After what seems like minutes but is probably only seconds,
Omar and Raul are escorted from the basement. The last ones out.
“Over here!” Marci yells.
The pandemonium is still monumental, so she runs to them. Omar,
in earnest conversation with a fireman, stays. She does manage to drag Raul back
with her. He reeks of smoke, but I don’t care.
I move to give him a hug. “We were so worried when we didn’t
see you out here, Raul.”
He squeezes back, muscles tight against my shirt.
The rest of the group clamors to find out why he and Omar got
out of the basement so late. As I step aside, Marci gives me a quick, approving
nod. For the first time, I seriously consider that she might have a point.
Paying more attention to Raul could be a good thing. Nothing
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