lights. This Warren is…cool. The guy he’s talking to is thin as a pole and decked out head to toe in black. Even his hair, which is long and slicked back. If it weren’t for the lasers and strobes, he’d blend right into the night.
The thin guy nods toward me. Warren turns and smiles wide. He shouts, “You figured it out.”
“Why am I here?” My own voice doesn’t even dent the noise. I can tell he didn’t hear me. He says something to the thin guy, who then glares at me. He gives Warren a nod and walks off the stage. I try again, shouting, “Why am I here?” but Warren holds up a finger, pulls the headphones onto his head and goes to work. He loses himself in the music, eyes closed, body jerking in a dance that is both erratic and infectious. Then he focuses again, pressing buttons and moving levers. The music morphs and a hundred arms go into the air. He’s running the show, watching the crowd with a smile on his face. He presses a button and steps away from the table. At the front of the stage, a single column of laser light fans out into fifteen. Each one a different color, they shoot up into the sky.
He stands behind them, holding his hands out flat at his waist. His head bobs with the music as he slides his left hand into a beam of light, cutting it off midstream. His palm lights up yellow and an eerie undercurrent rises in the music. He pulls his left hand back and slides the right forward. His hand glows blue and the music shifts again. Ghostly voices emerge. He holds his right hand there, his body one with the beat, then slides it out and places the left one in. I watch him, mesmerized. He’s creating music with light.
Without looking, he reaches out to me, takes my hand and stretches it into the light. My palm glows purple and the music shifts. He picks up my other hand, moves it forward into blue. Then he holds out both of his own hands at me like,
Here you go,
and steps back with a bow. The show is mine. Panic flickers inside me, but I close my eyes and let the music overwhelm me until my whole body buzzes. I open my eyes again and look at the beams of light. Move my hand to the green before switching back to the purple. The lasers are programmed with chords, pedal tones. I know this stuff like, well, like the back of my hand. I move through a progression of chords, creating a new composition. Each time the music shifts, the crowd follows. It’s like magic. My skin rises in gooseflesh as an old flame awakens in me. This is how music should feel. This music is alive.
I’m alive.
Warren taps me on the shoulder and rolls his hand like,
Keep going,
and walks back to the table. He transitions to a faster beat and I follow. Shouts go up from the crowd. Hundreds of bodies move in sync. I sway in time, creating a new chord progression, and look out over the faces appearing and disappearing in the crowd. I move my hand through the purple beam, and a single face catches my eye. My hands drop.
It’s him.
The boy from the museum.
I watch the lights play across his face and remember the feeling of his lips on mine. Three times? Three random meetings? How is that possible?
Maybe they’re not random.
I have to get over there. I have to see him. Between us churns a sea of people and no easy path. The way to reach him will have to be through.
Strobe lights flash across the castle walls. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve been to parties back home, but they were lame compared to this. Someone’s parents go out of town and you hang out on their couch, listening to metal and getting high, wishing there were some girls around but too stoned to move. This place is alive. The music—stuff I’d never think of listening to—pulses through my body. It’s like a whirlpool, pulling me in. I don’t dance, but I can’t keep still either.
Germ elbows me and points. He says something I can’t hear and walks toward the far wall. As we move through the crowd, bodies slide up against me, slowing me
The thin guy nods toward me. Warren turns and smiles wide. He shouts, “You figured it out.”
“Why am I here?” My own voice doesn’t even dent the noise. I can tell he didn’t hear me. He says something to the thin guy, who then glares at me. He gives Warren a nod and walks off the stage. I try again, shouting, “Why am I here?” but Warren holds up a finger, pulls the headphones onto his head and goes to work. He loses himself in the music, eyes closed, body jerking in a dance that is both erratic and infectious. Then he focuses again, pressing buttons and moving levers. The music morphs and a hundred arms go into the air. He’s running the show, watching the crowd with a smile on his face. He presses a button and steps away from the table. At the front of the stage, a single column of laser light fans out into fifteen. Each one a different color, they shoot up into the sky.
He stands behind them, holding his hands out flat at his waist. His head bobs with the music as he slides his left hand into a beam of light, cutting it off midstream. His palm lights up yellow and an eerie undercurrent rises in the music. He pulls his left hand back and slides the right forward. His hand glows blue and the music shifts again. Ghostly voices emerge. He holds his right hand there, his body one with the beat, then slides it out and places the left one in. I watch him, mesmerized. He’s creating music with light.
Without looking, he reaches out to me, takes my hand and stretches it into the light. My palm glows purple and the music shifts. He picks up my other hand, moves it forward into blue. Then he holds out both of his own hands at me like,
Here you go,
and steps back with a bow. The show is mine. Panic flickers inside me, but I close my eyes and let the music overwhelm me until my whole body buzzes. I open my eyes again and look at the beams of light. Move my hand to the green before switching back to the purple. The lasers are programmed with chords, pedal tones. I know this stuff like, well, like the back of my hand. I move through a progression of chords, creating a new composition. Each time the music shifts, the crowd follows. It’s like magic. My skin rises in gooseflesh as an old flame awakens in me. This is how music should feel. This music is alive.
I’m alive.
Warren taps me on the shoulder and rolls his hand like,
Keep going,
and walks back to the table. He transitions to a faster beat and I follow. Shouts go up from the crowd. Hundreds of bodies move in sync. I sway in time, creating a new chord progression, and look out over the faces appearing and disappearing in the crowd. I move my hand through the purple beam, and a single face catches my eye. My hands drop.
It’s him.
The boy from the museum.
I watch the lights play across his face and remember the feeling of his lips on mine. Three times? Three random meetings? How is that possible?
Maybe they’re not random.
I have to get over there. I have to see him. Between us churns a sea of people and no easy path. The way to reach him will have to be through.
Strobe lights flash across the castle walls. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve been to parties back home, but they were lame compared to this. Someone’s parents go out of town and you hang out on their couch, listening to metal and getting high, wishing there were some girls around but too stoned to move. This place is alive. The music—stuff I’d never think of listening to—pulses through my body. It’s like a whirlpool, pulling me in. I don’t dance, but I can’t keep still either.
Germ elbows me and points. He says something I can’t hear and walks toward the far wall. As we move through the crowd, bodies slide up against me, slowing me
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