"The damned lid was on too tight. When did we start hermetically sealing the peanut butter?" Papa holds an ice pack to his bruised shoulder and complains while I arrange a pillow behind his back.

"You should have waited until I got home. There's other stuff to eat around here besides peanut butter and jelly sandwiches." I hang his cane over the arm of his recliner, the recliner that doubles as his bed despite the perfectly good bedroom down the hall.

"When a guy's got a taste for peanut butter and jelly, he's not going to let a lid get in his way."

"You could have broken a hip. You could have been lying there for hours. Now, I'll be worried about you every time I leave the house."

Papa smiles, showing me his gums. He looks ancient when he doesn't wear his dentures. "You sound more like your mother every day."

I cringe at his comment. Thankfully, he turns to stare at the TV and doesn't notice. I don't want him to know the thought of turning into my mother freaks me out. "That's because we both care about you. I don't want you to end up in a nursing home because you can't get out of your damned chair." I turn the volume down on his cooking show and hand him the remote. "Now that you're upright again, do you want one or two sandwiches?"

"Two, if you please."

I walk into the kitchen and unscrew the lid on the peanut butter jar. It's totally easy.

"So, it's Friday again," I say.

"Best day of the week," he calls back. "What's on the agenda...besides league bowling with your dad? There are a million stories to be made out there. I'm living proof."

"I know. You've done it all and now you're stuck with us boring people."

"I would never use the word boring to describe our family. Maybe quirky, unorthodox, even uncouth. But never boring."

I glance over the counter at him. His brown eyes are wide and exaggerated behind his drugstore glasses, and his powder white hair is sticking up on his head like downy feathers, which always happens after shower day. "I was invited to a rave. It's at the Jungle Club."

"The Jungle Club?" He blinks his owl eyes. "Now there's a place with some classy residents. Some of my closest friends lived at the Jungle Club back in the day."

I smile and nod. It's what I do when Papa remembers stuff from back in the day. He doesn't know the Jungle Club's reputation has tanked and only deejays and con artists live there now. But Mom knows.

"The rave is on the roof. There's going to be live deejays and probably talent scouts. This one has a theme, London punk."

His fuzzy eyebrows shoot above his glasses. "How the hell do you dress like a London punk?"

"You know...black leather, spiked pink hair, plaid. Some people will probably do Doctor Who. We love the British."

He quiets down as I cut his lunch into quarters so he can gum them easier. By the time I get his milk poured and walk back to the living room, he's dozing. I clear a space on his TV tray, which serves as a catch-all for crossword books and junk mail, and set down his lunch, kissing him on his baby shampoo-scented forehead. As I make for my room, my cell quacks. Presley again.

(Boots or heels?)

(Hopefully boots, gotta ask Mom)

(Liza has a white pair. Totes chic, you wanna?)

(Who am I, Andy Warhol?)

I'm not surprised Presley's sister has white boots. That girl is one pair away from being a hoarder. But I give her a pass. Liza makes her living by dressing chic. I check the time on my cell and send a quick (Meet you in 5) text to Loki as I unearth my wallet from my backpack.

Before I head out, I take stock of myself in the mirror: mascara faded but not smudged, lips a tad dry but easily fixed with a coat of strawberry sorbet lip balm, and hair L'Oreal light ash blonde cut within an inch of its life—except the bangs. I keep those long to cover random zits. When I return to the living room, Papa is snoring. I write a note on his napkin.

'Heading to 7-11 with Loki. Don't move any furniture while I'm gone.'

I jab my hands into the pockets of my hoodie as Loki and I schlep to the end of the street toward the big, red seven. There's a chill to the wind, which has picked up since I got off the bus. One thing about living in the dustbowl I call home is that the wind makes the hot hotter and the cold colder.

"So, where's this rave?" he asks.

"Jungle Club. It's a rooftop dance party. Should be pretty awesome. Of course, Ripley will be gracing us with his presence tonight, so the party is still a maybe for me."

"No decent party is going to start until way past his bedtime. Won't your mom be home to watch him?"

"Mom is a seat-of-the-pants kind of gal. I never know her plans until they're happening. As far as I know, she'll be at Mrs. Speelman's spirit circle. Then who knows after that. Probably Fire in the Hole."

Loki juts out his chin and nods, his go-to response when he doesn't know what to say to me. I don't blame him. I wouldn't know how to respond to someone complaining about their irresponsible mom. We walk the rest of the way in silence.

A black limo is parked under the 7-Eleven sign when we get there. Limos in Vegas are as common as cabs in Manhattan, but this one is extra snazzy, with gold plating around the door frames and sparkly rims in a diamond pattern. There's no logo anywhere, so it's probably someone's personal ride.

We walk through the door and the people in line turn to look at us because they have nothing better to do, except the girl behind the register. She's been here since Mom and I moved into the neighborhood, and nothing seems to phase her. Even when that car caught fire in the parking lot.

I'll admit, the two of us probably make a strange pair. Lanky Loki in his full goth gear, and a half-pint chick with an Ivy League crew cut bleached to match Siegfried and Roy's white tiger. I blow past the gawkers and make for the candy aisle. No trip to the seven is complete without chocolate. Loki heads for the greasy Slim Jims. That boy will put anything in his stomach.

I take my time, enjoying the intoxicating aroma of sugar-saturated confections, when my attention is drawn away from the box of Snickers to a man looking through the glass at the energy drinks. I notice him because he's wearing a black trench coat, which isn't exactly trending right now, at least not for men. It's leather, not vinyl like the cheapo I found at Flashbacks, so the guy is dressing with purpose.

His dark hair is slicked back, also with purpose, gathering in a ducktail behind his collar. I'd say he was going for a fifties greaser, but the coat is all wrong. He opens the door and pulls out two lime green cans of adrenaline. No doubt planning for an all-nighter.

Now I'm intrigued, and I pretend to be interested in the Snickers when he turns to head down my aisle. As he passes, I sneak a close-up of his face. Holy crap, he's hot. Like superstar hot, and he treats me to a Crest Whitestrips smile through a perfectly sculpted Ironman goatee.

I find myself leaning to follow his sexy juju and the trail of musky cologne he's left in his wake. Just then, my cell quacks, and I jump, flinging Snickers onto the floor. Everyone turns to watch me throw the candy back into the box, including the hottie. With my cheeks flaming, I casually walk to the rear of the store, scowling as I read Presley's ill-timed text.

(You bowling tonight?)

(Every Friday night, duh)

(Ditch it. Hang with me and Liza before the rave)

(Ripley, remember? And I'm not ditching my dad)

(Then text me as soon as you get home)

"You hiding from someone?" Loki pulls up next to me, and I realize I've stopped in front of the energy drinks. I can still smell the musk. "That guy is checking you out, Mel. The one dressed like Batman."

"Don't be ridiculous."

I pocket my cell and glance down the aisle. Batman is grinning at me like I'm wearing a sign that says Flake on Board. My heart starts galloping like a racehorse and I open the cooler door, chilling my skin before sweat has a chance to form. Why do I always get like this? I'm such a basket case.

"I thought you didn't like energy drinks." Loki reaches past me and grabs a can of electric blue, a lime green, and a skull and crossbones.

"I don't. Can't a girl open a door for her friend?"

He laughs because he knows I'm lying. "Well, you can stop acting crazy now. Batman is leaving."

Everyone in line watches Batman throw a bill onto the counter, holding up his purchases so the girl behind the register can see them. Then he strolls out the door, most likely heading for the limo.

"Meh. He's probably just another wannabe." I shrug, pretending I have my shit together as I walk back to the candy aisle to start over. 

Not my finest performance.

https://youtu.be/A9eQ0DaHCec