Sometimes, I think about life paths. Although I don’t think too deeply. Like how can life treat some people to be an artist, a writer, a lawyer, or a chef? Maybe it’s not because of life, but because they’re learning and going through a lot. There must be motivations from their heart. Why do they create art? Why do they write? Why do they study law? Why do they cook? Their motivations must come from either their interests or abilities. As a person who doesn’t know her interest and ability yet, my first step is to discover all of those.
I sit on the ottoman in front of the dressing table, applying skin care and makeup, combing my wavy black hair, and tying it into a ponytail—I wonder if I could be a makeup artist one day. A makeup artist needs precise hand skills, sharp reflexes, and a good eye for aesthetics. Maybe I’d be good at something like that.
I see my face in the round mirror. I have long, loosely wavy black hair pulled into a high ponytail. Pink and gold makeup highlights my pale face. I am so prepared because I will go to the nightclub with Elle. She will come in ten minutes.
I close my bedroom door, holding high heels and wearing a short purple dress. My mom is busy recording videos in the living room. She is super focused, and doesn’t even notice me. So, I just casually walk toward the front door.
Before I reach the terrace, suddenly my mom’s voice goes all fast and sharp, “And studies show that a lack of omega-3 can lower serotonin levels, which can affect how confident you feel in social situations ….”
Hearing that, I feel so much pressure. I wear my high heels quickly, running to the taxi stop when my mom is calling my name, “Petra? Where are you going?”
Too late, my mom sees the front lawn with nothing but air and space, while I already meet Elle and take a taxi to the nightclub.
The nightclub is on Wilson Street, in a building that is part of a townhouse complex. As we enter, there are sofas facing each other, hookahs on tables, a half round bar table with bar stools, and alcohol displays. I smell mint-flavored cigarette smoke from the hookahs. Blue and purple lights, chill beats, electronic music, and a lively crowd mingle together.
“Let’s dance,” I spoke to Elle.
I do some freestyle dances.
“Honestly, Petra. This is my first time,” she said.
I don’t stop dancing while answering her, “OMG, this is like your first club ever?” I asked, in friendly way.
“Yeah.”
“So, you bring your fake ID?” I asked.
“No.”
“Wait—what? Sorry, but trust me, you need this,” I show her my fake ID I created from my mom’s driver license, but I changed her photo into mine. The name was still ‘Neve Conway.’ “The security guys totally do their rounds, like, all the time. So, we gotta act super chill, okay?”
“Okay, but next time maybe tell me? I didn’t prep for this.”
Finally, Elle joins me dancing. We jump, move to the rhythm, like other people do. Our shoulders move up and down, hips sway freely, and arms wave in the air. Our bodies form silhouettes between flashes of strobe light.
A guy brushes past me, his cologne sharp and musky. My stomach flipped. I forced myself to laugh it off, but the smell clung to my nose like glue. I take Elle’s hand and lead her to the front of the bar table. “Come on, let’s just try a sip before the security guys start lurking around,” I whispered to her.
Kwesi, a bartender has known me because I am so often coming here. I just take it easy, but Elle’s face is so tense.
“Well, well, what do we have here? You two don’t look like regular,” Kwesi joked.
“Yeah, cause we are undercover VIPs,” I answered confidently.
“Undercover VIPs? Is she joking?” a man in his twenty next to me said mockingly.
“Aww, is that envy I hear?” I said, sarcastically, then change my voice tone into a deep one, “Haters always speak the loudest, huh?”
“Petra … stop it!” Elle can’t hold back her laughter.
“You all want me to call Alec? He’s friendly with kids, don’t worry,” Kwesi said. I bet Alec is one of the security guys.
“We are not kids; we want to try champagne here,” I said, seriously.
I hear people laugh behind me.
“We don’t sell champagne, just soda.”
“Perfect. Just mix it with wine and I am good,” I said, with arm crossed.
“Alec, do me a favor. Check on those girls. I ain’t tryna explain to some angry mom why her baby’s hangin’ out here.”
“Petra, Elle. Your night is over,” Alec said.
“Oh please, at least gimme that mocktail or syrup or whatever without alcohol. Is that fine?” I say, my hands moving up and down as if trying to explain world peace with descriptive dance. I don't even ask for champagne anymore. Just drink. Just something to make my friend happy to spend the night here.
Alec pulls my arm. “This place is not for under twenty ones.” He takes our hands and leads us to exit door.
“I’m sorry, Elle. That probably wasn’t the most exciting first bar experience for you.”
“No need to be sorry, Petra. Seeing you being bold and speak your mind again—that was badass.”
We’re going home by Uber car. First to my house, then to Elle’s. The smell of engine, the coffee-scented car air freshener, and the smell of sweat fill my nose. The car passes trees, townhouses, a bank, a restaurant—which all were closed. I mischievously open the car window and stuck my head halfway out. The night breeze ruffles my hair. I smile with relief.