Rock can't just go up to a guy and ask him to dance. The thump thump thump of the music he could feel in his hair follicles, like thousands of mini vibrators. Vibrators. Don't think about vibrators, he thought.
He felt his best friend Cray's hair before he saw her next to him.
"Do it," she yelled. "I know you think he's cute."
He rolled his eyes and sighed. "You do it for me," he said.
She laughed with her mouth wide open but because of the club music, he couldn't hear her creaky laugh. "He won't dance with me, baby." She never smoked but her voice sounded like a 40-year-old who always did.
He looked at her toes, painted like rainbow jewels.
"I can't," Rock said.
"Woah, he's coming this way," she said.
Rock turned to the sticky bar, looked left, then right, wanting the bathroom or someplace to hide. The hoppy smell of beer made his stomach flip like Simone Biles on her gold medal floor routine, before a syrupy bile rose into his throat. He really can't do this, he thought. Then he felt that hot guy's hand on his arm.
"Hey, wanna dance?" he said.
He blushed and didn't know what to say. Then he felt Cray behind him, pushing him into the hot guy whose name he didn't know. The last thing he heard before he passed out was the bartender turning on the very loud glass dishwasher.
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