Not knowing where to go, I ambled over to lurk near the stage, eyeing the band members of the band that I guessed was The Paranoids. Lots of hair, I noticed, and lots of swearing.

I got kind of distracted, absentminded, and was jerked out of my thoughts when a skinny Indian girl jumped on stage and started screaming about the band and how we’d all better have a good time. Everyone started clapping and screaming wildly when she jumped back off the stage, and The Paranoids began to play a cover of Aerosmith’s _Dude Looks Like A Lady_.

I jumped around and clapped with the masses of people around me, grinning manically, as the singer belted out another chorus of, “Dude looks like a lady, dude looks like a lady, dude looks like a lady…”

The song finished with a massive _bang_ of the drums, and the crowd went insane. I did, too: screaming and clapping and whistling, until the singer- a young white guy with Rapunzel-like hair down to his waist- leaned into the microphone and started saying, “This’s an original song, it’s about something stupid. It’s called _Stoned_.” And then, the screaming began, the ear-damaging guitar riffs, pounding bass, and crashing drums. I absolutely fucking loved it.

By the time The Paranoids had finished their set, sweaty and smirking, my hands were sore and red from clapping, my hair frizzy and my body claustrophobic- but like in a good way.

As the second band, Sleze, began to get up on stage, I, already drunk on the exhilaration, headed over to the bar, and plopped onto a peeling, yellow-leather seat.

The Indian girl was bartending, her face flushed. I thought she was younger than nineteen, maybe seventeen or even sixteen, but I guess she worked there.

“Hey,” I said to her, leaning against the bar. “These bands are pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re awesome.” She began clumsily wiping a lipstick-stained glass. “You know, me and the drummer of The Paranoids are pretty tight. He’s neat, dig?”

I nodded along, and laughed. “Yeah, drummers, am I right?”

“Yeah, yeah! Now, you want something to drink?”

“Sure, yeah, I’ll take whatever. Vodka-whatever.” Jesus, it wasn’t usually this easy. I didn’t even have any ID- real _or_ fake- on me.

“You’re nineteen, yeah?” She asked me, pouring alcohol into a glass. “You look kinda young.”

“Yeah, I’m nineteen,” I lied. It was the most unbelievable lie. I was _fifteen_, and the highest I could ever pass for would be seventeen, at most.

“Good, okay.” She didn’t ask for ID, nothing, she just handed over the alcohol. Then, she introduced herself, “I’m Ana.”

I took a sip of my vodka. “I’m Layne. How much?”

“How much what? Oh, it’s on the house, Layne! What a great name! Like Staley- oh, you’re so lucky!” She laughed, glancing over at the stage, where the members of Sleze seemed to be picking a fight.

“Oh, nah, my _real_ name is Elena… Ain’t nothing lucky about being called fucking _Elena_.” I exhaled, in relief, and smiled.

“You new here, or I just never met you before now?” Ana paused. “You must be new. I know almost everyone.”

“Yeah.” I coughed out some nervous laughter. “I’m new. Kinda homeless.”

“Fuck! That sucks. I was homeless for a while and, tip? Don’t trust the crack heads. Or the meth heads. Don’t trust junkies in general.” Her mouth contracted into a grim line. “I learned that one the hard way.”

“Jesus, okay, thanks. I didn’t plan on trusting any meth heads… But thanks.”

“You dig musicians?” Ana asked as she passed a beer to another customer.

“Sure, yeah,” I replied. “I love music.”

“I love musicians.” She giggled, then glanced over at the stage again. “The band’s ready now, I need to go announce them and all…” And she rushed off, then, her voice projected from the microphone: “Give it up for Sleze, Sovernon’s very own rock ‘n’ roll quintet!” The crowd roared with applause, then Ana came running back to the bar as the band started playing in a way that felt reminiscent of Seattle’s one-album band, _Mother Love Bone_.

Everyone crowded over to the stage again, and the bar was left with only me and a couple other people, finishing their drinks.

Ana cried over the noise, “You should try and talk to the guys after the show’s all done! You’re neat- I’ll talk you up, dig?”

“_Really_?” My heart beat spiked with excitement, my head light and warm, my lips flying into a manic smile. “Fuck yeah, Ana, fuck yeah!”

“Really! Yes!” She giggled, face flushed. Then, she noticed I was pretty much done my drink, and offered, “Another drink? You gotta pay this time, though.”

“Sure, yeah.” I downed the rest of my drink, pulled out some of the cash still discreetly in my bra. “How much?”

“Five bucks?”

I handed her five bucks, in return she handed me the drink. I stuffed the rest of the cash back into my bra and no one batted an eye. I sipped my drink.

Ana was gleefully hopping around to the music behind the bar, as the singer of Sleze sang in a style that one can only attribute to the late Andrew Wood.

“This place is always a party, man, it’s awesome.”

“It is,” I agreed, bobbing my head to the music. “It’s wonderful. With my parents, I lived in all these suburban shitholes, and even the _best_ parties were nothin’ compared to _this_ place.”

“Ah, fuck! Parents all suck, don’t they?” She rolled her dark brown, almost black, eyes and grinned at me. “_Mine_ won’t get off my back for just working here.”

“Fuck ‘em! Fuck ‘em if they don’t want you working here. Here’s awesome!”

I sat at the bar and drank, talking to Ana and listening to the music, until Sleze finished their set and Eye Twitch, an all-female trio, started to play.

Ana told me, “Okay, Layne, wanna go see the guys? They’re upstairs.” Then, she side-eyed the band on stage, and added, “Carrie’s a bitch.”

I followed Ana back around the stage, past a few washrooms, and up a creaking, black staircase. At the top of the stairs, there was a small, carpeted landing before a door, and Ana told me to wait there a minute, as she walked into whatever room lay beyond the door.

I leaned against the wall, fiddling with the strings in my dad’s old hoodie, for a couple minutes, until Ana came back out, grinning with all her teeth. “Come on in!”

Beyond that door was what seemed like a communal living room, with about ten small rooms leading off of a dim hallway, with a petite metal balcony that also served as a fire escape. The two bands, The Paranoids and Sleze, plus a few friends and girlfriends, were sprawled out on some couches, smoking and drinking.

“This’s Layne,” Ana introduced me, then flopped down on a low, black leather couch, beside the drummer of The Paranoids.

Everyone mumbled their greetings, and Ana motioned for me to sit down beside her, on the floor, so that’s what I did.

I intently listened to their conversation until the singer of The Paranoids- I only really recognized him for his Rapunzelish hair- broke in, “Hey, Layne, you play anything?”

I shrugged, replying, “Not really. I mean, I played trumpet in middle school, if that counts.” I chuckled with the memory of that stupid trumpet.

“My name’s Wyatt. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too. And,” I added, “I like your hair.”

Wyatt’s face broke out into a grin, his circular sunglasses askew on his nose. “Ah, you wouldn’t believe how many times I get that compliment! Thanks, though.” Then, “Cigarette?”

“Oh, no, thanks. I don’t smoke…”

“I’ll have to get you a drink, then.” He offered me a red solo cup, sloshing with some type of alcohol.

“Thanks.” I gratefully gulped the drink down, almost giddy.

I heard the drummer laughing, and he howled, “_Wyatt_! Jesus Christ!” He dropped his arm around Ana’s shoulders and cried out with wild-sounding laughter.

“Fuck _off_, Jack!”

Ana giggled, then leaned over and got herself another drink. “Baby, if you give Wyatt a hard time again, someone’s gonna kick your _ass_.” She couldn’t stop giggling, all of a sudden.

One of the guys from Sleze- I believe the guitarist- jumped up, said, “I’m gonna try and score, I think Ray’s here somewhere,” and promptly left.

“Ol’ Sky, always tryna score!” Another Sleze guy sighed. “I hope he ain’t too deep in the shit, man.”

Everyone fell awkwardly silent for a moment. Almost solemn. Until The Paranoid’s guitarist, a curly-haired guy called Rob, murmured, “I think he is.”

“That shit fucks you up, man,” Wyatt added, nodding to himself.

“Oh, man! Shut the fuck up, you damn hypocrite!” Jack began to howl again.

“Hey! I quit that shit, you know it.”

“To be fair,” added the Sleze guy, “You _did_, but everyone _knows_ that you and Sky are drug buddies.”

“Okay, _true_, but…” Wyatt sighed, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose. “C’mon, you know I want him to get clean just as much as all the rest of you. So don’t call me a fucking hypocrite.”

The topic quickly shifted and no one mentioned that quick, tense conversation again, although I thought about it pensively.

Hours passed drunkenly, and by about three or four in the morning, most people were tired, heading off to their respective rooms to pass out on their beds.

Soon after, it was only me, Ana, Jack, Wyatt, and another girl, who hadn’t really engaged in the conversation much and was looking sickly.

For some strange, stoned reason, we were discussing how to _spell_ letters, with _other_ letters, which was getting confusing and tiresome. Then, suddenly, Ana exclaimed, “Hey, Kat, wanna go see if you can find Sky and Ray?”

Kat, the sickly-looking girl, shuddered to her feet. “Alright. I got an idea where they might be.” She swayed out the door.

Ana giggled and made eye contact with me, clicking her tongue loudly. At this point, I was sitting on the couch across from her, and, for some reason, the guys didn’t notice this weird, female sign language. I didn’t particularly understand it at the time, to be fair.

Mad Season was playing- because earlier we had been talking about Mark Lanegan and Layne Staley- at a low volume.

Ana was looking like she was wanting to tell me something, and I was horribly confused. When she whispered something to Jack, and they disappeared into his room, I got the message. Better late than never, I guess.

Wyatt glanced at me, tossing his sunglasses onto the table. “Cigarette?”

“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

“Wanna go hang out in there?” He nodded towards a door, the door to his room, I guessed. “If you want.”

What was I supposed to say? I was drunk and high again. “Sure, yeah.”