This Song Will Save Your Life

Tonight I had Start in the palm of my hand. They loved me, and I loved me, too.

When Char came to relieve me some time later, I said, “I can keep going. I don’t mind.”

“I can see that,” he said, snaking his arm around me to reach his computer. “But why don’t you let me have a turn, too? Just because Start is technically my night and all.”

Reluctantly I transitioned over to him, then hopped down from the booth.

“Oh my God,” Vicky said when I reached her on the dance floor. “Do you believe me now? That you’re Glendale’s hottest DJ?”

I had to cover my mouth, I was smiling so wide. “I believe you now.”

Vicky was standing with two guys. One of them had enough facial hair that I could have knit a scarf out of it. He was wearing a white T-shirt on which he had written in Sharpie, I Shop at the Gap. I couldn’t tell if this was supposed to be ironic or the opposite of ironic. The other guy looked a little younger, a little heavier, and a lot less bearded.

“These are the Dirty Curtains,” Vicky said. “This is Elise. Guys, am I wrong, or is Elise twice the DJ that Char is?”

“Oh, no,” I quickly said. “Char’s awesome!”

“I thought you were awesome,” the younger guy said. “When you played that Buzzcocks song? That was insane! Did you see how much everyone was dancing? How did you even think to play that song?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m the DJ, I guess.”

“You were killing it up there,” he went on. “Right, Dave?”

The beard guy nodded. “Killing it.”

The younger guy turned back to me. “I loved it,” he said earnestly.

“Aw, who’s a little fangirl?” Vicky sang.

He blushed a little. “Shut up, Vicky.” To me, he said, “I have this terrible habit of saying exactly what’s on my mind at any point in time. Right now, what’s on my mind is—how cool is it that we’re hanging out with the DJ?”

“Char’s the DJ,” I said. “I’m, like … the guest.”

“I’m Harry.” He shook my hand. “And you’re great.”

“Oh, right,” Vicky said. “How could I forget the formal introductions. This is Dave, and he’s on guitar.” She pointed to the guy with the beard.

“Yo.” He jutted his chin upward.

“This is Harry.” Here she pointed to the chatty guy. “He’s on drums. His name is Harry because of his eyebrows. You know. They’re hairy.”

“And her name is Vicks because she smells like Vicks VapoRub all the time,” Harry immediately responded.

Vicky stuck a hand on her hip. “His name is Harry because when he came out of the womb, he was so terrifyingly ugly that Mom shouted, ‘Scary!’ But she was crying so hard about how ugly her baby was that the doctor thought she said ‘Harry,’ instead.”

“Her name is Victoria because she’s like Queen Victoria,” Harry began. “You know. A virgin.”

“First of all,” Vicky said. “Queen Victoria wasn’t the Virgin Queen. That was Queen Elizabeth. Second of all, are you actually talking about my sex life? Ew. Do you want me to throw up that entire sixteen-ounce milkshake all over you?”

“Let me guess,” I broke in. “You’re brother and sister.”

Harry and Vicky both blinked at me, like they’d forgotten they had an audience. “It’s that obvious?” Harry asked.

Dave snorted.

“Okay, but here’s the real question,” Harry said. “Who’s older?” He and Vicky both posed.

“Vicky is,” I said without hesitation.

Harry let his arms fall to his sides. “Drat. You know all our secrets.”

“Harry’s sixteen months younger,” Vicky added. “He’s still in high school.”

“Our mom liked to get pregnant a lot,” Harry said.

“Ew again!” Vicky shouted.

“Everything that’s on my mind,” Harry said to me. “I’m telling you. It’s a curse.”

“He usually isn’t allowed to come to Start,” Vicky explained to me. “You know, because it’s a weeknight, and Mom and Dad say he has to go to school in the morning and all that.” She put on a high baby voice and pinched Harry’s cheeks. “Don’t you, my itty-bitty baby bwother?”

He jabbed her in the stomach, and she let go of his cheeks.

“So why are you here tonight?” I asked.

“Teacher training day tomorrow,” Harry replied. “Thank God.”

I had school the next day, so Harry obviously didn’t go to Glendale High.

“I’m at Roosevelt,” he said, before I asked.

“Oh, yeah. They’re our rivals, I hear. In football.”

“Boo,” Harry said.

“Yeah. Boo back at you.”

“Sorry to break up this pep squad interaction,” Vicky said, “but can we please dance? So we’re not listening to Robyn for nothing?”

So we danced. Sort of. Mostly I hopped from foot to foot, and sang along, and flailed my arms a little.

“How do you do it?” I shouted at Vicky.

“Do what?” she asked, shimmying her shoulders a minuscule amount and somehow making every guy in the room look over at her.

“Dance!” I said.

“Oh.” She laughed. “First, stand up straight.”

“I am.”

“No, babe. You’re not.” She pulled my shoulders back and tipped my chin up, like I was a rag doll. Harry seemed to be trying not to laugh as he looked on. “Now,” Vicky went on, “repeat after me.”

“I don’t want to repeat after you,” I said.

“Only people who repeat after me will learn how to dance like me,” Vicky a

“I’ll repeat after you,” Harry volunteered.

“Thank you, Harry. Elise, feel free to join in. Repeat after me: I deserve to be here.”

“I deserve to be here!” Harry and Dave declared, and I mumbled along with them.

“No one can take my dance space away from me,” Vicky intoned, and the three of us repeated her words.

“And finally: I don’t care if anyone thinks I look stupid.”

“But I do look stupid,” I pointed out, as Harry yelled out his affirmations.

“So do I,” Vicky said. “But I don’t care.”

Then Vicky walked us through some of her tricks for preserving her dance space. “If someone comes up behind you, you elbow them.” She demonstrated. “It looks just like a dance move, but no one likes an elbow in their kidney. Or you jump up and land right on their foot.”

We all practiced jumping up and down.

“Basically, just throw your arms around a bunch and take big steps, so everyone knows which part of the dance floor belongs to you. People are not going to make room for you. You have to make room for yourself.”

A random guy approached Vicky, but she didn’t even elbow him or step on him. She just ignored him and kept dancing. After a moment, he moved away.

“I’ve kissed way too many boys at Start already,” Vicky confided to me, sounding world-weary. “I’m over them. They’re all in bands.”

“But you’re in a band,” I pointed out.

“Exactly. So why would I need them?”

Harry grabbed my hand and twirled me around. I laughed, and he twirled me again, looking very pleased with himself.

Char was a great dancer, but Harry wasn’t. He seemed at a loss for moves, and after standing still for a moment, he just twirled me around once more. This time, I caught Char’s eye as I spun. He made a come here motion with his fingers.

Harry opened his mouth, as if to say something to me, but before he had the chance I said, “One second, okay?” I dropped Harry’s hand and made my way to the DJ booth.

“Is everything okay?” I asked Char when I reached him. “Do you want me to take over for a while?”

“Everything’s fine. I just thought you could use some rescuing.”

I looked back across the room. Harry had returned to dancing with Dave and Vicky. “I was doing okay,” I said to Char. “But thanks.”

“Do you want to stay up here?” Char asked. “We can go one-to-one until the night’s over. It’s quieting down.”

I slid in next to him. “Sounds great.”

Char and I alternated songs for the next half hour or so. I played some oldies; the Contours, James Brown, stuff like that. That was my dad’s favorite sort of music to play, and I wondered how he had spent a Thursday night at home without me. Char was playing more eighties: Prince, Edwyn Collins, Transvision Vamp. He put on New Order’s “Temptation,” and we both took off our headphones and relaxed for a moment, leaning against the booth’s railings. “Temptation” is a long song.