The only thing I thought of when Brie said “let’s go clubbing” was how much I loved baby harp seals and how she found the one thing I wouldn’t do to win her love.
“The Premier. Everyone’s going. It’s tres chic.”
Yes, we overused the term. We were branding trailblazers.
The Premier was a nightclub that had an underage night every Sunday.Â The reason she wanted to go was because Ethan was going to be there.
Ethan was a Junior at Reno High. He drove a BMW. He wore nothing but Ralph Lauren – hell, he played water polo. He wore fucking pastels.
But he had a striking resemblance to – guess who?
Yup. George Michael. My nemesis.
I was a freshman and Brie was still in eighth grade when her psycho mom took her to tour Reno High so she could get a variance just like me and there he was, leaning on his Beemer, just like Steff in Pretty in Pink.
I think he was the only other human on the planet who really saw her. Who undressed her layers of baby fat and insecurities and saw her true beauty underneath. Not enough to actually date her, but definitely enough to lead her on for the next, oh, four years or so.
“Were you at Premier last week?” he asked her as she walked by without actually looking at her, which I know from experienceÂ is a cool technique.
She stopped, dead in her tracks. The color drained from her perfect face. Was that George Michael leaning on a Beemer?
“Yeah, you. With the brown hair.”
I already hated him.
Somehow we managed to talk Brieâ€™s mom into letting us go to Premier on a school night. The mind still boggles.
The only fact we knew about the club was that Ethan went there. He was a prep, so we assumed the other kids would look like him. After hours of wardrobe changes, Aqua Net and important lip gloss decisions, we finally deemed ourselves club worthy.
We were nothing short of an epic fail before we even got through the front door. Brieâ€™s mom decided to waitÂ for us in her car PARKED IN FRONTÂ and read a book.
We pulled open the front doors and smoke billowed out. Lame, party of two, nervously stood by the door front door to find a subculture we never even knew existed. Once we adjusted ourÂ eyes, it was obvious that no shade of lip gloss was going to save us.
EveryoneÂ was goth.
The protocol was black clothing, powdered white faces, black eyeliner, black or dark red lipstick, and smoking. Everyone smoked. At least I had that going for me.
The only color allowed was saved for hair. If it wasn’t dyed black or bleached white (not blonde, white), it was purple, blue or fire engine red. There were a few Oranges, greens and yellows (again, not blonde, Martin Gore yellow).
We werenâ€™t the only non-Goth kids.Â There were other kidsÂ that mixed in:
- SHARPâ€™s (Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice).
- Naziâ€™s (Skinheads for racial prejudice).
- Straightedge (Skinheads who were violently anti-drug).
- Rich kids with money to blow on, you guessed it, blow.
Ethan had a full head of hair. Do the math.
Nitzer Ebbâ€™s Join in the Chant came on. Iâ€™d never heard anything like it.Â It sounded nothing like Madonna or 2 LiveÂ Crew. The closest Iâ€™d come to this sound was Depeche Mode, but after The Blue Banana Incident, I no longer went over to Janâ€™s house and listened to DepecheÂ with her. Backstabbing bitch.
The longer I listened, the longer I realizedÂ Nitzer Ebb wouldâ€™ve eaten Depeche Mode for breakfast.
The song pulsated through my body. It made me want to fuck someone dirty, even though Iâ€™d yet to actually fuck someone, Iâ€™d only been fucked. I wanted to do drugs. Hard drugs. I wanted to dance. I wanted to hurt people. And myself.
I got on the dance floor and started moving to the music. I didnâ€™t care that I didn’t look like everyone else. I didnâ€™t care about the past. I didnâ€™t care.
I just didnâ€™t care which was the one thing I had been searching for all these years. The ability to NOT CARE.
I felt powerful. I pulled up my rage and showed it. I pulled up my shame and told it to fuck off. I pulled up my tiny khaki skirt because my ass was just about to make an unwelcome appearance. Not again.
I’d wasted years trying to fit in when the real way was to not fit in at all. Brieâ€™s stupid crush led me to the Holy Grail. For a second, I was almost grateful for Ethan Johnston.
Ends up there was another subculture of kid that hit the club, very rarely and usually only
- Betty (A girl who tries to fit in with the goth subculture without wearing black or listening to The Cure and smiles when she should be frowning. A poser. The most disliked person in the club.)
And this was going to be the last time I ever looked like a Betty again.