Dancing Girls 
September, 2020 
Once the glitter is on, it is game over. My whole room is tinted pink. I had plugged in the party lights and their aggressive color and sultry associations puts me and my girls in the exactly right state of mind. “Vodka shot in a mason jar” — our playlist made for these hours — playing 2010 pop music.  Let’s have some fun, this beat is sick. My 50 dollar bluetooth speaker sounds like the bass might just blow. It’s begging me to take it easy. But my girlfriends and I aren’t slowing down—It’s Friday night, my dears. It’s a whole new game. A new design. Platform boots, silky lingerie, braless breasts, high-wasted jeans and green eyeshadow. Colorful clips and beaded chokers. Pretending that we are in a New York loft when we are in a dorm room in Rhode Island. But hush, do not mention that to my girls. Don’t even dare ruin what we have carefully orchestrated. We are superstars, sex icons, goth babes. I know it, they know it. In this room it has been decided that we are the most powerful women on earth.


The whole house is shaking because of room 21. Lady Gaga on crappy speakers vibrates through the floors and bounces around the walls.  Five 20-year-old princesses jump to the beat, arms caressing, bodies swaying, singing and moving and flying and floating. Avery and her girls are back at it again. It is Friday night. Larned club is in full swing, and every girl in there is a VIP. Each voice shouts over another, who out-shouts another, who out-shouts the music. Sound leaks through the cracks of the door, sharing the drunken voices with the hallway outside. Just hours earlier, the same voices were clogged with tears and insecurities, but it would be impossible to tell. And that is by design. Larned club doesn’t allow party-poopers, shit-talkers, self-deprecators, or trauma-dwellers. Larned club is to dance the pain away. And so, the girls dance.