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[Begin transcript 00:00:3]
Morgan Slaughter sits in front of the camera in a dark, low-cut dress and heavy makeup for her age. She is extremely, extremely still; her attention seems to be locked on the cameraman.
GR: So what you told your father during your visit, about—about transitioning—
MS: I lied. You didn’t think I was being serious, did you? Of course I lied.
Daniel finds a parking spot for his shiny white Tesla two buildings down from Capital Rewind and swipes it into park with a flourish; swipes because apparently switching gears requires the touchscreen. The car chimes obediently and I step out onto the sidewalk, into downtown DC on a Saturday night.
Felicity and Alyssa are waiting a few feet away and doing their best not to acknowledge each other, but still have matching expressions of disgust at my ride.
The moment she sees me, Alyssa—who has opted for the femme staple of jeans and a pink crop top, plus the heart-shaped carabiner clipped to the proper belt loop to scream bottom—says, “Are we going to be able to get in?”
I don’t get a chance to reply, Obviously, or to ask if any cops have come around accusing them of breaking the under-seventeen curfew, because Felicity immediately starts chattering.
“Oh my god,” they giggle, bouncing on their heels as they pull up the plunging neckline of their sweater. The bite I left is fully visible, having settled into a nasty bruise. “Did you know you can’t tow Teslas? Like, if the wheels spin when it’s turned off or something, the car catches on fire. Isn’t that stupid?”
Daniel gets out of his car with a snort. “You can’t tow any electric vehicle. They don’t have transmissions. It’ll mess up the battery.”
Felicity blinks at him. “What’s a transmission?”
There’s a beat of silence—Felicity and Alyssa watching Daniel, clearly assessing the grown man I’ve attached myself to for the night, and Daniel watching them right back—before Daniel’s face cracks into an amused smile. “Nothing you need to worry about. Morgan, can I get some names?”
I rattle off my scripted hellos: introducing Alyssa and Felicity as an old friend and a new one, respectively, and introducing Daniel as the documentary cameraman and our ticket into Capital Rewind, thank you so very much. In return, Daniel obligingly cuts to the front of the line, shakes the bouncer’s hands, and gets us in without even a hint of a cover charge.
“You’re welcome,” Daniel crows. Thank god, because I hadn’t gotten a chance to top up my cash since bribing Leah. “My buddy’s got us bottle service on the roof. Let’s go.”
Alyssa tucks her head close to me. “Morgan,” she whispers, “how old is he?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say as we step inside. Felicity gawks, open-mouthed. Capital Rewind is crammed like sardines, all neon lights and old posters and sweaty bodies; the stairs are narrow and keep going up, and up, and up. “I thought you liked parties.”
Alyssa hesitates. “Yeah, but—”
“You’re not leaving me and Felicity alone with these guys, are you?”
Alyssa’s lips flatten into a line, but she follows anyway.
Halfway up the stairs, I get a text.
+ 1 (771) 555-XXXX
I swear to God if you fuck up Alyssa’s night, this is the last goddamn straw
Morgan
lmao who is this
I receive no response.
Capital Rewind’s roof level is an Instagram-aesthetic paradise of fake foliage, wood paneling, and a retractable ceiling open to the night sky. A large sign requests that we please refrain from doing cocaine in the bathroom, and a bodysuited cocktail waitress deftly carries bottles through the crowd. A bartender rolls her eyes at a man trying to flirt with her. A girl coming from the cramped bathroom carries her heels in her hand, calling to a gaggle of friends, “Does anyone have flats?”
Alyssa and Felicity stick close to my side; Alyssa with reservation, Felicity with cautious excitement. That’s fair. This is deeply overwhelming.
Daniel’s buddy has reserved the VIP balcony, a raised stage cordoned off with velvet ropes, though I don’t realize it’s ours until the most DC business bro I’ve ever seen rockets off a leather booth to grab Daniel in a one-armed hug with a bellow: “Danny!“ And then it’s a whole production of heavy back pats and “It’s been forevers,” leaving Felicity and Alyssa and me standing awkwardly to the side. The off-brand Swedish supermodel girlfriend lounging in the booth is similarly unimpressed by the display.
Then Daniel snatches me from my safe harbor—fully grabs me, making Alyssa yelp—and drags me forward.
“Morgan,” Daniel says, so close that the liquor smell of the club is choked out by his cologne, “this is Franco, the man who was kind enough to get us in. Franco, this is Morgan Slaughter.”
