—GREGORY ISAACS These White folks go all out for their parties. There’s a disco ball dripping blood in the center of the gymnasium ceiling, hanging from the scoreboard. Everyone’s taken their costumes to a gory edge, making me and Mickey look like virgins. I think we all watched similar movies because everyone’s either got on an Afro, a long wig or some extra-high boots. But none of these folks look as bad as we do, and I know it, because all eyes are instantly on us when we walk in the room. “Mickey,” I hear Nigel say as we enter the crowded gym. “Damn, girl, you look good,” he says, grabbing her by the waist and kissing her cheek. They look cute as a couple, but it’s too bad that—like this gym turned haunted house—it’s all an illusion. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Super Fly.” And Mickey’s right. Nigel looks damn good in his cream-colored three-piece suit and hat with the leather boots to match. “Damn, girl, you want to join my stable?” he says, sounding like the pimp he wishes he was.
