I’m wearing beat-to-shit booties and kicking around outside the Smell. There’s a loud, smoky pack of girls huddled together by the club entrance looking ratty and elfin and chic. I dig my phone from my purse and shakily dial Dakota. Straight to voicemail, of course. I flip my phone shut. Inside it’s all brick walls and cement flooring. A gazillion Langley kids hold candles and lighters. Girls with Kool-Aid-colored hair sip things encased in brown baggies. Is this what I’ve been missing? Dank rooms and cuckoo crowds? Dark Star is midway through their set, playing an instrumental version of my favorite—“Art School Sluts with Razored Haircuts.” I’m used to the scratchy acoustic version they have up on their website. Without Dakota, the song’s spoiled. I box through the swaying masses and end up near the front by the stage. This blond girl from my civics class is whispering lyrics. Julian’s up onstage pounding the shit out of a monster drum set. There’s an empty mic stand where Dakota used to be.
