My best friend, Claudia, was turning sixteen. I was seven months older. It was 1981.

Claudia’s parents, Europeans, were card-carrying members of Regine’s, an old-world and glamourous discotheque, predating Studio 54. Her party was going to be there.

I told my mom the news.

“What are you going to wear?” she asked. She seemed to be thinking out loud.

The next day we went to the Betsy Johnson store on 60th Street and found a one-piece jumpsuit, the black pants hitting below my knees, the red top just past my elbows.

“What about shoes?” I asked.

“I have something,” my mom said.

When the day arrived, a tan Volvo pulled up in front of my house. Claudia’s mom, Helga, was in the passenger seat. Nico, her dad, was driving. “Ciao bella,” he said. “Andiamo.” I slid into the backseat, next to Claudia.

“Betsy Johnson?” Claudia asked when I got in. She seemed to approve, and I was relieved.

Claudia’s bangs hung to her lashes, her blond hair to her shoulders.

We compared shoes as we drove. “Your mom’s?” I asked.

“Yup,” she said.

Claudia went to high school in the city, so the other kids who were invited would be meeting us at 59th and Park. I didn’t know them.

Helga fixed her short blond hair in the mirror of the visor and spritzed cologne on her neck. Then she spritzed again under her skirt and turned to us in the backseat, and the three of us laughed. Nico, a red ascot around his neck, kept his gaze on the road ahead and gave us pointers on how to behave that evening. “Don’t act silly tonight, girls,” he said. I touched my neck to make sure my necklace was in place. It was a chai on a thin gold chain, the only jewelry I wore.

Once inside the club, we were seated at a velvety banquet. There were six of us, boys and girls, along with Helga and Nico. We were the only kids there. The women wore little black dresses, hair shining, big jewels gleaming, seeming to reflect off the mirrored walls. The men wore suits and dress shoes. Everyone smoked except Helga. She was elegant.

We sipped our sodas, mangling our straws. Some people were dancing on the Lucite dancefloor. We watched, and then Bette Davis Eyes was playing, and the six of us got up to dance as a unit. After a while, some wisps of hair came loose from my French braid.

We danced some more. Eventually we were the only ones dancing, and not because we wanted to anymore. We danced, swinging our arms to Blondie’s Rapture because we had nothing else to do. I wished I could go home and slip into my bed. I looked over at Claudia’s parents, still schmoozing with some people. I thought the night would never end.

Finally we headed to the car. Claudia, tall and lanky, was walking along Park Avenue with her knees bent. She could no longer manage in high heels. Helga scolded her: “Ach, walk like a lady.” Claudia scowled as the two of us collapsed into the backseat. The Volvo transported us over the bridge to Queens as I fell asleep, my bare feet curled up beneath me. Helga woke me
when we got to my house.

“Shnookelshun, say goodbye to Leslie,” she said.

Claudia mumbled, “Bye, Les,” barely opening her eyes. I held my strappy heels and ran to the door where my dog, Fonzie, greeted me. Behind him was my mom.

“How was it?” she asked. I realized she wasn’t just making small talk. My mom had never been to Regine’s, and she wanted to know what it was like.

“Fun, but I’m so tired,” I said. I handed her the shoes she’d lent me. I knew she would pepper me with questions in the morning, and I didn’t want to forget anything.

I threw the prized Betsy Johnson on my chair and fell into my twin bed, my feet throbbing and my dog lying beside me. Images and thoughts swirled in my mind – Claudia and I giggling over nothing, being excited by a song, how much I loved Betsy Johnson, how much I loved Fonzie – and with one more squeeze of my dog I was overcome by sleep, safe in my pink room.

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Leslie Lisbona has been published in various literary journals, most recently in Wrong Turn Lit, The Bluebird Word, and Dorothy Parker’s Ashes. She was featured in the New York Times Style Section 3/24. She is the child of immigrants from Beirut, Lebanon, and grew up in Queens, NY.