one
Paisley Anton
For the record, I’m not a mosh-pit girl.
My glasses easily slide up when I adjust them—again—as the bridge of my nose is slick with perspiration. My pores are leaking like a sieve. I’m dead center in the middle of a mosh-pit brawl, and I’m sucking air as I leap the highest my petite little legs will shoot me.
I was told this was a charity sports gala—but this is clearly not what I had envisioned. I had thought of a relaxing Friday evening with classical music. Not this event. This is a high-cardio concert with a live rock band. All I can say is I’m glad I opted for my trusty combat boots with my dress.
While we are getting things on record, I will say I’m not a dress girl either. The dress is the same garment I wore to my great aunt’s funeral last month. It’s black—the hue of rebellion I always wear—and void of any embarrassing ruffles or form-fitting stitches.
I had left my hair down in long waves until I got so sweaty that I forced it into a messy bun by haphazardly shoving a pencil through the top of a twist in aJurassic-period-style bone hairclip.
It’s clear I’m not here toenjoythis mosh pit.
I don’t mosh pit, and I definitely don’t dance.
I’m the invisible girl behind the camera, who is on an undercover assignment.
Now I’m jumping for my life.
Elbows fly at me from every direction, and I tuck my camera protectively in my armpit like a football. It’s the magazine’s new Canon, and I don’t have enough for even a down payment to replace it. I cut my gaze to the left, pining for an exit.
These people are giants, creating a canopy of arms and hands boxing me in. It feels like one hundred and eighty degrees here, and all the brutes are hogging the oxygen. I cut my gaze the other way, hoping I can duck out of this pit. My chest constricts as panic seeps into me.
I’m surrounded.
“Excuse me!” I yell at the couple in front of me with the assertive tone of the strong woman I am. It’s a guy I don’t recognize standing behind a girl. They are jumping in unison, and I’m not surprised they don’t hear me. I don’t know how anyone can hear when we are about three feet from the massive speakers.
My breath grows shallow as the air gets weaker down here.
I need to get out!
I inhale deeply and step forward until I’m butting up against a woman. Before I can explain that I’m only trying to maneuver around her, some massive person moshes into my back, knocking me down, my glasses flying off my face and out of reach.
You’d think the immediate circle of people around me would scatter, but they don’t notice as they continue to mosh, trapping me down. I weave my hand around sets of ankles, grappling for my glasses, but people keep shuffling, and I’m blocked. Sweat pours off my forehead. I crawl forward, barely missing my glasses as someone nonchalantly kicks them out of reachagain.
This was a terrible idea.
I pant, inhaling a deep breath, and stretch my arm in aim for my blacked-framed glasses once again, but this time a big shoe finds my palm and stomps down on it like it’s a landing pad. I cry out in pain, waiting for the crunch of my fingers, but by some miracle, none of them break.My sobs fall on deaf ears, drowned out by the ear-splitting music. Desperation sets in and I try to stand, but I get shoved back down by the waves of people pushing forward. I open my mouth to scream for help when a set of strong arms wrap around my waist and tug me up. At first I freeze, bracing for impact again. I’m thinking it’s another blow.
“Guys, get out of the way!” a mysterious deep voice hollers. “There’s a girl on the floor.”
It's as if the mysterious-voice guy knows the magic words, commanding instant respect, and the crowd parts. He drapes my arm over his shoulder and props me up, yelling in my ear, “Lean on me, and I’ll get you out of here.”
My breathless body flops forward, fully allowing my rescuer to drag me out of there. The crowd behind us quickly closes the gap as if I was never there.
The invisible girl behind the camera.
The one who captures all the moments but is neverinthem.
How fitting that they don’t even notice when I leave.
We burst through the ballroom’s double doors, with me still hanging onto this guy’s neck like one of those ragdoll doorknob hangers. My hero looks at me with warm auburn eyes.
Eyes I’d know anywhere.
I’ve shot them many times.
