Free Air by Lisa Glass

real-feather wings, like a Victoria’s Secret model, which, it occurred to me afterward, she probably was. Basically, there were boobs and bums everywhere.
    Zeke looked amused by this, but I turned to Chase and said, “Pajama party? Really?”
    “Yeah, maybe I had that wrong. It kinda looks more like a lingerie party.”
    I undid the buttons of my overshirt and knotted the ends over my navel.
    “You know you could just take that off, if you’re uncomfortable,” Zeke said.
    “Yeah, no.”
    Chase and Zeke went off to engage the DJ in mysterious chat of some sort, and a curvy older woman in a long nightgown and feather wrap, who it transpired was Chase’s mum, came up to me and said, “Nice shirt.”
    “Thanks,” I said, touching the knot over my stomach and wondering if I should have in fact ditched the shirt, and just gone with the shorts and vest, which would at least go a little way toward blending into the scantily clad crowd. “Nice boa.”
    She shimmied it over her shoulders and said, “Oh, this old thang? Here, you can borrow it, as you like it so much.”
    She handed me her boa of golden feathers and I wound it a few times around my neck, like an actual constrictor, and then immediately loosened it, as the feathers tickled my nose.
    “You came with Chase?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You’re his girlfriend?”
    “Zeke’s.” After six months of travel I was well and truly fed up of having to define myself by whose girlfriend I was, but I didn’t want to seem rude.
    “Really? I never knew Zeke to have a girlfriend before. Truth is, I always wondered if he was gay, although it turns out that was his brother!” She followed this with a little laugh, that made me feel uncomfortable. “Oops. I hope I haven’t just outted someone!” she said, and laughed again.
    “Not at all. I know Wes really well, and his boyfriend Elijah too. They’re awesome.”
    “What’s your name, hon?”
    “Iris. Nice to meet you. Thanks for inviting me.”
    She smiled at this, and I realized that she hadn’t invited me. Chase had. She hadn’t even known I was coming.
    “Veronica. Enjoy the party,” she said. “Oh, did you make your donation to the charity yet?”
    “Zeke has the check in his wallet.”
    “Well, don’t forget. That’s why we’re here. It’s not just an excuse to wear pretty nightshirts in public, you know,” she said.
    “What is the charity? Chase said it was something to do with depression?”
    “Teenxiety. Our target for tonight is thirty thousand dollars. Here’s hoping.”
    It was an ungracious thought, and I knew it, but once again it occurred to me that maybe this fundraiser wasn’t the best way of getting money to the charity, given that the sound equipment, cocktails and buffet probably cost more than that. But who was I to criticize people raising money for charity?
    “Go dance. Be merry.”
    And talking of dancing, Zeke already was.
    It was no secret that Zeke liked to dance. He made out that he didn’t, but all it took was one beer and he’d start throwing shapes. Two beers in and he busted out the big moves, but I liked that he didn’t give a toss what anyone thought of him and just went for it.
    He spotted me hanging around by some empty chairs, danced over and grabbed my hands.
    “I just need a bit more Dutch courage first . . .”
    “No, you don’t. Get over here.”
    As we danced to Katy Perry I tried to imagine how it must feel to be Zeke, self-confident and free enough to do the twist in public without his head providing a running critique on how he must look to anyone watching.
    Three whiskies in and Zeke got up on stage with the DJ and did a karaoke rendition of “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.”
    Listening to him belt it out, I could see that the song actually meant something to him. He even did the whistle part at the end, although he stopped halfway through to laugh and he couldn’t recover.
    “Nice one, Zeke. I loved that.”
    “Yeah, it’s kinda my