The Night Everything Slipped

I got to the Blue Light Disco with my best mate Carrot at 7.30 pm, right when they opened the doors. Way earlier than usual, but I needed to know if Katie Penn was already there with her mates Rachel and Bethany. Last time, they’d rocked up early while the rest of us loitered in the car park pretending we didn’t care who walked in first. Dom — recently imported from England and convinced he knew everything about girls because they “start earlier over there” — said arriving late made us look cool. He said that about his haircut too, which absolutely no one believed.

Walking in early felt like showing up to a test where you weren’t sure of the subject matter. But this was the final exam of adolescence, and the stakes were higher than the state BMX championships.

Inside, the rec-centre gym was already packed with balloons and a few poor rejects dancing alone in front of DJ Gavin. He had You Spin Me Round thumping so hard the floor tiles vibrated, and he kept yelling things like, “Alright kids, let’s keep it clean — and remember, soft drinks near the dance floor is a definite no-no!” I wasn’t even sure if the “baby” part was really in the song title, but the rejects didn’t care. They spun like loose helicopter blades desperate for lift-off, their Kmart sneakers squeaking like demented budgies.

Some kids lunged around doing a half-remembered version of the “robot” while others just sort of hopped in place like their co-ordination was stuck buffering. The smell of Aeroguard, Impulse vanilla body spray and hot chips wafted through the hall like a chemical cloud.

Carrot dragged me to the back wall where the lighting was dimmer — the perfect place for two boys terrified of being seen. He claimed he’d ask Rachel to dance “to support a mate,” meaning me, but only if I asked Katie first. Truth was, I was still staring at the new red, green and yellow flashing stones Gavin had taped across his DJ table. He must’ve splurged his entire Roller Rhythm pay packet on those. He kept tapping them proudly like he’d built them himself from stolen Walkman parts.

Second truth: I’d already checked the spot where Katie and her mates danced last time. Empty. My stomach dropped like a brick thrown down a well. If she didn’t show tonight, I’d wasted three days rehearsing possible conversations in front of the bathroom mirror. I even practised leaning casually against the sink, though the tap left a bruise on my back.

Carrot elbowed me. “Relax, mate. They’ll be here. Don’t sweat it.”

Too late. Sweat was the only thing my body produced naturally.

Then Carrot’s whole face lit up. “Mate — they’re here!” He grabbed my shirt and hauled me into the toilets so we could cook up a Dom-style strategy.

Dom’s strategies were legendary for being terrible but delivered with so much confidence that part of you wanted to believe him. He was the only person I’d ever met who acted like a thirteen-year-old life coach. He’d once explained that girls “can smell doubt like dogs smell fear,” which I suspected he’d stolen from a movie.

Carrot reckoned he had “experience” because he’d had sex with a girl named Samantha on holidays in Shark Bay. I didn’t say it, but I’d have loved to see him actually happy with a girl he genuinely liked. But Samantha had moved back to Adelaide, and Carrot’s mum couldn’t afford long-distance phone calls, so that romance died quietly. He still talked about it like he’d lost his wife in a tragic fishing accident.

We positioned ourselves against the far wall of the gym, trying to look casual — pretending leaning badly was a personality trait. Carrot swore Katie “definitely” looked at me and smiled. I didn’t see it, but I chose to believe him because it made my knees evaporate.

Dom materialised beside us with a Sour Cola Pop in his mouth, surveying the dance floor like a battlefield general. “Alright, boys,” he said, “tonight is about timing. You approach too early, you seem keen. Too late, and someone else swoops. You’ve got to triangulate her interest.”

He said “triangulate” like he’d invented the word.

“Dom,” I said, “have you even kissed a girl?”

He didn’t blink. “Mate, I’ve kissed three. One on the lips. Two in truth-or-dare. All count.”

Carrot nodded as if that was an impressive record.

Then Madonna’s Get Into the Groove kicked in, and the whole room slid into a frenzy of neon wristbands, tight perms and kids yelling lyrics they barely knew. Dom did a dramatic inhale.

“This… is the moment,” he whispered.

Carrot nudged me. “Right, it’s time. Go ask Katie. Go now, before the chorus!”

I stepped forward — and realised Carrot wasn’t following.

“You’re supposed to ask Rachel at the same time!” I hissed.

“Mate,” he said, suddenly serious, “the deal was I go in after you’ve made contact. Support role. I’m basically backup dancers.”

We bickered until INXS’s Burn for You came on — and something in me just snapped into bravery. It felt like Michael Hutchence himself shoved me forward. Why shouldn’t I live like every next step could be my last? Even Carrot fired up, shouting, “Go, Tommy! Burn for her, mate!”

Dom grabbed my shoulders and spun me toward the floor. “Feel the groove, lad. Trust the universe.”

So I went.

I pushed off the wall with all the swagger a terrified teenage boy could muster. At that moment, I felt like I had a real shot — like something was aligning in the cosmos. A once-in-a-Blue-Light-Disco alignment.

I felt Rachel’s eyes on me. Bethany’s too, and she’d hated me ever since I accidentally smacked her with a totem tennis ball in Year Six. She’d told everyone I “attacked” her, which was ridiculous — the ball ricocheted off the Hills Hoist before it hit her.

But Katie was looking. I swear she was. I swear she looked… hopeful. She had that shy half-smile she used when she wanted someone else to speak first.

My brain flooded with every cheesy romantic fantasy I’d ever had. Holding hands behind the equipment shed. Walking home from school and sharing a packet of Twisties. Sitting together during maths while Mrs Aldridge shouted at Chelsea for using lip gloss as highlighter.

I was only a few feet from her when my foot hit something cold and slick.

Melted ice from someone’s Coke cup.

My leg shot sideways, and I skidded like a dying pelican before crashing into a sticky brown puddle. My entire lower half slapped the ground with the force of a wet mattress.

The gym gasped. Or laughed. Hard to tell which.

Then DJ Gavin, the universe’s chosen vessel for humiliation, changed tracks.

“Alright, dancers, here’s a classic from the Divinyls — Pleasure and Pain! And remember — soft drinks on the floor is a no-no. Someone’s already learned the hard way!”

I wished I could disappear into the floor like those trap doors in magic shows.

My ankle throbbed. Pleasure and pain indeed. Mostly pain.

Kids stared. Some pointed. Others whispered with the eager delight of vultures discovering an injured animal. One kid snorted so violently he nearly swallowed a Mintie whole. A girl I barely knew said, “Omigod, is he drunk?” which was hilarious because the strongest thing I’d ever drunk was Pine-O-Cleen by accident when I was five.

I looked straight at Carrot — still leaning on the wall like he might vomit from second-hand embarrassment. He mouthed, “Are you DEAD?” which didn’t help.

A couple of Year Seven boys pretended to slip on the spill, doing exaggerated pratfalls for their mates. Someone yelled, “Do a flip!” Someone else called, “Mop boy!” and a teacher sprinted over with the industrial mop like she was charging into battle.

Pain shot up my leg and bloomed in my ankle like a small nuclear event. One of the SES volunteer chaperones — a man with a moustache so thick it looked like he’d taped a possum to his face — crouched beside me.

“You alright there, champ?”

I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway, because nothing was more humiliating than admitting hurt in front of Katie Penn.

The SES guy guided me to a plastic chair near the first aid table. Every step felt like someone was twisting my foot with pliers. Kids kept staring at me like I was a zoo exhibit that had escaped its enclosure. I could feel the stickiness of spilled Coke seeping into my socks.

At that moment, the disco lights flickered, the smoke machine coughed dramatically, and DJ Gavin — sensing a dip in morale — yelled, “Hands in the air if you’re having FUN!” which felt like a personal attack.

Carrot eventually sprinted over, wheezing.

“Mate! Mate! That was like… that was like watching a giraffe hit by a train.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“I mean… inspirationally.” He paused. “Like a heroic giraffe.”

Katie and her friends were nowhere to be seen. I felt like I’d been nailed to a billboard advertising failure.

A teacher phoned my mum, and the rest of the night was a blur of hobbling, humiliation and ambulance lights.

THE HOSPITAL — THE NEXT DAY

I woke in hospital with a broken ankle and a moon boot that made me look like Robocop’s cheap cousin. The ceiling tiles had a water stain shaped like Tasmania, and the heart monitor kept beeping like it was judging my life choices.

Carrot sat beside me with Mum, Dad and my sister, pretending he wasn’t partly responsible. He’d brought a packet of burger-ring chips “for strength” but had eaten most of them already.

Dad said, “Mate, what were you even trying to do?” which was a fair question.

Mum whispered, “Oh sweetheart,” like I’d survived a shark attack.

Then the door opened.

Katie.

And Rachel.

And even Bethany, who — shockingly — wasn’t sneering.

They’d come to check on me.

They stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed, clutching a get-well card decorated with glitter glue and bubble writing. Rachel handed me a mixed tape she’d made labelled “REC-CENTRE ANTHEMS VOL. 1” with hearts around the edges.

After some awkward hellos, Katie asked the girls to wait outside. Mum, Dad and my stepmum recognised the “teen vibe” instantly and vanished for cafeteria coffee, dragging Carrot with them.

Suddenly, it was just us.

Katie tucked her hair behind her ear. “Tommy… do you want to be my date for the next Blue Light?”

I didn’t even try to play it cool. “YES.” Too loud. Zero regrets.

She laughed — the kind of laugh that fills your chest with helium.

We “went out” for six months after that, which was a decent innings back then. We held hands at school, swapped mixtapes, kissed once during Back to the Future II (accidentally bumping teeth), and broke up politely, the way kids did before social media turned everything into a soap opera.

And even though Carrot had a million chances to ask Rachel out, he never did.

He reckons he’s “waiting for the right moment.”

Dom says it’s a terrible strategy.

Honestly? I reckon things worked out pretty well for me.

Even if my ankle still clicks when it rains.