Chapter 5 Disco Penn
Disco Penn
The roller-rink restaurant of my tween dreams sits in what I remember as a nondescript brick building a couple blocks from downtown Lakeville.
A massive mirror ball spins on top of the turquoise Disco Diner sign, which looks straight out of the seventies, with pink letters in a retro font.
Beneath it, a marquee reads: Rollin’ with the Homies.
I laugh, confident that was Bridget’s idea.
Earlier, she told me this building went up for sale a few years ago when the previous tenant, a hardware store, went into foreclosure.
At the time, I still lived in San Francisco, working as a recruiter—a job I’ve never even considered—but when I came home for the Fourth of July, I spotted the space and decided to move home so I could give my old dream a shot.
Bridget helped with my fundraising efforts, and thanks to some door-to-door soliciting starring Ryan on roller skates, we found an enthusiastic benefactor in Mac Davis, another Lakeville High alum.
Both here and in reality, Mac is a pilot turned influencer who goes by Skydaddy, and he must have income to spare. Or a deep passion for roller-skating.
Absurd. All of it. And yet, Bridget relayed the information with a straight face. Here, she’s used to seeing me take wild leaps and risk the consequences. But that’s not me. I’m not impulsive in reality, and I’m certainly not taking random chances in the game that could decide my fate, either.
That’s why I’m here. Armed with stubborn determination and a glitter-covered notebook I nabbed from the mansion, I’m on a mission to figure out the rules of this game world and a way out that has nothing to do with Penn Hayes.
I take a deep breath, push open the double doors, and freeze, taken aback.
The Disco Diner stretches as wide as half a football field, bright and shiny, with bubblegum-pink walls and an arched metallic ceiling covered in rows of color-changing lightbulbs.
In the center of the room, above the oval skating rink, six disco balls hang in a straight line.
The snack bar’s purple sign gleams in the far corner, and glowing white tables with light-up edges dot the checkerboard floor.
To my right, skates are stacked along floor-to-ceiling shelves behind a glossy pink desk, and a neon wall sign reads: Let the Good Times Roll.
It’s all very low-key.
I press my hands to my ears, trying to drown out a Mandy Moore song that’s playing several decibels too loud. I can appreciate the nostalgic vibes, but it’s overwhelming—both the music and the sickly sweet smell of cotton candy, which has fully invaded my nostrils.
“Ruby!”
I turn at the jingly greeting from a roller-skating server I don’t recognize.
As she glides past carrying a tray of pizza slices, I get my first glimpse of what must be the uniform: holographic shorts, pink skates, tall white socks with rainbow stripes, and a short-sleeve button-up with a disco-ball patch on the pocket.
Everything white glows, including the server’s toothy grin as she sets her tray on a table circled by teenagers.
Theirs is the only occupied table, which can’t be a great sign. On a Sunday afternoon, this place should be mobbed, but only a few young kids skate around the rink. It’s a ghost town.
Bridget had hinted as much this afternoon. Following a wildly successful first year, the buzz of something new died down, she said, and so did the crowds.
Perhaps this is what needs my attention.
The roller-rink restaurant exists, sure, but it’s obviously flailing.
Somebody needs to step in and make changes, because there’s no way the business is turning a profit.
Lucky for MASH Ruby, who’s quite possibly managed nothing but a Tamagotchi, I’m plenty equipped to solve this problem.
Save The Disco Diner, save the world. Or something.
With notebook in hand, I walk the perimeter, casually knocking against walls to see if any of them open into another dimension.
Another server I don’t know asks whether the shipment of new skates has arrived yet, and I tell him I’ll report back.
All the while, I scope out the space, eagle-eyed, trying to find some sort of clue.
All I see are dollar signs. The electric bill alone must cost double my rent.
I’m seated at a glow-in-the-dark table, jotting down the first inklings of a plan, when I’m startled by a chuckle that sounds straight off a laugh track.
It’s Theo Ford.
Technically, there are two Theo Fords, because beneath his Disco Diner button-up, which he’s left entirely undone, Theo’s wearing a skintight T-shirt adorned by his own face. Half of his closet is probably filled with old Noah and the Weekenders merch.
“Theo!” I exclaim, and his megawatt grin expands.
I struggle with the simultaneous urge to both screech and burst out laughing. The men’s Disco Diner uniforms include flared jeans with an iridescent stripe along each side.
“Penn told me you wouldn’t be in today,” he says.
“I wasn’t feeling so hot this morning, but I’m fine.”
Theo looks left, then right, eyeing me conspicuously as he leans in and says, “You got a call this morning from Sloane at Rollerworld. I wrote down her message.” He reaches into his jeans pocket, then hands me a wadded-up pink note. “I like the way you think. Keep your enemies close, and all that.”
I nod like I know what’s up. “Thanks. We can, uh, circle back on this.”
“Sure thing, boss.” He points a thumb over his shoulder. “I need to clean up the staff room. Claire got a little too excited about the snack restock and spilled a three-pound bag of M&M’s.”
I manage a grin. “Thanks, Theo. Way to be on top of it.”
He skates off, and perhaps I should’ve waited to dismiss him, because the message may as well be written in hieroglyphics.
I make out nothing but the words checking in and email, and when I pull out my phone to investigate further, I can’t find the email app.
Surely, MASH Ruby can’t be irresponsible enough to have removed email from her phone.
Then again, she’s full of surprises. God help me.
I spin around, wondering where I might find some financial statements, only to run right into another employee. With an especially broad chest. “Sorry,” I sputter.
“You and Theo are circling back on what, now?”
It’s Penn. Who’s also on pink roller skates. And in full uniform.
I yelp.
After all that my brain has been through today, it simply cannot take in the Saturday Night Fever–dream in front of me.
Penn’s snazzy jeans are at least two sizes too small.
He can’t even get his hands into the pockets, forced to hook his thumbs through the belt loops instead.
Meanwhile, the button-up shirt stretches just as tautly across his chest, and unlike Theo, Penn isn’t wearing an undershirt. Enter: chest hair.
He looks like he’s auditioning for an off-off-Broadway production of Mamma Mia!
With his hands on his hips, he asks, “Everything alright?”
“It’s just—you. In those jeans.”
I’m too shocked to formulate a proper joke, which is tragic, because Penn’s never offered me better material.
Even in the dim light, nothing is left to the imagination.
It will have to be my first order of business: buying this man some new pants.
For his sake. For his balls’ sake. For my eyeballs’ sake. “This is a family establishment, Penn.”
“Theo insisted I wear the uniform if I plan to help out around here,” he protests.
“And I figured you might kick me out of your place if I ruffle any feathers on day one.” He throws his arms to his sides, and I’m surprised the buttons precariously holding his shirt together don’t pop off with the movement, one by one.
“So, here you go. Last uniform on the rack. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” I mean it. This singular moment almost makes getting trapped here worth it.
“Well, unspeakable wedgies aside,” Penn says, “I’ve been looking around, and I have some ideas for this place, if you’d care to hear them.”
I cross my arms, skeptical. “Why should I listen to you?”
“Because managing a rink and managing a bar aren’t so different.”
“And tell me why you’re offering to help me again?”
“Because I need—” He stops himself and shrugs. “Because I needed a place to stay, and you were my best bet.”
I grimace. “Bleak.”
“Listen, I wish it weren’t the case, either, but your brother lives inside a sad diorama, and everybody else I could ask works with me, and that’s just weird.
” He leans on the chair in front of him, looking up at me through lashes so long, it’s honestly rude.
“Plus, with your four bedrooms, I figured you have so much space, I wouldn’t be an imposition. ”
I must look doubtful, because he cracks a smile.
“Not too much of an imposition,” he corrects. “Worst-case scenario, I can just sleep on one of those foam things in the Laser Tag room.”
Note to self: Check out the basement.
“Alright. We can talk in my office,” I say, trying to take charge. Then I look around, realizing I don’t even know if I have an office.
Penn watches, waiting for me to move. I take a tentative step to my left. His eyes narrow as he toddles to the right instead, nearly tumbling to the ground. Another laugh spurts out of me.
He can’t skate for shit. And it’s a crying shame that I won’t be able to spend the rest of my life teasing Real Penn about this outfit.
Even more shameful, though, is how my attention drops to his backside as I follow him past the snack bar. Pathetic skating skills aside, Penn’s ill-fitting jeans are a problem. A very pert, round one, from which it is strangely difficult for me to look away.
My world-hopping hormones must be confused.
The back office is as stupidly extravagant as I expect at this point—all brand-new tech and glow-in-the-dark desks and more unnecessary neon lighting.