Allison

Allison had a short ponytail she could tuck under a hood and wore jeans loose enough to jump straight up in the air and bring her knees almost to her chest. Her t-shirts were black or navy, threadbare at cuffs and collar, not afraid of sweat or wear, some so familiar they were pocked with small holes around the waist where her belt loops rubbed, like a cheetah's spots. She wore comfortable sneakers because she knew she would be on her feet all night. Allison saw so many more female faces in the crowd these days, and they were wearing boots and slippers.

At shows when she was just into her teens Allison rarely saw other girls. They might be holding a coat so their boyfriends could go into the pit in just a wifebeater. She stood at the back too, but she was smaller than everyone. She started exploring the edges, the pulsating corona, that swayed like a lapping shore from the churning at its' center. Allison went to more and more shows and felt more rooted, understood that she belonged there as much as anyone and recognized the altruism of the crowd as she penetrated deeper. Sometimes, dancing, her hood would slip back and the singer would see a tiny girl throwing in with all the rough boys and their reckless fists, and call her out for being tough and having the spirit. Allison would pull up her hood in an Amazonian gesture, and merge with ecstatic anonymity.

The boys had all grown their hair long and the girls had all cut theirs off. The aspiration seemed to be drug smoking lumberjacks in plaid with messy beards, or smoke eyed French pixies. Everyone had an outfit and an iphone. It was a long way from the spare utility of shaved heads and hooded sweatshirts. Allison thought "Oh well," as the house lights went down and all eyes turned to the stage, "Oh well, they're here anyway." She wrapped the mic cord tightly around her hand, tapped it to her chest with three quick thumps in time with the drums that thundered to life, jumped straight up into the air and touched her knees to her chest.