Foxy Valentine's Arc

Chapter 1 of 9

Foxy Valentine stood in front of the empty warehouse and knew this was the room where every outcast in Funkytown would finally dance. She could see it already. A dance floor where the shy kids and the loners and the misfits all belonged. But right now she saw only cracked windows, a padlocked door, and a For Sale sign swinging in the wind. Her disco lived in her head. It had no walls. She had saved for two years. She counted the roll of bills in her red pocket one more time. Enough for the down payment, if the owner honored his word. She had shaken his hand last week. He promised to hold the building for her. A long purple car pulled up to the curb. Foxy's stomach dropped before the door even opened. Only one man in Funkytown owned a car that loud. Bad Mamma Jamma stepped out. He tapped his gold cane on the sidewalk, slow, like he had all the time in the world. Black sunglasses. Purple suit. A hat so wide it threw a shadow over her boots. He had run half the clubs in this town, and he had run out on Foxy three years back. Seeing him still stung. "Foxy Valentine," he said. He smiled without warmth. "You always did chase the wrong dream." "This one's mine," Foxy said. "The owner already promised me." Bad Mamma Jamma pulled a folded paper from his jacket. He held it up so she could read the top line. A deed. His name was already on it. "Promises are cheap," he said. "I paid cash this morning. Full price. Twice what you got in that little pocket." He tapped the padlock with his cane. "This building belongs to me now. Gonna make it a private room. Members only. No misfits allowed." Foxy's hands shook. Not from fear. From rage. She stepped close enough to smell his cologne. "You don't even want it," she said. "You just want me not to have it." He shrugged. "Same thing, baby." He turned back toward his car. Foxy looked at the swinging sign. Then she looked at the man walking away with her whole future in his coat pocket. She could beg. She could cry. Instead she thought about every kid who had nowhere to go on a Saturday night. "Fine," she called after him. "Keep your ugly building." He stopped. He hadn't expected that. "There's only one thing that makes a disco a disco," Foxy said. "And it ain't the walls." She smiled now. "It's the funky disco ball. And that, Mamma Jamma, is coming home with me." His smile finally cracked. He knew exactly what she meant. He climbed into his car and slammed the door. Foxy had lost the building. But she knew where the disco ball was hidden. And now, so did he.