A 100-inch television screens music videos, accompanied by a sound system so powerful that McCall can feel the base through his chair-bottom. That is should he ever decide to sit down. Whirring laser lights, spinning disco balls and a belching fog machine allow for a hazy view of the floor. A curtained-off area has pool and air hockey tables, glowing ghostly from black light. Outside, in a patio accented by stone fountains, a second DJ pumps reggaeton, a hot new mixture of Latin and hip-hop and dancehall. The nearby snack bar offers free popcorn.

All that's missing is the crowd.

This is the quandary that Club Gait, St. Petersburg, Fla,'s new Friday night teenage dance club finds itself in: How does a club, located in the Gateway Christian Center, attract teenagers, who complain there's nothing to do on weekends, and yet convince parents it will be safe?

Previous attempts at local teen clubs have been scuttled by violence. With nowhere else to go, St. Petersburg teens have been hanging out at BayWalk, the outdoor mall downtown. But a rolling street melee involving 1,500 teens in January 2005 prompted a search for safer options.

Club Gait, which opened seven weeks ago, is a direct response to that skirmish.

"If you give kids a piece of chewing gum, it's a lot more effective than just telling them not to put a cigarette in their mouths," says Maurice "Mr. Moe" Evans, 32, a concert promoter and one of the club's founders.

Club Gait promises no alcohol, no drugs, no fights and no gangs. No one over 18 is allowed.

Beyond those restrictions, it looks like a club, feels like a club and, with Evans, who also owns a record label, is run like a club. He has adorned the club's fliers with graffiti-style writing, hard-looking boys, sexy-looking girls and radio station sponsorship from Wild 98.7. The club's Web site promises the "Livest Teen Party in All of Central Florida." One could argue that even the metal detectors and security presence add to the decor.

But before McCall arrives, a half hour after the club opens at 9 p.m. on a recent Friday, the only one to have performed any dance moves is a blue-shirted, balding, 40-ish security guard, whose arms do an awkward, off-beat shimmy. No wonder McCall scurries to play air hockey.

Over the next hour, a few other teens filter in. Jhori Church and his friend Carey Long, both 17, make their entrance at 10 p.m., presenting their wrists for white "Club Gait" bands. Soon they stand posted up against the air hockey table.

Church, his silver grill gleaming in the light, came to the club to unwind from his job at KFC on 34th Street. He works 15 to 35 hours depending on the week and spends the rest of his time working toward his GED and his rap album, which he says is almost finished. He heard about the club on the radio and through MySpace.com. If he wasn't at Club Gait, he says he'd be driving aimlessly, hanging at BayWalk or "chilling with my lady."

He says the club is cool, but needs more people to give it some energy. Just 30 teenagers show up the entire night.

Long came along with Church tonight, hoping there'd be plenty of girls. He is disappointed.

"There ain't no females in here," Long says around the wooden toothpick protruding from his mouth.

So where is everyone?

Maybe the kids are at BayWalk, which features a movie theater, restaurants and open spaces. Maybe they're at home in front of TVs, Xboxes and PlayStations, blinking through instant messages and trolling around MySpace. Maybe they're driving the streets of Childs Park and United Central. Maybe they're still young enough to enjoy Chuck E. Cheese's, a place one club-goer was headed the following Sunday night.

Or maybe they're hanging at hot spots on the street, like outside the Citgo station on 34th Street and 5th Avenue South. That's what one mother fears.

"It's just gas and gunshots there," says Sandra Nugent, 36, later. She's the mother of Cordelia Matthews, 14, and the older sister of Cynthia Nugent, 15. Both girls are so taken with Club Gait that they joined its "G-Team." The "G-Team" works through informal teen networks to spread the word about the club. Matthews, Nugent and their friend Vanessa Kennedy, 14, suggested an aggressive MySpace campaign to Evans last week. They helped increase the club's "friends" on the site from 40 to over 1,500.

"We like the music and that this gives us something to do," Kennedy says while taking a break from dancing. "We really want to have someplace like this."

McCall was introduced to the club by Nugent. Now that he's here, he takes full advantage. He works the air hockey table, his gold dog tags sliding back and forth on his chest. He bends his wrists doing the "motorcycle" dance � the vroom-vroom motion popularized by Atlanta rapper Yung Joc. His uses his cell phone, like everyone else, to talk, to text message and to accessorize. When he leaves he carries a brown bag filled with popcorn. McCall is an honor roll student and athlete at Northeast High, and works as a cashier and bagger at Publix Supermarket. But here he seems to be in his element.

Here, he says, he can "act the fool."

"Anyplace that has music where I can dance, I'm going to dance," he says later. "If they're playing music, I got to dance to it."

While McCall struts his stuff, Church and Long slump in chairs on the sidelines, looking like they are in fifth period Algebra II class. They get up to buy Sunkist orange sodas, then return to their seats. Church folds his hands in his lap and Long checks his cell phone.

Church says he would need more for the club to be enticed to dance.

"Why was I going to stand up?" he says a few days later, getting inked with his fourth tattoo. This one is on his chest, and reads: "Live life."

"There weren't many people there," Church says. "It was just bland."

Teens continue to find their way to Club Gait, but always in a trickle of twos or threes or fours � never in the rush of a crowd. Most are black and come from nearby neighborhoods. The standard uniform for the girls is a tight skirt and tight T-shirt. Most of the boys sling their jean shorts so low they almost scrape the laces of their high-tops when they walk. Some wear chains attached to cards that memorialize Forbes "P-nut" Swisher, a neighborhood 18-year-old shot and killed last month.

A group of three kids enters around 11 p.m. Those already there beckon the newcomers to the doors of the main room. Laughter erupts when the arrivals see the near-empty hall. When McCall and his posse aren't dancing, unused space fills the room. The laser lights don't reflect off bodies, they just beam to the floor. The fog machine doesn't cloak people in mist, it just clouds the blankness.

Ten minutes before the lights go on at midnight, Kirk Franklin's "Looking for You" plays on the stereo. It draws the 20 or so remaining teens to the dance floor. It's a gospel song, but one that's crossed over enough to make the Billboard singles chart. A circle forms and Kennedy, Matthews, Nugent and McCall move to the music.

Church and Long haven't done more than a one-two step all night. Now they rise from their seats and shamble over to the circle's edge. For the rest of the song, they stand there, arms folded, sizing up the scene.

Only time will tell if Church, Long and others like them will join the dance at Club Gait.

Interested in more? Click here to see the related multimedia project, "Teen party," or click here to see the related story, "'A place to call their own.'"