Wayne Keegan’s barn wasn’t really a barn at all. It was a tottering sharecropper’s shack in the middle of an unused field full of blackberry brambles. A Coleman lantern hissed in an open window. The shadows of two heads fluttered on the weeds beneath it like a couple of bulb-drunk moths. But from the sound of the voices, there had to be at least two or three more people inside. Dani and me paused at the edge of the long rectangle of light from the window. Blaring hip-hop made the clapboards buzz and shake. In the space between songs, there was a gunshot sound. The two of us jumped. Wayne Keegan said something stupid. A girl cackled. A new song came on. The Shins.
“ ‘Caring Is Creepy,’ ” Dani whispered, smiling for the first time since we’d been hijacked by H.K. and squeezing my arm. “That’s an omen.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking, the song fit us to a T this summer. We weren’t building anything, like the song said, we were just chucking around bricks. It worried me some that Dani had made this our anthem. I’m not sure I understood all the lyrics, but I didn’t like to think we were dying over and over like the person the song’s addressed to, but maybe we were. I wondered if tonight was another one of those times. Dani had taken the title for a motto. She wouldn’t care until it killed her.
“Jesus,” Wayne shouted, “will someone please shitcan the fag soundtrack!”
We exchanged grimaces. Before I could suggest we turn around and go home, Eminem started yelling something angry. Inside, the boys let out several loud whoops of approval. Dani took four steps forward and then stopped and glanced back at me. She looked like she’d just learned the truth about the Easter Bunny. I couldn’t help but follow her.
