7

Tess Baron’s party snuck up on Fiona, a testament to how little Fiona cared about being in the popularity loop. She felt overwhelmed, partly by getting ready for the kind of party where you had to consider anything other than what band’s T-shirt you were going to wear, but mostly by straight-up sexual frustration. Horace had taken her exposure comment to heart, and with him holed up in his room perfecting his set every night, she was left with nothing more than suggestive texts. Betty helped her vent the sighs and snarls, but just barely.

Finally, Friday night arrived, and she spent the evening getting her doll face on—her ripped skinny jeans, her heaviest eyeshadow, her pointed black boots, and hell, black lipstick and a faded Twisted Sister T-shirt. Let them gawk in private; just because this was a jock/hipster party didn’t mean she was going to sell out.

She groaned at herself in the mirror. A jock/hipster party. She would do her best not to vomit all over the first girl she saw in an ironic Ramones shirt.

As she pulled Horace’s hoodie on in the front hallway, her father came out of the living room and caught her. “You heading off to play the Hammersmith in that outfit?”

Despite herself, Fiona raised her eyebrows and laughed. “Solid reference!”

“You forget I lived through the eighties,” he said. “Remember that you got your love of Van Halen from me.”

“You always seemed like more of a Culture Club type to me,” she said.

“Oh, you’re killing me!” Her dad jabbed an imaginary knife in his chest and made a pained look, and Fiona giggled. When the laugh died down, they were left silent, nodding and staring anywhere but at each other. Fiona bristled at these moments of dead air that always came after they’d had a good talk, reminders that once upon a time it had been chummy and sweet between them, that they were so much alike. That he wasn’t just the man she’d watched kick the shit out of an innocent boy.

Outside, Keller honked.

“Bye, Dad,” she said.

He almost went for the hug, but then looked away and formed a tight smile. “Have fun, kiddo. Back by curfew.”

During the ride over, they listened to Queens of the Stone Age and cracked jokes about who would be on the most coke by the time they got there. Keller took the main roads through the richer developments of Hamm until they finally reached the Barons’ house. The place was huge, the kind of house owned by a family who were happy to feel like big fish in a small pond but too self-centered to join the town council (Fiona’s dad had urged Dave Baron to get onboard over and over, but the man obviously didn’t want to give up his Saturday afternoon tee time to help out poor people).

Fiona eyed the McMansion with contempt. Her father ran the town council and they lived in a normal house, but he had spent his life chasing out ravers and beating up DJs to “save” Hamm for these people? Gross.

Only a half hour after the evite said the party started, and the lawn was a veritable mosh pit, with groups of howling teens barreling toward the lit-up house from which emanated a thick, steady beat. Fiona, Rita, and Keller weaved between the small circles of Solo-cup-clutching meatheads and bitching prepsters that dotted the lawn, Keller scowling in disgust and Rita clucking and laughing at some of the fashion choices.

They were almost through the front door when a huge hand clapped onto Keller’s chest. Horace’s friend Vince, aka Swordfish, blocked the door, a blank expression on his golem’s face. Guffawing next to Horace, the guy always seemed like just another snickering pothead, but this close, Fiona realized how tall and broad-chested he was.

“And you guys are?” he asked.

“I’m Keller. Horace’s friend?” said Keller, sounding more than a little offended. “We’ve met before. Swordfish, right?”

The boy remained stone-faced as he looked over his shoulder and barked, “Yo, Tess!”

Tess Baron appeared, dressed in what Fiona would describe as Brooklyn Trust Fund (dear God, the girl’s shawl budget must be out of control). She continued typing on her phone in silence for a few minutes before finally looking up and scanning the crew with her perpetually bored gaze. Her eyes settled on Fiona, and after a squint, she nodded.

“…Fiona, right?”

“Yeah, hi, Tess,” said Fiona, waving. “Horace’s girlfriend.”

“Riiight, right right,” she said, going back to her phone. “It’s cool, Vince, they’re fine.”

Fiona broke out in a sneer—way to hire your classmate to bounce your high school house party, Baron—but she quickly replaced it with a smile. “Thanks, Tess.”

“No problem,” mumbled Tess, immersed in her phone. “You guys should head out back. He’s spinning right now.”

“What?” asked Fiona, shocked. According to his last text, Horace’s set wasn’t supposed to kick off until mid-party. Swordfish removed his paw from Keller, and Fiona pushed past her friends, surging through one opulent room after another until she reached the backyard.

The front lawn was just the beginning—the deck out back was a seething mass of athletic dudes, stick-thin fashionistas, and wily indie rockers huddling around Beirut tables and bobbing their heads in the cool night air. The crowd was definitely not what Fiona was used to—no council kids except for Caroline, whose tipsy laugh could be heard from somewhere among the throng. The occasional reedy, black- clad artist or faux-rockabilly chick from the city lounged in a plastic lawn chair, obvious imports for a party being thrown by Tess, whose edgy outside-of-school relationships were the stuff of Hamm High legend.

Off to one side, next to the covered pool, Horace leaned over a pair of turntables, lit from below by the rope lights that outlined his equipment. Fiona flinched when she saw the look of frustration on his face.

Rita appeared next to her, followed her gaze, and mumbled, “Shit” before punching a fist in the air and shouting, “All right, Horace!” One or two Solo cups raised in salute, but not enough. Fiona ran her hands through her hair and swung her hips in front of Horace, in the hopes of reviving his spirits, but it was no use, she was the only one dancing. He was just spinning way too early—everyone was still getting drunk, building up energy, waiting for their friends to arrive. He was background music.

After a few minutes, Tess came up beside him and whispered in his ear. Horace nodded, heaved a sigh, and began packing up his records.

Fiona’s heart sank. This party was supposed to get him noticed. That was the only reason he’d taken the gig. But he’d died up there.

…

She waited while he and Keller disappeared to load Horace’s wax into the car, but somehow missed him on the way back. She tried to lose herself in Rita’s outfit-bashing—“Look at that one. Honey, your mother needs to have a talk with you about a lot of things.”—but all she could do was picture Horace’s dejected face, over and over.

She heard his voice coming from the kitchen a few minutes later and found him at a counter with Keller. They both tossed back shots of tequila alongside one of Tess’s creepy older friends, a stubbled guy in ultra-tight jeans and a salmon-pink shirt.

Fiona came up behind Horace and draped her arms over his shoulders. “Ask me what I was listening to.”

He turned to face her, and already she could see the booze unhinging his brain in his half-closed eyes and faint swaying. “Okay, what were you listening to?”

“An awesome set by my amazing boyfriend,” she said and kissed him. The flavors of lime, salt, and liquor filled her mouth.

Horace broke off the kiss and shrugged. “Thanks,” he said. “Nice of you to say, anyway.”

“Aw, Horace, it was fantastic,” she said. She moved to kiss him again, but he raised a beery Solo cup to his lips. It burned her to feel him forcing distance between them. She didn’t want him to dwell on it. “Come with me, okay?”

She took his hand and led him away to the ridiculous hoots of Keller and Tess’s city friend, Horace letting himself be pulled along. She managed to get him up a staircase, down a hallway, and into an empty bedroom, all of which had been cream-colored and highlighted with cheap silver.

As she closed the door, Horace sat down on the bed, a bitter look spreading across his face. “What’s up?” he said.

“I’m sorry I missed the beginning of your set,” she said. “What happened?”

He waved a hand in front of his face. “Apparently, there’s someone else coming in, some friend of Tess’s who wants to… It doesn’t matter. Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Hey, look,” she said, sitting down next to him. “It’s okay to be upset. That really sucks. I’m so sorry.” He went to gulp his beer, and she reached out and held his wrist, stopping him. “But you’re drinking really fast. Please take it easy, okay?”

Annoyance crossed his face, but then he considered the cup and nodded, placing it on a bedside table. “You’re right. You’re totally right. I’m sorry, Fiona, I just…uuuugh, I feel like such a dick. I worked all week on a set that no one got to hear.”

“It happens,” she said. “Besides, these assholes wouldn’t appreciate your stuff anyway. You’re too good for them.”

Finally, there it was—a smile. A reluctant one, maybe, but she’d take it.

“You’re too good for me,” he said, putting an arm around her. “Thanks, babe, I…needed this. I needed you to talk some sense into me.”

“I just want you to be happy,” she said, riding the sudden rush of relief.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I love you.”

Boom.

Her breath caught; her heart jumped. He blinked hard, as though he never expected to say it out loud. There it was, six months in, out in the open. She’d thought about this, had expected to say it right back, but now that it was here, she was speechless.

“I’m so sorry,” he said immediately.

“No,” she whispered, praying he wasn’t sorry, anything but sorry. “Say it again.”

His eyes met hers. He licked his lips, readying himself. “Fiona,” he said, “I—”

“Yo!”

A hard knock at the door, yanking them back to reality. Both their heads snapped up to see Keller peering in, his face a mixture of joy and panic.

“Horace, get down here now,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” asked Horace.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he cackled, “but it’s—”

“He’s here!” shrieked Caroline, barreling in behind Keller and grabbing Horace’s hand. “He’s here, right now! You have to come downstairs!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” said Horace, his face a mask of concern.

“The Pit Viper!” she screamed. “He’s here!”

Oh my God, thought Fiona.

“Oh my God,” said Horace, leaping off the bed and rushing after his friends. Fiona followed him, the bottom of her stomach sinking deeper with every wide-eyed partier she passed.

“Holy shit, this is insane,” screamed Horace as they blasted out into the night air. Fiona was inclined to agree—the party had lost its collective mind. Gone were the drunk conversations and bopping couples; instead, the entire backyard was moving to the sultry, grinding rhythms that permeated the air. People swayed, stomped, caressed, spasmed, grinded (ground?), popped, locked, leaped, and screamed. A haze of steam rose from the writhing masses, sweaty and overactive as they were. Fiona spotted Rita, eyes half open and hair mussed, moving her body sinuously against Dave Hettenberg, a lacrosse player whose hands clutched her wantonly.

As they pushed through the throng, Caroline pointed, ecstatic. “There he is!”

Fiona froze. The crowds disappeared. The music faded away.

There he was.

He’d changed. No patch-covered jacket, no stringy hair, no puckish smile—the boy who’d knelt bleeding by the winery sign was now a man, tall and muscular. He wore an immaculately white hoodie with the sleeves cut off, revealing arms covered in weaving tattoos. He stood over the turntables, legs shoulder-width apart, hands flying between records and knobs, fingers splayed and crooked like those of a harp player. With his hood up, his eyes were invisible, and given how much older he looked now, Fiona wondered if maybe it was a different DJ with the same name, like her father had suggested in the church…

As the beat swelled, crescendoed, and then dropped with a punch to the guts, the crowd cried out in unison. The night exploded.

The Pit Viper raised his head, and Fiona saw his eyes, bright and lively, shine out from the shadows of his hood… and look directly at her. The stunned look that she felt on her own face instantly echoed on his.

It couldn’t be anyone else.

“Holy shit, I can’t believe he’s here!” screamed Horace, bouncing on his feet and punching his fist in the air.

Fiona couldn’t reply. The Pit Viper’s gaze pinned her to the spot.

She believed it.