8

On Monday morning, all anyone could talk about was the party. Even the kids who hadn’t been there had heard about the mysterious DJ’s impromptu performance. Rumors spread about an entourage ushering him back into his Hummer after the set. Everyone was dying to know his real name—who knew? Maybe he’d graduated from Hamm High. Tess Baron was being hailed as the most in-the-know girl in Hamm, connected to all the major players in the city. And bit by bit, that album cover, the image of the coiled green serpent, was doing heavy rotation in Hamm High—on stickers in lockers, on iPhone screens, even on a shirt Chris Caprizi was rocking in English.

Fiona felt like she had maggots under her skin the whole time.

The fallout from the party had been harmless enough— Keller had gotten home late, visibly stoned, and had been grounded; Caroline had woken up hungover and had been unable to attend Saturday’s town council function (not a terribly uncommon occurrence, hangover or not); Rita had eventually hooked up with Dave Hettenberg, who was now texting her constantly, much to her embarrassment (she said it was “like kissing a golden retriever”)—but they were all enamored of the Pit Viper, now more than ever. Even Keller had decided to “open his mind” to electronic music.

Only Fiona could see what had really gone down—he’d gotten in. He’d shown up in town without any resistance, played the biggest party Hamm High had seen in years, and then vanished like it was nothing. If Robert Jones and Edgar Hokes were willing to tie up this boy and drag him away, they were willing to do worse if he came back—but the Pit Viper had just waited until he was ready, and had come back to Hamm with all the bluster and fanfare of a reunion tour.

And he’d looked right at her.

The memory stopped her dead in her tracks again, this time as she walked between classes. Most of the time, Fiona felt in control of her life, but when his eyes had locked with hers, she’d felt naked and vulnerable, like nine years of bottled-up secrets and fears had suddenly been made flesh and shown to the world. They’d stayed staring at each other for not that much longer, but for long enough that Fiona knew it meant something. The party had gone on; more had happened, but she had no clear memory of anything after the Pit Viper, his eyes, how shaken they’d made her feel.

Even now, in the stark light of school, her stomach felt frosted over and her knees unsteady. She ran a papery tongue over shivering lips. It was a scary feeling, but every time it hit her, it was less and less unpleasant. Maybe that’s why she’d been thinking about it all day…

Fiona’s eyes focused, and she realized she was standing frozen and dazed between surges of people going to class. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she picked up the pace and went stomping off among them. What was she doing? The hell she was in control. She had daydreamed through an entire American Lit class without absorbing anything. She’d entirely avoided Horace all morning because of, what, some coughed-up childhood emotions? Nuh-uh. She needed to get it together, sit with Betty, and burn all the weirdness out of her. Of course, home was still four hours away. For now, she’d let Lemmy Kilmister drown it out and cranked Motörhead’s Iron Fist over her headphones in an attempt to tamp down her obsession.

A hand landed on her shoulder, and Fiona whirled, ready to swat whatever idiot thought sneaking up on her when she had her headphones on was a good idea.

“Easy,” said Vince, aka Swordfish, putting up his hands in defense.

Fiona took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. This guy didn’t deserve the brunt of her worries, even if he was somewhat of a goon.

She plucked off her headphones. “Yeah?”

“Motörhead, huh? Nice. My brother liked that band.”

“What do you want, Swordfish?”

Fiona noticed a momentary flash of distaste cross the boy’s face. “Don’t call me that. You can call me Vince or Vincent.”

“Horace calls you ‘Swordfish’ all the time.”

“Yeah, Horace knows me. We’ve hung out a lot. I ain’t never hung out with you, so you don’t know shit about me. My name is Vince.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows. The reprimand felt harsh, but it was also fair—she’d never said more than three words to the guy. “Sorry. Vince. What’s up?”

“So I take it you saw the Pit Viper at Tess Baron’s party the other night,” he said.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “It was a big deal; everyone’s talking about it.”

“And apparently, you said he spun Hamm once before, at the old mill. That true?”

His words caught Fiona off guard. She clenched her fist. “Who told you that?”

“Who else? Your boyfriend,” said Vince. “Was I not supposed to know?”

“Where is he?” she said.

“Horace? He’s out at the far tables talking to some of the guys,” he said. “But wait, is it true? Do you know anything about—”

She power-walked through the murmuring hordes in the cafeteria, out of the double doors that led to the back patio, off to the far picnic tables that lay around the side of school. Class was forgotten; adrenaline filled her entirely.

The smell of weed drew her to the last table, where Horace sat across from, of all people, Calvin Hokes. The bright-eyed boy nodded and scribbled in a notebook while Horace ranted at him, his commentary punctuated by a lot of frantic hand motions.

“Horace,” she said.

Horace did a double take: first a sidelong glance, then a joyfully stoned grin.

“Babe!” he yelled. “We were just talking about you. Come here. Sorry, what are you listening to?”

“Can we talk?” she said, trying to remain calm.

Horace glanced between her and Calvin, mouth hanging open. “…We’re sort of in the middle of a thing.”

“Actually, I have some questions for you,” said Calvin.

Fiona glared at him, and something sharp, the kind of thing that Betty would normally have siphoned off, passed between them. If she didn’t know better, she’d say she actually shot lightning out of her eyes. Calvin was gone in seconds, leaving Horace, whose bloodshot eyes were wide with surprise.

“Are you okay?” asked Horace.

“What was Calvin Hokes doing here?” she asked.

“He’s helping us plan this event,” said Horace. “He’s really good with graphic design, actually. That’s what we wanted to talk—”

“Are you telling everyone I know the Pit Viper?” she asked, getting to the point.

“N-No!” he stammered. “Just that you knew he spun a show at the old steel mill once before, back when it was a thing—”

“Horace, what are you thinking?” she cried. “You know how popular he is after Tess’s party. That was among friends, but this? Now I have a rumor dogging me. Now everyone wants to know what I know, and they’re bothering me about it.”

He nodded slowly. “No, you’re right, I totally didn’t think that through. This kind of shit always gets around. Who’s bugged you about it?”

“Your friend Vince just stopped me in the hall.”

Horace leaned back and guffawed. “Oh, babe, that’s nothing! I’m sorry, Swordfish isn’t much for tact. I asked him to find you because we wanted to talk to you. He just left here.”

She felt relieved that there weren’t school-wide rumors about her—the idea of every idiot who wanted to know about the Pit Viper approaching her in the halls made her want to breathe radioactive fire and melt faces—but Horace’s laughter felt mean. “This isn’t funny.”

“Here’s the thing,” said Horace. “The Viper is spinning this party in the city next week, and a bunch of us are going. We were talking about trying to meet him after the show. We just wanted to double-check that he’s the same guy who spun here back in the day. Friday night, you said he looked different, and Pit Viper’s a cool enough DJ name that we figured it might have been some other dude.”

She sighed. Horace couldn’t possibly grasp what she was feeling—he just wanted an in with this cool new musician. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it was him. Why?”

“We were going to have him do a big reopening of the mill.”

The words echoed in her head like a gunshot, silencing everything else.

“What?” she whispered, praying she’d misunderstood her boyfriend.

“Think about it,” said Horace, holding up his hands like a visionary director. “We clean that place up, bring it back to its former glory, and have a massive dance party to celebrate. We can do it up ultra-industrial and stylized, and have flyers, and—”

“That’s…the place where my cousin died,” she said, astounded.

Horace froze mid-sentence, a look of utter stupidity forming on his face. “Right.”

“Are you really trying to organize a party there?” she said. “You don’t think that place was closed for a reason?”

“Well, like I said, you have to admit, this town is kind of fucked in the head,” said Horace. “I mean, it’s not just you and Caroline’s dad and all the nice white people—my parents, too, are super conservative.”

In a lot of ways, Fiona agreed with him—oh, if only he knew—but Horace’s callousness in the face of Jake’s death was too much for her to handle. “Two people our age died,” she seethed.

“And that’s terrible,” said Horace, doing his best to keep up with her. “But maybe if Hamm had worked with the kids who ran those mill parties and helped make the place safer by providing security instead of just kicking everyone out…”

The concept of people dancing in the spot where Jake had passed away threw gasoline on the fire inside her. She felt like an electric chair, charged and deadly. “You think it’s just terrible that they found my cousin curled up in a corner with his face turned black?” she snapped.

He wasn’t ready for that one. “Jesus, Fiona.”

“Find me when you’re not too stoned to think,” she said, heading back to the cafeteria doors. Calvin Hokes was on the patio and tried to say something to her, but she shoved him aside. He called after her, but the blood rushing in her ears drowned him out, louder than any riff she could possibly blare.

…

Fiona cut her last class; she was acing French anyway, and Ms. Traubert probably wouldn’t notice. She scrabbled for her headphones in her jacket pocket but couldn’t find them anywhere, which only made her more frustrated. She biked home at top speed, Betty on the brain.

Fiona’s mom stood in the living room as she entered the house, and a look of surprise crossed her face. She opened her mouth, and Fiona knew it was to comment that Fiona was home surprisingly early. She rushed upstairs, knowing that having to explain a cut class would just make her break down in the living room.

Fiona closed the door hard, cracked out Betty, and cut loose.

This was not the laid-back poetry she and the guitar normally shared. This was an outcry. She cranked the volume as loud as she could and let the ax wail for her, snarling, pounding, shrieking at the top of her lungs in hard, gasping sobs of distorted anguish and tremolo-picked rage. She sped up and soloed, tapping out a blistering chatter of disappointment and heartache that climbed the neck until it broke off in a loud groan of resigned frustration.

Fiona paused, panting, and heard a light knock at her door.

“Sweetie? The wineglasses are shaking in the standing cupboard. Maybe go with Buddy Holly over Mötley Crüe for a little bit, okay?”

She nodded, suddenly aware of her own wild, angry behavior. “Sorry, Mom, long day,” she called through the door. It didn’t matter; she was spent anyway. She sat on her bed and let her fingers pluck a soft, repetitive melody on Betty, the last trickles of blood ebbing out of the wound Horace’s carelessness had left in her heart.

…

“Fiona, you have a guest.”

Fiona got up from her homework and went downstairs. Her dad had the door open and was chatting animatedly, with the straight-backed pose of the man of the house. Calvin Hokes stood in front of him, speaking in the sort of formal voice reserved for the head of the town council; in his khakis, polo shirt, and polite smile, he reminded Fiona of a baby chick rather than a teenage boy.

“I’m sure your dad would be proud to have you take over the store,” said Fiona’s dad.

“Oh, of course, and I’d be proud to do it,” said Calvin. “It’s just that Will’s always been more of the hands-on guy when it comes to hardware, and I’m better with finances and planning. Figure a degree in business could help with that.”

“You’re positive?” asked her dad. “There are things you could learn on the town council that they don’t teach in college, you know. And…” His volume lowered, not all the way to a whisper but enough to suggest thoughts of conspiracy. “You know, Fiona’s taking a year off, and with all her friends gone to school she’ll be lonely—”

“Dad,” said Fiona.

The men looked up at her, caught. Calvin blushed and lowered his gaze, but Robert Jones just smirked, proud of his not-so-secret agenda. Fiona knew she could stare all the daggers in the world at her dad and it wouldn’t do a damn thing—he was happy to let her know how much he’d like to have his way.

“Well, it was great seeing you, Cal,” he said, slapping the boy on the arm. “Say hi to your dad for me. And come over for dinner sometime.” With that, her dad headed back to his seat in front of the TV.

“He’s one hell of a character, isn’t he?” said Calvin, nodding after her dad. Fiona didn’t respond. Calvin nodded, acutely aware of her displeasure. He yanked off his backpack, dug through the front pocket, and held up her headphones. “You dropped these earlier at school.”

“Oh.” She finished descending the stairs and took them from him. “Thanks. Sorry for shoving you.”

He shrugged. “You were angry. It happens. I just figured… these look crappy enough that, if you hadn’t gotten new ones, maybe they were, uh, vintage?” He said the last word like he was tasting it for the first time. “SO I figured you’d want them back.”

She sighed, the plug pulled on her distaste for him. Calvin being nice was almost worse than him ogling her. He was spot- on—they were her ratty cheap headphones that she’d had since she was fourteen, all scotch-taped together. It would’ve broken her heart to discover them missing. “Right. Thanks, Calvin.”

“Sure,” he said. “And, ah…I talked to my dad. Told him to leave you alone, to mind his own business.”

“That wasn’t the problem,” said Fiona. “The real issue was you telling him about my business at all.” She huffed, remembering the guilt she’d felt when she’d last exploded at Calvin. “I’m sorry about being a jerk at the soup kitchen the other morning. I just don’t like being gossiped about.”

“No, I get that,” said Calvin. “It’s not an excuse. I’m just…” He squinted and rubbed his chin. Fiona could tell he was having a hard time doing this, but she forced herself not to help him by finishing his sentence or cutting off the awkwardness. Maybe Calvin Hokes was more than a pervy square, but if Fiona was going to acknowledge that, she needed to see him make an effort. She’d rebuilt a broken guitar; Calvin could fight through his insecurity. “Sometimes, it’s like that’s the only way I can make him happy. Like, he smiles if I tell him about people, like I’m the council spy or something. Fucked up, right?” He shrugged. “But that’s not cool, I know. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Sorry.”

She nodded. “Well, okay. Thanks for the headphones.”

“One last thing,” said Calvin. “I talked to Horace, and I wanted you to know the mill was my idea. I thought it was cool and poetic, but I’d forgotten about what happened with those, uh, with your cousin. Horace…he’s a really good guy. He felt terrible when we talked later.”

“He can tell me that,” said Fiona.

“He’s too proud,” said Calvin. “That’s his problem, of course. But I just wanted to tell you, I’m the one who messed that up.”

“Okay,” said Fiona, a little softer this time.

“Right,” said Calvin. “Anyway, I oughta leave. Have a nice, you know. A good. Uh. Right.” Calvin shuffled out the door and got into the Hokeses’ SUV. As Fiona watched him go, her mother poked her head out of the kitchen.

“Calvin joining us for dinner?” she asked.

“No,” said Fiona.

“Too bad,” her mom said. “I know you might not think so right now, but he’s one nice young man.”

Though it killed her inside to admit it, Fiona couldn’t help but agree with her mom. “Well, I’ve been wrong about people before.”

“I’m going to quote you on that,” laughed her mom.

Fiona went to her room and thought about what Cal had said, about Horace’s pride. Horace would never be the one to blink first. Before, it had been sexy having a boyfriend who was stubborn about what he believed. Now, it felt like an obligation, forcing her to extend the olive branch.

She couldn’t just let him off the hook. Today had really hurt, whether the fault was Calvin’s or not. Maybe there was a middle ground.

F: Ready to tell me you’re an idiot and that you can’t live without me? she texted him.

Thirty seconds later, she got a reply:

H: babe ive been ready to tell you since you left.

She sighed. It was a start.