9

“And your phone is charged.”

“Yes.”

“You have the money your mother gave you.”

“I’ll bring back change.”

“No taking drugs from strangers.”

Eye roll. “Or candy, right?”

Her dad was not amused. “Is ‘candy’ a slang word you guys use for painkillers? Opioids?”

“Dad.”

“Remind me of the name of the band you’re seeing tonight?”

“Ultradrool.” She swallowed a laugh. No even-remotely-savvy rock and roller would believe there was a band called that. But as she’d guessed, the fake name sounded just audacious and repulsive enough to convince her father that it was real. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and grimaced, but said nothing.

They stopped in a parking space outside the train station. Fiona could see a small gathering of her friends up on the platform, dressed to kill; she herself wore her tightest black jeans, her most torn-up T-shirt—she’d gone with Nine Inch Nails, given the night’s electronic flavor—and an often- unworn pair of red Doc Martens, along with the obligatory slather of eyeliner and lipstick. But it was the studded collar around her neck that her dad eyed warily as he turned to her in the car.

“I really wouldn’t mind waiting outside the club,” he repeated for maybe the sixth time.

“Everyone else is taking the train together,” she said. “It’s sort of a thing.”

“I could give them a ride, too,” he said. “You guys don’t know how dangerous—”

“Dad,” she said.

He squeezed his eyes shut and sat back in his seat, sighing. “Right, right, independence, rebellion, I get it. Just please, please be careful, okay? The city isn’t as safe as Hamm.”

“I’m well aware,” she said, opening the door. “I’ll text you when I’m on the train home. If we have any problems, I’ll call.” He nodded and didn’t say anything, so she climbed out into the crisp autumn night.

Once she had her ticket in hand and was on the platform, it became increasingly apparent to her that the teenagers of Hamm were out in full force, and that very few of them knew how to actually dress for a club. Kids from her school mulled about everywhere, wearing all manner of crazy gear constructed from what was available at home or the mall— glow stick necklaces, drawn-on highlighter tattoos, sleeveless bargain-mart T-shirts that left the guys shivering, tiny shorts and skirts that the girls tugged at endlessly.

Her own crew looked full-on zany—Keller was wearing a black turtleneck like some kind of German poet, while Caroline had neon-green fishnets coming out from beneath her cutoffs. Horace’s stoner friends were all baggy jeans and boxy, voluminous hoodies. Only Horace and Rita looked great, seeing as Horace hadn’t dressed up at all and Rita wore a solid vintage LBD and combat boots.

As Fiona approached them, her friends crowed excitedly. Horace ran up to her with a childlike grin on his face. “Tonight!” he said. “Babe, tonight. Pit Viper, one night only. That night? Tonight!”

“Save some of that energy for later,” she said, putting her hands on his shoulders and leaning in close to him.

“Hmm? Oh, right,” he said and gave her a peck before glancing around nervously. “Shouldn’t the train be here by now? Yo, Keller, didn’t you say seven fifteen? What time is it?”

She tried not to show the sting of his slight, but inside Fiona blistered. Here she was, dressed to the nines for a show by a DJ whose music she didn’t even like, and Horace treated her as if she were just another distraction. Even after he’d apologized profusely for trying to arrange a party at the mill, Horace had stumbled over her feelings, never on the same towering level as before but in little ways that left her upset. He didn’t even ask her what she was listening to anymore—all that mattered was that she wasn’t listening to the Pit Viper. Where was the guy she’d been so crazy for, the single-minded dude ready to trade records with her the morning after sneaking through her window?

Simmer down, ho, she thought. He’s just stoked for a party. Don’t be needy—he can’t fawn over you all the time.

They hung around and talked for a few minutes—Caroline described Fiona as “sex in jeans,” which gave Fiona a little validation—before the train pulled up with a groan and a hiss. They waited impatiently while the tired-eyed evening commuters disembarked (including Keller’s mother, Janice, who shook her head and mumbled, “Jesus Christ,” at her son’s tight black ensemble), and then they piled on the train, gaining scowls and eye rolls from the businesspeople hiding behind their tablets and newspapers.

Fiona leaned her head against Horace’s shoulder, feeling the pounding of his heart beneath his skin. “This is going to be fun,” she said, mostly trying to convince herself.

“What? Yeah, definitely,” mumbled Horace, his eyes focused out the window.

…

Central Station was a madhouse of commuters, but Keller and Ben Willis, a junior Fiona knew through Rita, led the way, used to visiting relatives in the city and traveling in to see bands or hit up parties. Right out the door, buildings rose on either side of them like monuments to mathematical gods. Puddles reflected liquor-store neon; men in overcoats burst through vent-spewed walls of steam; accented women lounged outside of work and shared much-needed smokes. Life and energy, spilling out of every crack and crevice.

This was what rock and roll was all about, thought Fiona with a twinge of electric excitement, real rock and roll. John Mellencamp may have lived and died in a small town, but Lou Reed and Ace Frehley and Jack White wandered the streets of the city.

The walk to the club, Cacophonie, was long, but their high spirits made it pass quickly, and besides, trying to figure out the bus or subway would have been an absolute disaster. When they were a few blocks away, they stopped at a diner and dominated a large table, chatting loudly. The waitresses shot stink eyes their way, nonplussed at serving a table of small-town kids counting their dollars for plates of cheese fries. Horace ducked out with a few friends and returned reeking of weed. Ben and Rita, ever the sophisticates, broke off to grab sushi somewhere. Fiona grimaced—raw fish. She’d rather eat her Doc Martens.

“How long do you think he’ll spin?” asked Caroline.

“Probably two hours,” said Horace. “Maybe more, if we bring the energy.”

“Is the club the actual venue, or is it just a map point?” asked Penny Kim excitedly.

Horace and one or two of the hipper Hamm kids rolled their eyes at Penny, but Vince, aka Swordfish, said, “That’s more of a warehouse thing, actually. Map points are really for warehouse gigs where you don’t want the cops showing up. This is just a show.” Penny nodded as though learning a deep fact, though Fiona felt newbie embarrassment radiating off the girl. At least Vince had let her down easy.

“Think we’ll be able to get backstage?” asked Caroline.

Vince nodded firmly. “Hopefully. Tess told me she’d give us a hand.”

Horace pulled Fiona close to him but never gave her the kiss she was hoping for. “Would that be okay? It’d be really awesome to meet him. I know your dad’s probably being hardcore about you getting home on time tonight, but—”

“Should be fine,” she said, cutting off his hyperactive explanation. “As long as we’re here, let’s hang out.”

Horace laughed, and Fiona savored the pleasure of a little rebellion. So she would break curfew a little. Her dad would live.

And maybe Fiona would meet him, too. Maybe. Finally.

Dinner finished, they headed to the club, a faceless gray building with a few velvet ropes leading to a door. A short line had formed, mostly made up of other kids from their school. A lanky, inked-up guy with black, temple-length hair on one side of his head took names and money as they filed toward an equally thin girl with a shaved head who stamped their wrists.

Fiona bit her lip. This was nothing like the concerts she’d been to before, arena shows at the Performing Arts Center outside of Hamm. Those had been huge, gaudy affairs, full of T-shirt hecklers and commemorative soda cups. This was underground. If only she were here to see something she liked, something she could brag about, Portland prog or Norwegian black metal or Japanese shoegaze. Instead, she felt nauseous at the very thought of hearing the Pit Viper’s music in a crowded room. It was weird—she was truly dreading it, queasy and high-strung at the idea that she’d have to be surrounded by those sounds while packed between sweaty bodies. She didn’t like electronica, sure, but even she wondered why she was reacting so strongly to the Pit Viper’s album.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Was it the album? Or was it being in his presence again?

No. She stopped herself and nuzzled closer to Horace. Not tonight. Tonight, she would have a good time or die trying. Maybe Horace was acting so distracted because she was lost in her own head.

“Name,” said the doorman as they finally arrived at the head of the line.

“Horace Palmada,” said Horace. “Tess Baron might have added—”

“You’re here,” he said with a glance at his clipboard. “Fifteen bucks.” Horace wordlessly pulled out the money, while the tattooed ghoul turned to Fiona. “And you?”

“Fiona Jones.”

“She might be my plus one,” said Horace.

“You’re on here,” said the man, arching an eyebrow, “and look at that, your door charge has been covered. Get stamped and head on in.”

“Wow,” said Horace, with what Fiona could tell was a flicker of jealousy. “I wonder how that happened.”

“Somebody must like me,” she said, her pulse speeding up with apprehension. They got their inner wrists stamped—a black C with teeth that was about to devour a musical note— and headed inside.

A dark, pipe-lined hallway that reeked of cigarettes led to a wide-open chamber done up in matte black and tarnished chrome. The ceiling dripped with stage lights, plumbing, and loose wires. Clicky, bare-bones electro beats rattled through the PA, enticing the crowd with music but leaving them hungry for something they could really dance to. The club was divided into three levels—a central dance floor, a stage area with huge speakers surrounding a DJ table, and a balcony section…which, Fiona noticed, contained a full bar, where Tess Baron and one or two of the hipper kids from Hamm sipped cocktails and beers.

“Don’t they worry about losing their liquor license?” asked Fiona.

“Guys, hide, someone’s mom showed up,” said Caroline, rolling her eyes.

Fiona’s mouth hung slightly open at Caroline acting like Fiona was some kind of lame-ass. Everyone chuckled; Horace even snorted a laugh and gave Fiona a pat on the shoulder. She winced. It was the kind of gesture you gave a child, or a prude who doesn’t get a dirty joke. Bitterness welled up in her, and part of her wished she was home with Betty, using her to tell stories about happiness and sorrow and hope.

The crew sidled up to the bar and ordered drinks. Just to prove she wasn’t an utter wet blanket, Fiona got an IPA, its hops-heavy flavor putting Caroline’s Bud Light Lime to shame. She sipped it slowly and let the beer take her edge off.

It would be fine, right? Totally fine. She’d watch him spin, and he would look right past her, and then they’d never see each other again. It was probably somebody else who’d put her on the list and paid for her entrance fee. Tess Baron, maybe. Sometimes weird things happened in life. It didn’t mean they were all connected, or that the past nine years had all been leading up to this moment.

“Want to get a good spot on the floor?” asked Horace.

“Hell yeah,” she said, doing her best to sound enthusiastic. Look at her, being totally fine like a normal person. “Let’s move right up front!”

“All right, Fiona!” said Keller, clapping her on the shoulder. “Time to get nuts!”

The dance floor was already a sardined hodgepodge of kids, some from Hamm, others obviously from the city, all shifting their weight and staring expectantly at the stage. She and Horace found a pocket of space up front and elbowed their way in. The sweaty crowd around her made her feel oddly at ease. She was just an audience member—one face among many.

The crowd parted at Fiona’s side, and a stick-thin form appeared—the guy from Tess’s party, with the salmon shirt. He nodded at Horace. “Dude! Glad you made it out.”

“Better believe it,” Horace said, slapping the guy five. “Fiona, this is PM.”

“PM,” she repeated, hoping it would sound less ridiculous from her own lips. No dice.

“My name’s Perry, but I’m so boring I put people to sleep,” he said, looking over his glasses at her and trying to get a laugh. Horace guffawed. “Oh, speaking of knocking motherfuckers out, you tried this, man? Orbitin.” He held up an orange pharmacy bottle between his thin fingers and shook it lightly, making the pills inside rattle.

“What is it?” asked Horace.

“Mood enhancer, two degrees more down than up, more left than right. Bathes your brain in all the best shit, really makes the music pop. Took it last time I saw the Viper, and I just…” He put a hand next to his head and then splayed the fingers with a poof! noise. “Mind. Blown. You’ll enjoy, I promise.”

There was a pause, and Fiona felt it—a wedge forming between them. Horace wanted to get fucked-up on pills, and his desire to do so put him at odds with her complete lack thereof. She kept her gaze locked on the neon-orange bottle, hoping Horace would do the right thing without her having to make kitten eyes at him.

He squeezed her shoulder. “What do you think, babe?”

Ugh. Now he was playing that game, like he didn’t know her response. She remembered how stupid she’d thought her father had sounded earlier—No taking drugs from strangers— as though anyone would ever do that. God dammit, Horace…

“Nah,” she said, shaking her head. “No pills. I don’t fuck with that.”

“Do you mind if I…”

There it was, thrown out into the air. It was like he was asking her for a threesome, like this might be that one time. Now, her options were either be a bummer on their big night in the city or let Horace become a glassy-eyed pill casualty, the kind of creep who always had a cigarette dangling from his lip—

Listen to her. Guys, hide, someone’s mom showed up.

“Do whatever you want,” she said.

“Cool,” he said, not even risking his chances with a third and final Are you sure? Perry smiled and tapped out two pills, cylindrical, purple, into Horace’s palm.

“Don’t worry,” said Perry, holding up a bottle of water. “A few hours of dancing, he’ll sweat it all out.” Horace tossed the Orbitin back with a swig.

“I take it the first taste is always free,” said Fiona in the most accusatory tone she could muster.

“Hell no,” said Perry, holding out a spidery hand. “Twenty bucks.”

“I’ll be good,” said Horace, kissing her on the head and slapping a twenty into PM’s palm. “Don’t worry, I’ve done shit like this before. I can handle it.”

“You took some Vicodin when you had a tooth pulled,” she snapped. “Orbitin? Do you even know what’s in that stuff?”

“I’m assuming it’s mostly Molly,” he said with a relaxed smile. “I’ll rub myself, sweat a bunch, and whisper sweet nothings in your ear on the train back home. I promise, Fiona, I’ll be okay.”

Fifteen minutes later, the background music went down, and then so did the lights. In the darkness, everyone cheered.

“Here it comes!” squealed Caroline.

There was a hiss from the speakers, like a needle touching an old record or wax tube. The sound grew louder and louder… and then a voice, calm but fierce, as deep and murky as a lake of blood, spoke:

“There is a voice,” said the voice.

“A sound spoken by swimmers in a serene sea. We are aware of it, have always been, will always be. It echoes loudly throughout the ages, broadcasting truths understood by the sages. It is a voice that we’ve been taught to ignore. And yet we hear it. And we want more.

“So when your patience reaches its limit, ask yourself: Whose voice is it? Whose voice speaks for the unholy and divine? Is it theirs? Is it his?

“Is it mine?”

The stage lights blared. The crowd roared. There, in perfect white, stood the Pit Viper, arms spread like Christ. Behind him loomed a ten-foot-tall banner of the snake on his album cover, only this serpent was not coiled and waiting. Its head was raised, its mouth open and showing off curved fangs protruding from pink reptilian flesh, ready to strike and envenom.

Fiona gasped at the sight of him, of his wiry arms, his sharp chin, and dominant smile, his eyes beaming out from under his hood like spotlights. He was so much more than the boy she’d seen ages ago, in so many ways. Her skin prickled. Forgetting her makeup, she licked her lips.

“Yes!” screamed Horace. “Fuck YES!”

The Pit Viper extended a finger, lowered it to his turntable, and the beat dropped.

Fiona’s frozen gaze was broken by the crowd’s oceanic shift, the partiers around her rippling and pulsating to the thick and chilly rhythm. She watched her friends twist and move to the music in sensual ecstasy. Caroline’s hands slid over her body, nails scratching at her skin. Keller had his fists in the air, his mouth open in a scream Fiona couldn’t hear. And Horace at her side was entirely lost in the music, his dilated pupils focused only on the Pit Viper. She tried to dance toward him, to press against him and take part in the party, but the surging crowd only pulled them farther apart, and Horace didn’t seem to care.

She did her best to play along and move to the rhythm, looking to Caroline and Rita and trying to imitate their sexy gyrations, but her heart wasn’t in it. No, not her heart—her gut. The music didn’t feel right; the vibrations bored into her head and ignited a splitting migraine. There was nothing organic about the sounds filling the room and shaking the floor; it was all a bunch of plastic when what she wanted was…a soul. There was no soul to this music, only sounds, beating and crushing her, shoving her away.

“Horace!” she screamed, reaching out for him, pushing harder into the sweat-drenched crowd.

A hand landed on her shoulder, and she turned to see Will Hokes, his pupils huge and his mouth full of a candy necklace. “ARE YOU HEARING THIS, JONES? ARE YOU HEARING THIS—”

She elbowed past him and fought her way up to the raised bar section, but even that was loaded with moving bodies. For a split second, she stared out at the crowd, trying to find her friends, but everybody looked the same. The only distinguishable figure was the Pit Viper standing over them like an electric superhero, his hands moving from one knob to the next in a calculated frenzy.

The room grew hot, reeking of armpits and smoke. People around her kept putting their hands on her, making her feel soiled. The music churned the beer she’d downed too quickly. Overwhelmed and alienated, Fiona pushed her way toward the door.