12

Horace tried to contact her three times that night, but each time she let his call go to voicemail. He left two apologetic messages with a loud, angry one sandwiched between them. She wasn’t sure anything she might say to him would be fair or productive. Besides, she was too conflicted to listen to his apologies quite yet.

She responded to the Pit Viper’s email.

That week at school, she was surrounded by Pit Viper fever. The DJ’s renown had spread like wildfire. You couldn’t walk anywhere without seeing a Pit Viper shirt or sticker. The name was scribbled in every bathroom stall, carved into multiple desks. Online profiles featured Pit Viper logos and links. A rumor had gone around that Scott Driscoll, a friend of Tess Baron’s, had gotten a Pit Viper tattoo; it turned out to be false, but the fact that people were so ready to believe the lie spoke to the devotion that was being fostered.

She didn’t hear anything more about it from the town council, but she knew her father was aware of what was going on. On Thursday night, she was looking around the house for some glue to fix the handle on Betty’s case and found a copy of the Pit Viper’s CD tucked away in one of her dad’s drawers in the garage, next to some tax papers and an old watch he’d gotten as a present. The sight of the green snake in her home bothered her, and explained why her dad was acting so distracted lately. Who knew what he might do next? Had he listened to the album? Had he noticed its deafening rhythms blaring out of cars and bedrooms all over town?

Fiona still couldn’t stand the music itself, try as she might. After she’d gotten the email from the Pit Viper, she’d attempted to listen to the album one more time and feel the attraction, but once again the music just drove a nail in her brain. She supposed she understood the draw—cold, insect-like, polished to perfection, deeply efficient. Even if the album wasn’t Fiona’s cup of tea, there was definitely something there that could excite someone.

She’d hoped to keep her secret to herself all week, but no dice. Unsurprisingly, it was Rita who finally confronted her.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you have to talk to Horace,” she said over coffee Thursday evening. There were two cafés in Hamm, family-owned Finnerdee’s and hippie-run Powerdrive, and they sat at a carved table near the wide front windows of the latter. Rita knew the dreadlocked owner, Weber, pretty well; though the place was often packed, he always found a table for her.

“Horace can talk to me when he wants to,” said Fiona, nipping at her latte.

“Yeah, except he’s been trying to,” said Rita, cocking an eyebrow at her. “And you’re doing that thing where you don’t answer, and that’s supposed to be an answer. That’s not fair.”

Fiona responded with a shrug. “I don’t have to be fair. I’m taking the time I need to make sure that this is what I want. You should’ve heard him on Monday, Rita. He was a real ass.”

“And I get that,” she said. “Look, Horace and I have been friends almost as long as you and I have, and I’m well aware that the dude is a complete idiot who cares way too much about being cool. But he’s freaking out about you cutting him off.”

“Define freaking out.”

“He’s officially transitioned from She won’t talk to me because she’s a bitch to She won’t talk to me because I’m the biggest jerk in the world,” said Rita. “He’s super down on himself. He’s smoking way too much weed.”

“But that’s just it,” said Fiona. “Horace wants to celebrate, he gets wasted. He’s feeling depressed, he gets wasted. It’s the same childish reaction, every time.”

“Well, sure,” Rita said. “But since when has not telling someone that helped? He’s a lovable guy, but still about as smart as an elbow. Spell it out for him.” Rita exhaled hard. “And it’s not just that. Other people have noticed something’s up with you this week. It’s like you’re in your own little world.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Fiona. “Maybe the fight with Horace let me see things in a different light, you know? I’m learning to live without him.”

Rita rolled her eyes beneath her perfect bangs. “I give up. Who is he, Fiona?”

“Horace? Like, on a personal level?”

“No, and don’t be cute. Who’s the guy who’s making it so easy to ignore Horace?”

Fiona kept her face motionless, though she felt overwhelmingly caught. “What makes you think—”

“A month ago, you rocked Horace’s hoodie like it gave you superpowers,” said Rita plainly. “But Monday, you break up with him in an ugly, public way, and now you’re just fine with it? I know you, dude. You’re too emotional to be suffering a tectonic life shift this well if there wasn’t something else on your mind.” She squinted. “And it’s a ‘he.’ Obviously. When you’ve grown up with the level of small-town gossip that we have, you know it when you see it.”

Fiona gulped. For a moment, she considered spilling the story—the whole story, from the winery sign right up to the email—but she managed to swallow it. “It’s complicated,” she said, unable to answer with an entire lie. “Extremely complicated. I’ll give you the details when it’s over.”

“Got it,” said Rita. “Just don’t think I’ll pull some Caroline shit and be super-opinionated about everything, or fawn over you like Keller does. You know you can be really honest with me, right?”

Fiona nodded, her heart swelling. This was why they would leave Hamm behind someday, why Rita was destined to carve her own path. “I do. Thanks, Rita.”

Rita smiled and shrugged. “No problem. Life’s hard, even in a place like this stupid town. Just figure your shit out and get back to me before you go running off with this mystery man.”

“I sincerely doubt that will happen,” said Fiona.

Fiona spent the entire bike ride home planning out how she’d do it. Plane tickets, passports. New names, new places, new lives.

…

Getting off the train at Central Station felt less electric and ceremonial this time around, with shafts of daylight pouring through the windows and no giggling friends at Fiona’s side. She texted her parents to let them know she’d arrived safe and sound and would be back in a few hours; even though she’d biked to the train station, her father had made her spell out her plans in perfect detail and requested that she text them along the way. Obviously, they didn’t really know.

She made her way to the right bus and took it to the neighborhood he’d mentioned in his follow-up email. He’d offered to get her at the train station, but she’d refused. She felt like it was a power play for him, to lead her around like a tourist or a kid. She wanted him to know she was capable of handling herself.

The restaurant he’d suggested was a ramen house called Hageshi, the inside decorated in equal parts ancient Japanese art and modern-day pop culture; behind the bartender stood a three-foot-tall plastic Gundam, and beneath the plastic inlay of her table was an image of the Colossal Titan peeking over a stone wall. As she ordered a green tea, she couldn’t help but be slightly tickled by the whole experience. She was used to the small-town trio: diners, cafés, and pastry stands. He obviously wanted to impress her with ethnic food at a restaurant straight out of Blade Runner.

She was flip-flopping between drunken noodles and spicy stew when a chair scraped the floor and her table shuddered. She glanced up from her menu and was met by a focused gaze that caught her off guard even though she’d been waiting all day to see it.

“I’m surprised you showed,” said the Pit Viper in his smooth baritone. She was speechless for a brief second—foolishly, she realized, she’d imagined him appearing shirtless and sweaty, like he’d been at the club (the way, she considered guiltily, that she’d been picturing him since). Instead, he wore a T-shirt and a peacoat. This close, she could study his face thoroughly. His cheeks were tight, his chin strong. Over his left eye, between strands of straw-colored hair, was an inch-long scar, no doubt from where his head had collided with the winery sign. There might be more under his shirt…

Then she snapped back to reality, mentally reminding herself that she had to meet him as an equal. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but people often flake at the last second. Nerves, guilt, all those man-made constructs.” He nodded at the menu. “What are you having? The fish is really good here.”

She smirked. “Wow, the fish is really good at a Japanese restaurant? You must be a regular here.”

A smile spread across his face, making him look sweet. For a moment, he was the boy at the town council meeting again.

“Guess that’s what I get for trying to show off.”

“Guess so.”

He got a bowl of simple tofu ramen and some cold sake, while she went with the stew (it was chilly enough for it, she decided). The waitress didn’t even blink when he ordered the booze, and Fiona wondered just how old he actually was. He’d been a teenager then, when Fiona had watched him take a beating nine years ago. His eyes were boyish and bright, but his face was lined with experience, putting him somewhere between twenty and five hundred. The idea of having lunch with an older guy felt a touch gross, but he had none of the velvet perviness and poorly masked hunger of a creep prowling for young girls. He was like a living statue, somehow both crisp and ancient.

The waitress came back with his drink, and for a while, he sipped his clear wine in silence and then, much to her relief, avoided more small talk and dove right into it.

“Were you surprised to see me back in Hamm?” he asked.

“A little,” she said. “If those men on the town council who tied you up and carted you off—”

“One of whom is your father,” he said calmly, holding up a palm. “Let’s just establish that I know this before we go any further, so it doesn’t have to be some sort of reveal.”

“If they caught you again,” continued Fiona, “they’d probably mess your life up pretty badly. Might even kill you.”

He nodded. “They said as much. For the record, how much of that night did you witness?”

A cold pang ran through her. Not “see,” witness. Like a crime.

“Everything that happened at the winery sign,” she said calmly. It felt like a seal being broken. The floodgates opened: “And I was at the town council meeting where you first showed up. Do you remember me from then, too?”

“Later, I did. But the apple made more of an impression.” He raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Wow, so you were around for the whole sordid affair.”

“Yes,” she said. Then she spat out what she’d wanted to say for nine years: “I’m sorry they did that to you. It wasn’t right.”

He half shrugged. “What I do isn’t a nice business. Sometimes, these things happen. Besides, that was a long time ago. I was weak then.”

When the food came, they fell into silence. He was slow and careful in the consumption of his noodles, sucking them down without slurping. His eyes darted to her occasionally, watching her but not too closely. Not like Calvin Hokes did. She sensed courtesy in his behavior, like he was trying to see what she thought of him. He was being polite.

“How have the last nine years been?” he finally asked.

“Good,” she said. “I grew up.”

“I noticed that,” he said. “Man, and I thought I was young then. It was crazy how quickly I recognized you, because in my mind you were just the girl with the apple. Must have been something about the eyes, that way you were looking at me.” He glanced at her quickly, then looked away. “Or maybe something deeper. I don’t know.”

“That’s how I recognized you,” she said. “It wasn’t on sight, because you look so different. It was something about you.”

“Interesting,” he said. “Guess my appearance has changed dramatically since we last met.”

“You’ve filled out,” she said.

He chuckled. “Right. And I’m not, you know, bleeding everywhere.”

“Do you have a real name now?”

“Pit Viper’s not real enough for you?”

“Aw, who’s a cryptic guy?” she said, though inside she was dying to know. “Did your mom just name you Pit Viper, or did she go full DJ Pit Viper on the day of your birth?”

“You know, I’ve always hated that,” he said, frowning and stirring his ramen. “The DJ honorific. It immediately evokes this image of a guy in front of a spring-break crowd in Ibiza, throwing glow sticks at people. I’m more than that. I work harder than that. Besides, if you’re a good DJ, why do you have to let everyone know you’re a DJ?”

Fiona bit her lip and watched his eyes spin like 45s as they followed his noodles. It was as perfect an answer as she could imagine, and it had just come out of him, effortlessly. Any moment she felt like she was matching him, he did something that made her feel hugely out of her league. The worst part was, it didn’t seem like he meant to. He wasn’t bragging. It was just him.

“Well, what else do you play?” she asked.

“A little keyboards, some bass and guitar, and then some digital manipulation programs,” he said, “though, okay, to be fair, a lot of it is just work with a turntable—”

“So how are you not a DJ?” she asked.

“Because…I don’t spin together pop hits,” he said, sitting back in his seat. “I don’t remix Cardi B. I merge and manipulate sound to create new music.”

“So, you’re not even a DJ,” she said with a smile, going for the throat. “You’re just a samples engineer. Like the sea urchin dude in Slipknot.”

He laughed back at her daring, which made her blush all over her body.

“And what do you play?” he asked. “No, wait, let me guess. Acoustic guitar. Ani DiFranco covers, mostly.”

“Screw you!” she laughed, feeling as though both of their mad crescent-moon grins were officially matching. “Electric guitar. Classic rock, biker chug, acrobatic solos. No mercy.”

He smirked and rolled his eyes. “Ah, yes, because distorted guitar has been so unexplored in music thus far. You’re really breaking new ground.”

“The old ways are the best, dude,” she said. He said “Ah” with a blasé snarkiness that made her feel like a know-nothing kid, like Penny Kim talking about map points because she’d watched Groove one time. Fiona pushed further. “No, I’m serious! Music is best when it regresses to its core. You see it in rock and roll all the time. Prog rock in the seventies got too weird and silly, so punk came along. Punk got too floofy-doo and became New Wave, so metal and hardcore rolled through. Those genres got either superficial or self- important, so grunge and industrial knocked them down. Even dance music is like that—isn’t that why dubstep was a thing? Because people wanted to dance to something they could feel in their bones? People have been shaking their hips and pumping their fists since the dawn of time. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

She realized she was basically shouting at him, attracting glances from other tables. She hunched down into her seat with cheeks burning. But he didn’t seem bothered. If anything, he looked pleased, even a little refreshed.

“That actually makes a lot of sense,” he said, nodding and appraising her with new interest. “That idea has a lot of bearing on how I make my music. That the old ways are always going to be the most powerful.” He stared off into space for a moment, then shrugged and shook his head. “Then again, I play the keyboards, which is probably the ultimate fashion instrument. So what do I know?”

She smiled, grateful for the shred of self-deprecation and humility he was offering her. “A little, I guess. Keyboards can be used effectively, though. And there are worse instruments to play.”

“The tuba,” he said.

“The theremin,” she said.

“The harpsichord,” he said.

“Yo, fuck the harpsichord!” she guffawed, and the two of them snickered like total nerds.

“So, would you say your music has regressed?” she asked, unable to wipe the grin from her face. “Has it gotten back to its core roots?”

His brow furrowed as he considered the idea. “I’d say so. I think back in the day, I wanted to be more of a…maverick. A rock star, really pushing buttons and making waves in an obnoxious way. I wanted my music to change the way people thought. Now I just want it to be effective. Powerful, primal, like you were saying. That’s where strength lies, I’ve decided.”

“What changed your mind?” she said.

“Your dad and his friends kicking the shit out of me,” he said.

The words struck her with a wave of cold. She dry-swallowed and did her best not to make eye contact with him. “Right. Stupid question.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “Sorry. I don’t blame you, obviously. And it was a blessing in disguise, maybe, because it made my music stronger.”

“Whatever you’re doing now, it’s working,” she said, doing her best not to feel guilty about the night the Pit Viper had the wonder beaten out of him. “My friends are obsessed with the album. Everyone I know owns it.”

“Good,” he said. “Then yes. It is working.”

“You must be getting big all over the club circuit,” she said.

“Not really,” he said, and added softly, “just Hamm.”

“Really?”

He slowly finished his sake, and said, “Do you want to go for a walk?”

He stood, and she followed. She’d only just pulled her wallet out when he tossed three crisp twenties onto the table and nodded toward the door.

…

“Okay, so…Van Halen.”

“Like, neon on metal,” said Fiona. “Neon lights reflecting off a chrome tailpipe. Or fins or something—car fins, not fish fins. No, wait, fish fins. Neon off the fins of a giant chrome dolphin jumping out of a resort pool.”

The Pit Viper nodded as he hand rolled a cigarette. They’d been talking about music for a while; every attempt to discuss Hamm was quickly dismissed. Instead, he asked about the rock and roll that Fiona worshipped, which she’d described with all the nervous enthusiasm of the teenage girl she was trying not to act like.

The idea of selective synesthesia had come up—a merging of the senses, flavors as music, music as images—and he’d begun quizzing her. She sensed that for most people, this would be a fun game. For them, true sonic devotees, it was serious business. “The Misfits.”

“A spiked bracelet-wrapped hand all sticky with popcorn butter from a bad zombie double feature,” she said after a moment. “And eye makeup.”

“That’s a good one. Ghost.”

“A…haunted castle in a children’s coloring book.”

“Muse.”

“The world’s supervillains descending onto a Queen concert.”

“I’m not sure you’re allowed to reference one band with another band.”

“You do if you sound as much like Queen as Muse does.”

“But you like Queen.”

“And Muse.” She folded her arms. “Come on, give me a hard one.”

He arched an eyebrow. “FIDLAR.”

Fiona bit her lower lip, pleased with him. She hadn’t even mentioned them, he’d just known. “The back seat of a really grimy Volvo that’s just returned from the beach. Condoms and comic books and beer cans with sand all over them.”

He nodded, lighting the smoke and inhaling thoughtfully. “I’m impressed. Thin Lizzy?”

“A sure-statured man firing a Care Bear Stare out of his crotch.”

“Absolutely. Bruce Springsteen. AND the E Street Band.”

“Just, the most earnest chin you have ever seen.”

That one finally got him, and he tilted back his head and cackled. His laughter boomed out through the park, across the river, over the city, over her skin, and along her nerves. She couldn’t take her eyes off him; even grinning and laughing like a goofball, he was so gorgeous, so sure in every angle of his face and form.

He offered her a drag from his smoke, and when she shook her head, he didn’t make it a big deal, and because of that she said, “Wait” and took it and had a puff. The tobacco wasn’t as noxious as the horrible soft-pack lights Caroline and Keller sometimes smoked, but it still made her throat catch and tasted like a burning tire. She felt silly for how much she hoped he was watching her, finding her cosmopolitan and sexy when all she was doing was trying not to cough.

“You don’t really like my music, do you?” he asked suddenly.

There was no fishing for compliments in it, and she searched for an answer that was as devoid of bullshit as his question. “Not particularly, no.”

“Not a big fan of electronic music in general?” he said, exhaling a seemingly endless cloud of smoke that became little puffs with each word.

“Not really,” she said. And then, wanting to meet him even more head-on, she added, “But it’s not that. There’s something funny about your music. If I listen to it for too long, it actually, physically, nauseates me. I don’t know why that is.”

He nodded, looking as though he knew a secret he wanted to tell her. She found the expression endlessly handsome. “Fascinating. That’s a really good sign, actually.”

“What is it, by the way?” she asked, somewhat excited to find out there was a reason behind her response to the album. “Some sort of low frequency? Like the infamous brown note that makes you crap your pants?”

He shook his head. “Close, but not exactly. My music is…more precise.”

His words seemed to bring a gust of wind, cold and cutting. As she looked at him in the gray city light, she began to see the hard lines in his sweet face, the cords in his neck. She had been so distracted by their game and her attraction that she had to pass over her mind, and she finally asked him outright: “That precision…it’s what made all the club rats leave Hamm, isn’t it?”

He tapped the tip of his nose. “Well done.”

“How did you do it?”

He rose from the bench. “I’ll show you.”