2

Like all small suburban towns, Hamm, Ohio, had two faces. By the end of every evening—because there wasn’t really a nightlife in Hamm, just a couple of bars that catered to locals with bad reputations and reluctantly returning college students—the town and its people were disorganized and messy. Black garbage bags were dragged out into the street; sweaty aprons and work shirts were tossed into hampers with relief. Petty arguments were whispered between couples or shouted between kids and parents. But in the morning, with the dew undisturbed on the lawns of its identical houses and the chairs resting silently on the tabletops of the cafés and restaurants downtown, Hamm was pure, as innocent as a newborn fawn getting its first footing.

One thing was certain: both faces were incredibly lame. The evening’s issues were all first-world problems, and the quiet mornings were too sugared-cereal, paper-route adorable. There was nothing even slightly rock-and-roll about Hamm; it had no teeth whatsoever.

For the first time in years, Fiona Jones, eighteen years old, gave no fucks about that. All that mattered was how good his hoodie smelled.

As she coasted down South Burgundy Street on her beat- up bike, the Scorpions blasting hot sonic love through her headphones, she hoped the scent of his hoodie followed her like a cartoon vapor trail. It smelled like his hair, mostly, from what she could gather with her deep sniffs—a heady mixture of natural oils and something else, something personal. There were equal parts BO and deodorant, both of which were a little gross but familiar and comforting, and a tang of spices she couldn’t identify from his parents’ restaurant. There was a hint of weed, too, an odor she used to associate with huddled hippies and creepy vans, but which now just made her think of his carefree grin. They all rolled up into a smell she could only call Boy.

What did it matter that the sweatshirt was ripped along one sleeve and had no doubt spent time stuffed between couch cushions? It was black, had a giant tarantula with hypodermic needles for fangs on the back, and belonged to him. As the breeze billowed her upraised hood, she wanted everyone to see her wearing it. Behold, Hamm, you silly American relic, behold this hoodie, and know that I am Spoken For. There’s no way he left it by accident.

Hamm rolled past her, and she smiled despite herself. It was everything she dreamed of escaping, dollhouse pretty on the outside but loaded with secrets and people trying to be normal and failing miserably. Mr. Fredericks sipping coffee on his lawn in a black silk robe with Chinese dragons on it like some kind of suburban Hugh Hefner. Natalie Charrest jogging in full spandex—that she had no business wearing, dear God, woman—with her German shepherd, Genghis. The Tarters in their gaudy Italian business wear, pecking each other twice on each cheek before heading to their separate cars. They all tried too hard to pretend like everything was fine, which meant boring, dull, unrealistic, and really, just uncool.

But today, it didn’t matter. Maybe things were gritty and real in places like New York and L.A. and all those big cities with cobblestones and tiny punk venues. Maybe the people there didn’t lie to themselves about alcoholism and divorce and apathy. She’d get there eventually. But Hamm had Horace. Horace had her, and she had him. To hell with the rest of the world.

As the matching houses gave way to an empty country road lined with sparse woods, she sensed the vibrations of other people on the street. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Rita, dark and doe-eyed in a vintage dress and knee-high socks, biking behind her, and Caroline, lanky and glistening with sweat in her gym clothes, her ponytail bobbing up and down as she jogged alongside them.

“How long have you been creeping on me?” Fiona asked, pulling off her headphones.

“We’ve been calling your name for, like, three minutes,” said Rita, folding her arms. How she could bike without hands, Fiona would never know.

“You know biking with your headphones in is super dangerous, right?” said Caroline, half breathless. “You’re going to turn into the path of a car and get killed, and then we’ll have to have a candlelight vigil and shit.”

“Let me get run over,” said Fiona. “I can die happy.”

Her friends shared a glance, raising eyebrows.

“Someone’s feeling sassy,” said Caroline, speeding up and turning around to face Fiona. Hearing new gossip was more important than seeing where she was going; the world would get out of her way. “What’s going on? What’s behind this crazy glow you’ve got about you?”

“I’m fine,” declared Fiona, smirking back. “It’s just a beautiful day in Hamm.”

“Wait a hot second,” said Rita, speeding up to flank her friends. Fiona felt Rita’s gaze scanning her, taking notes. Suddenly, the girl’s eyes went wide, and her vintage Schwinn stopped with a sharp scrape of tire on asphalt. “You trollop! Finally!”

Fiona slowed but never stopped. She felt her cheeks burn and her grin spread wide.

“What’s up?” panted Caroline, jogging in place next to Rita.

“Caroline, look at what she’s wearing.”

“Oh, hey, that’s…” Fiona heard Caroline gasp. “Daaamn, girl!”

Suddenly, they were at her side again, eyes bugging and mouths agape. Fiona laughed, recklessly, mischievously.

“Really!” cried Rita, looking impressed.

“Yes, really,” said Fiona, almost offended. “A good friend of mine told me six months was long enough.” Rita rolled her eyes and gave her neckline an exaggerated Even-White- Boys-Got-to-Shout tug.

“Tell me you washed that,” said Caroline, shaking her head as she ran faster. “You’re going to get sick from wearing that thing. You realize it’s probably soaked in bong water and jizz.”

“Even you cannot ruin my morning with your grossness,” said Fiona, beaming straight ahead while Rita cackled at Caroline’s remark. “It is a wonderful September day, and I am having a wonderful morning.”

“Good job getting laid, weirdo,” said Rita. “Took you long enough.”

“It was!” Fiona proudly told the morning, the silver roadside barricade, the silhouette of their school growing in the distance. “It was a good job!”

“I swear,” Caroline called over her shoulder, her ponytail still bouncing as she pulled ahead of them. “All this over Horace Palmada.”

…

Horace Palmada. Cue the click count, the bass drop, feedback, distortion. Horace Palmada. The name sounded like the boy himself, lanky and quick, moving among people with an intense kind of glee, like the world was a beautiful joke. It spoke of him physically, too: thick lashes, that bit of hair over the ears and forehead, a perpetually guilty smile on those caramel lips. Horace Palmada, who said that it always sounded better on vinyl, that Spotify cheapened the listening experience. Who rolled around with one of those boxes for his records, the kind with a lock and a handle and slots for each LP. Who had a keyboard that he talked about turning into a keytar. Who knew how to match beats and could spin a decent set of some bomb-ass shit.

She’d made Horace Palmada wait. If she was going to open up that can of worms, she wanted to be 100 percent sure. Like with a tattoo, she’d said, and he’d laughed, but he’d waited. And given how he’d acted last night, it was damn well worth the wait.

Horace Palmada seemed to call out to her as she and her friends arrived at school—through chaining up her bike and heading to her locker, there he was, a frequency that only she could hear, drawing her to the source. Loading up on her books for American Lit II felt like an obvious precursor to seeing him, and as she walked to class with her bag clutched to her chest, Fiona could feel the distance between them shortening, step by step, until bam, there he was, loping down the stairs in front of Ms. Larimer’s classroom.

They made eye contact, and her heart seized up like a fist. What if the past six months were all a lie, a game played by an extremely patient creep? What if leaving the hoodie had been an accident, a bleary-eyed mistake made by a typical boy scared of getting his ass kicked by Mr. Jones? What if he called her “bae,” or “shorty,” or “boo,” or something else equally The Worst? What if he was with that stoner friend of his who he called “Swordfish” and tried to act cool by giving her a nod or some greasy wink? It would kill her. It would blow her to smithereens. She would physically murder him—

And then he shot her a lopsided grin, and she felt her insides turn into hot chocolate. Flashbacks of last night—his neck between her teeth, the rhythm of their pressed bodies, that same smile appearing on him as they finally caught their breath and held each other in the dark—crossed her mind as he approached, making her feel light-headed. They closed in on each other, and as they passed, he reached out and put his hands on her hips.

Hands on her hips, in front of everyone. Not shoulders or elbows, her hips, her waist. She tried to keep from biting her lip and smiling like a fangirl, but she couldn’t help it.

He nodded at her headphones. “What were you listening to?”

Unf. It was always the first thing he asked when he saw her, and it got her every time. “The Scorpions.”

His grin expanded, and he gave her an ironic set of devil horns. “Killer. Rock on, girl. I have calc now, and then gym, but lunch?”

“You bet,” she said.

“Awesome.” He kissed her once, quickly but not dryly. A full kiss, not the peck they’d shared in the halls when he’d dared to kiss her at school in the past.

“That hoodie looks good on you,” he said and darted off. She spent English half awake, exploring this new feeling rushing over her again and again. Killer. Awesome.

The worst had been avoided. After last night, things had only gotten better. The hoodie was left with her in mind. It looked good on her.

…

Two periods later, he was waiting for her by the back doors with his record case strapped over his shoulder. He took her hand and led her out to the back patio and through the gauntlet of curious stares at the outdoor tables. Some of Horace’s stoner buddies gave them a lewd passing “Ooooh,” but he just rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Virgins,” he mumbled.

Once they were out on the bleachers, he and Fiona did a perimeter check—no teachers around, no dumb-ass jocks playing Frisbee—and then their eyes met, and animal instinct kicked in. She grabbed him and yanked his face to hers, their lips colliding, her hands on his face and neck. His hands clamped onto her hips and pulled her against him, then snaked around her waist and squeezed her until she could barely breathe. They were being sloppy, she knew, but it was as though they’d opened the floodgates last night, and now she wanted to be daring and brazen with him.

“What if we went for it again right now?” she whispered. “Right here, on the bleachers?”

“You’re crazy, girl,” he whispered back. “Maybe if you were wearing a skirt.” She cackled, and they resumed making out.

A few minutes later, they separated. She lay back on the bleacher with her head on his lap, and he dug deli sandwiches out of his bag. They ate in satisfied silence.

“What time did you finally leave this morning?” she asked, relishing the decadence of their late-night tryst.

“Around four thirty,” he groaned, stretching his arms.

“Good, you got out in time,” she said.

“Girl, I’m slick as hell.” He leaned over; she sat halfway up, and they kissed in the middle. “Seriously, though, you don’t think your dad saw me?”

“He would’ve said something.” She laughed. “He’s not great at subtlety. Got any new vinyl?”

“That I do,” he said. “Hold on, I’ll show you.”

They sat up and got down to business. He unlatched his case and removed a short stack of records, mostly electronica, psytrance, and hip-hop, but also a few gems, items he knew were more her speed—a Ramones LP after Infected Mushroom, some Doors next to Deadmau5, and spookier beats like Espectrostatic and Portishead remixes throughout. She knew he’d gotten these records only to impress her, and it actually made his rock-and-roll finds even sweeter. He liked making her smile.

As she flipped through his new offerings, she could tell that something was up. Normally, he went on and on about each record in detail—studio location, production, release year, the whole Wikipedia entry. Instead, he seemed to be waiting—

“Whoa!” she said, revealing a cover festooned with a grinning, ax-wielding zombie whose name she knew—Eddie, Eddie the Head. Iron Maiden’s Killers, a classic. “This album rules. You’re super true for having this, you realize.”

He grinned. “It was my uncle’s. He finally let me go cherry-pick through his collection last week. He also had some Whitesnake, but this seemed more up your alley.”

“You’ve got to spin this as much as possible. Work it into your set.”

“That’ll be hard when it’s at your place.”

It took her a second to parse what he was saying. When her eyes finally met his, she saw the sparkle in them. Her heart bent in the middle, and a look of disbelief crossed her face. “No, no, wait, this was your uncle’s, you can’t just give it to me—”

“It’s yours,” he said, shaking his head and looking down at his hands. “You know I’m not huge into the heavy stuff. I’m just glad you like it.”

She felt choked up. It was too much; he was too much. He kept surprising her. She remembered the night before, when her hands had shaken as she’d told him about Harry Suggs at that party the year before they’d started dating. Keeping it from him was a mistake. She’d told herself that she had no reason not to tell him; she was her own woman and could do whatever the hell she liked, and if it upset him, well, screw him…but for some reason, it worried her, and she’d choked at the last minute and hid it from him. When she blurted out the truth, that she’d rushed to lose her virginity, she played out a mental soap opera of him calling her a lying whore and storming off in a huff. But Horace had just shrugged and said he didn’t care, that was then and this was now, and she’d felt that wave of safety pass over her, like there wasn’t a problem in the world that could touch them.

She was about to jump on him again when another record caught her eye.

It was like the world stopped spinning on its axis. Like all sound faded into a single deep note.

The record’s sleeve was a hard green, with a patch of shiny lines at its center—no, not lines. Scales. The green of the background was the exact same shade as the snake coiled at the center of the album cover. The longer she stared, the more she could discern—the glittering body, the striped, diamond-shaped head, the forked tongue, the beady, orange eyes hanging over gaping, black nostrils. And there, floating above the bunched mass of venomous muscle, were two words in an industrial font:

PIT VIPER

“Where’d you get this?” she asked, finding her mouth dry. She felt a head rush as the memories came rocketing back to her, turning her giddiness into confusion and fear.

It couldn’t be.

“Oh, man, this guy’s amazing,” Horace said. “I found it at that shop on Main Street. He’s a DJ and programmer whose stuff has this sick heavy-bass sound but does these soaring things on top of them that sound like, I dunno, like fire in Heaven or something.” He eyed her for a moment, wary of her fascination. “Sorry if that sounds crazy. Have you heard of him?”

“Actually, yeah,” she said numbly, “yeah, I have.”