5

For me, it’s the production that’s the best part,” said Caroline as she pulled her mom’s sedan onto the highway.

Fiona glanced up from fiddling with the radio, making sure to drench her stare in a healthy coating of You’re kidding me. Right? “What do you mean? He’s just a DJ. Production doesn’t factor into it.”

“There’s no way he’s just a DJ. With the sounds he’s making, he’s got to be doing something special. Adding keyboards, altering the bass and the balance… I don’t know.” She caught Fiona’s expression and elbowed her lightly, laughing. “Fuck you, I can think things about an album’s production! You don’t have the monopoly on feelings about music!”

“How compressed does the bass sound?” asked Fiona. “Can you hear the space in the studio? Does he have more of a Timbaland recording style, or was it like the time you worked with Phil Spector?”

Caroline smirked haughtily. “Tell me about all the studio time you’ve logged, Ms. Jones. You know, with your band.”

“Oof, wounded.” Fiona grinned, but she definitely felt the comment’s sting. It was a running joke among her friends— Fiona, the guitarist with no band. She’d tried, of course, over and over. She’d jammed in practically every garage in Hamm, with cover band members in their early forties, rap metal thirteen-year-olds, and even for a few days with the Hamm First Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints band (it had all gone south when she asked if they could cover a Black Sabbath song). But it never worked. She hated the confines of playing easily labeled material and always secretly wished she was home pouring her heart out through Betty. That, or she went off on three-minute self-indulgent solos that resulted in a lot of foot tapping from the remaining members. During those jam seshes, Fiona always got an irritated vibe from Betty, like her guitar felt offended at being forced to plunk through yet another rendition of “Drops of Jupiter.”

“All I’m saying is, there’s something special about that record,” said Caroline. “This Pit Viper isn’t your typical hands- in-the-air type. He has a true sense of musicianship.”

Fiona bit the inside of her cheek. Caroline’s opinion was popular; more and more, she was hearing the Pit Viper’s music booming out of cars and worming through the cracks between her headphones and her ears.

But the worst part was that it felt like the album was following her and her alone. Every morning, as she checked the usual indie-music blogs and web forums, she expected to see a thread pop up hailing the DJ’s self-titled debut as genius, or dissing it as derivative…but there was nothing. No mixtapes or parties he’d curated, no SoundCloud or Bandcamp where his music was available to stream or download, no merch portal. The only mentions she’d seen of the Pit Viper on the internet were in social media posts from other kids from Hamm.

“You’re certainly talking him up enough,” said Fiona. “Careful, watch that truck.”

“It’s just nice to get into an album that doesn’t sound like everything else.”

“No comment,” said Fiona. Caroline loved whatever was on the radio. Fiona had suffered through too many Justin- Bieber-fueled study sessions (Rita was too distracting to do homework with—they just ended up talking). So, what had her branching out into spooky electronica? Who’d tipped her off? “Did Horace give you the record?”

“I think I found it posted on Jared Vanderway’s Facebook,” said Caroline. She raised an eyebrow at Fiona. “Why? Worried Horace and I might be—dare I say it—sharing Spotify playlists?”

“No!” said Fiona, laughing. “God, is it weird that that’s on par with cheating for me?”

“I bet if you found out he made a playlist for another girl, you’d be furious,” said Caroline.

“I would fucking murder her,” said Fiona.

They settled on Fleetwood Mac—not Fiona’s personal favorite, but at least she and Caroline could agree on it. As she stared out the window and watched the highway roll past, something nagged at her. Was it the Horace comment? Caroline was always a self-aggrandizing smart-ass—it was what Fiona loved about her—but she herself got super jealous when it came to boyfriends, so she made it a point not to goad anyone in the same position. Maybe now that she and Horace had finally slept together, Fiona was just becoming a territorial psycho.

But there was something else.

Production?

Caroline liked songs you could shake your ass to; the only music she and Fiona ever agreed on were sexy artists like Prince. Caroline didn’t know anything about production, or bass, or balance; usually she declared Fiona “a hipster” for trying to explain those things to her. But here she was, going into detail over the impressive sounds of the Pit Viper, the ghost from Fiona’s past who was suddenly back and inundating her group of friends like it was no big deal.

The way the DJ’s music had infiltrated her social sphere was only part of it—Fiona also didn’t care for the music itself, even though everyone else around her adored it. Caroline was right, there was more to the Pit Viper’s music than just break beats and samples, and whatever instruments he used or pitch he played at turned Fiona’s stomach. She’d listened to one or two more songs last night at Horace’s request, but she could only take a minute or so of each before she turned them off. The other day, he’d tried to put it on before they had sex; it had made her skin crawl, and he’d seemed genuinely upset when she’d asked him to turn it off. It had always been that way with Fiona and music, ever since she’d bought her first Important Albums (Machine Head by Deep Purple and Version 2.0 by Garbage, both of which she’d discovered in a mall bargain bin just weeks after the night at the winery sign). She’d heard those albums and known, deep in her gut. Her gut feeling had only ever done her right, and even when it alienated her from her friends, she’d trusted it.

She trusted it now. Something was off.

Her face screwed up. Ridiculous. So what if the Pit Viper’s music had made its way to Hamm? So what if she didn’t like it? Even if he’d sent promos there on purpose, it was no more than a middle finger to the people who had pissed him off… right?

The city rose in the distance, a series of towering gray blocks and mirrored, knifelike skyscrapers. Soon they passed through the cramped residential areas and pulled off the highway just short of downtown, outside of a beige cube of a building with barred windows that served as a community center. Their dads were waiting outside and gave them big smiles and waves as they got out of the car.

Fiona forced a smile at Caroline’s dad as she approached. The night at the winery sign wasn’t the only thing that made Fiona feel weird around Darren Fiddler. He seemed as angry and fed up as Edgar Hokes, but he always came off as weak and powerless about it. He let Caroline and her mother walk all over him, but not without the occasional sneer of rage crossing his face. Still, he was a council member and a friend of her father’s, so nothing could be said about it in Fiona’s household. The thought made her smile falter. In Hamm, all you had to do was be friends with Robert Jones and everyone would overlook the fact that you were a goon.

Inside, the remaining eleven council families were bustling around a yellowed basement room, getting the cafeteria space ready for breakfast. Chairs and tables were unfolded; coolers of coffee and tea were dragged to their proper stations, plastic bins piled high with onions and peppers were carted to the kitchen. The Joneses knew the drill—within seconds, Fiona was wearing gloves, an apron, and a sailor-esque paper hat.

She thanked God that Rita’s family wasn’t on the council. It was one thing for these kids to see her in this getup, but her fashionable, vintage-clad friend would never let her live it down. And if Horace ever saw her in it…

She smiled wickedly. Maybe he’d like it. Maybe he’d ask her to keep the hat on.

“Any idea where we are today?” she asked Caroline.

“Extra bread and wipe-down,” she responded, pouring Fiona a cup of coffee. “I can’t believe we still have to do this. Weekends are for sleeping late and catching up on Netflix, if you ask me.”

“It’s our civic duty,” said Fiona, mimicking her dad’s voice.

“Yeah, okay,” said Caroline. “At least your dad’s a goofball. Mine’s just, Be there at nine. No excuses.”

“Could be worse.” Filip Moss grunted as he hauled a cooler of tea onto a folding table. His much-whispered-about biceps tattoo—H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu chowing down on the planet earth—flexed when he lifted the heavy plastic container. “My dad has an air horn.”

The girls laughed. Filip was something that perplexed everyone: a functional weirdo. The fact that he was a handsome six-two defensive tackle for the Hamm High Razorbacks was made immediately dubious by his Toxic Holocaust shirt and how high he always was. When Fiona became guitar crazy, her parents assumed she and Filip would be an item, but they’d gone on one semi-date that went nowhere—she needed more presence, and he needed more drama. She vaguely remembered hearing that his current girlfriend had a neck tattoo and was named Lilith or something.

“And how do you deal with losing your Saturday, Filip?” asked Fiona. “Hot tea and meditation?”

“Hot tea is certainly a name for it,” said the boy with a stoned grin. “The Black Dahlia Murder and high-grade sativa dominant.”

“How did you even get this baked between waking up and coming here?” asked Caroline, peering into the boy’s bloodshot eyes.

“Blazed in the shower,” he said. “It takes some maneuvering.”

Once everything was set up, Fiona’s dad stood on a chair and waved his arms in the air. The whole room went quiet at once, hanging on Robert Jones’s every word. His command over these people, Fiona noted, was incredible.

“All right, guys, this is three of our seven-breakfast pledge for the soup kitchen,” he said. “I feel like we’ve got a good rhythm going, so let’s keep it up. Remember: be informative and polite. Not everyone’s as lucky as us. Least we can do is show them some dignity.”

Just like that, everyone hustled to his or her station with looks of righteous determination. As she and Caroline headed to a table loaded with bagels and croissants, Fiona’s mind burned with the green album cover, the coiled snake, the DJ’s name in letters as black as the reptile’s eyes.

Everyone in Hamm sure was lucky. And people got beaten up to keep it that way.

The morning proceeded slowly. Caroline was over- caffeinated too early in the game, and her banter soon became a steady rhythmic hum of mumbled complaints and narrating what she was doing. Fiona just focused on the job at hand, tossing rolls and snacks into wax paper bags and handing them out to the steady line of soup-kitchen regulars. She took a moment to make eye contact and say, “You’re welcome” to any thanks she got.

It felt corny, because this was her Saturday morning and she knew she should resent it, but her dad was right, she loved this—giving people what they needed, the rush of warmth she felt every time she handed someone their daily bread. And even though Hamm’s fakeness and shady history bothered her, she sometimes wondered if kids from the city grew up too cynical and desensitized to appreciate a moment like this. She yearned to break free from her small town, but at least it had taught her that all people were people.

She didn’t notice Will Hokes until he was leaning on his broom in front of her, peeling back his lips to reveal a gum-heavy smile. Fiona thought he looked like a ’roided-out orangutan.

“Yo, Jones,” he said, scratching his belly through his polo shirt. “Yo, Fiddler, butter me up some toast, girl.”

“Fuck you, Hokes,” said Caroline genuinely.

“Jones, you’re looking smashable today,” said Will. “Why are you wasting all that on Horace Palmada, girl?”

Now it was Fiona’s turn. “Because he’s not a piece of shit like you, Hokes.”

“Is it true he’s DJing Tess Baron’s party?” asked Will. “Pretty impressive. I didn’t realize you guys were in with that crowd.”

Fiona felt her brow knit despite herself. That couldn’t be true, could it? Horace hadn’t said anything, and Tess Baron was a self-important hipster insect.

Still, she couldn’t give Will Hokes any satisfaction. “Horace can do what he likes, you fucking mouth breather.”

“Oooh, defensive, I dig it,” chuckled Will. A small line of newcomers waiting for bread was forming behind him, but the huge boy seemed to ignore them. “Does he show you his burrito, si? His spicy Palmada enchilada, eh, chica?”

Fiona opened her mouth to unload a torrent of rage, when: “The Palmadas are Peruvian. Enchiladas are Mexican.”

All heads turned to Calvin, bright-eyed and lanky, standing at his twin’s side. He smiled politely, though his eyes flickered to Fiona’s chest every few seconds.

“Oh, who cares, Cal,” said Will, rolling his eyes. “Whatever Peruuuvians eat instead of rice and beans and shit.”

“Actually, Peruvians do eat rice and beans,” said Cal.

Will shook his head. “My brother, everyone. Give him a hand.”

Fiona couldn’t take it. A Hokes brother was hard to deal with on his own, but both of them at once threatened to ruin her charitable mood. “Guys, you’re clogging my station. Get out of here.”

Will did a poor imitation—“Clogging my station, meh meh meeeeh”—but wandered off to sweep between tables. Calvin hung around for a moment, like he wanted to say something, but then just mumbled, “Welp,” and turned back to the basement.

Fiona decided that as long as she had an aggressive spark going, she should blow on it. “Calvin, hold up.” The boy turned, his eyes wide with excitement at hearing Fiona Jones of all people say his name. Well, thought Fiona, too bad. “Next time you feel like telling your family who I’m dating, go ahead and don’t.”

He blinked rapidly, looking surprised. Next to Fiona, Caroline whistled.

“Sorry?”

“You heard me. Your dad had dinner at my place the other night, and he said you were telling him about Horace and me. Next time, mind your own business, okay?”

“I didn’t realize it was a secret,” he said, his cheeks flushing red.

“Who I’m dating doesn’t concern you.” It was difficult staying angry at such a square, but she kept it going. “Just keep my name out of your mouth.”

Calvin nodded, a hangdog expression falling over his saltine face, and then turned and slowly sauntered off. Fiona and Caroline handed out bread in silence for a few moments. Fiona felt her righteous anger disappear, leaving a gross, cold spot in its place.

“That was mean, wasn’t it?” she mumbled to Caroline.

Caroline shrugged. “Yeah, kind of. I mean, it is none of his business, but Cal isn’t a jerk like his brother, just super in love with you. You could let him have his little crush.”

Fiona sighed, guilt slowly overwhelming her. “Ugh. I just don’t like how he looks at me, you know? Blecch. And great, now I feel shitty.”

“Okay, it’s break time for Fiona,” said Caroline, giving her a slap on the back. “Go take a lap, splash some water on your face. I’ll hold down the fort.”

Fiona weaved between the tables of homeless diners, smiling and waving at the repeat visitors. She beelined for the back hallway where the administrative bathrooms were. The morning had been emotionally taxing—if it wasn’t worrying about the Pit Viper, it was feeling guilty about telling Cal Hokes what he should already know.

She reached the linoleum corridor and was about to turn a corner when her father’s voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

“You think it could be him?”

Fiona’s breath caught. Her dad wasn’t speaking in the tone of voice he’d used this morning to instill order into the town council. Instead, he sounded like the man she’d watched from the side of the road nine years ago.

“You know anyone else who goes by that name, Bob?” said Edgar Hokes.

She peeked around the corner. The two men stood with their backs to her, hunched over a square in Robert Jones’s hand—a green CD case. She couldn’t read the writing on it, but she had an idea of what it said.

“Could be someone else,” grumbled her dad. “Bands reuse names all the time. Kids today aren’t too original.”

“You willing to take that risk?” asked Edgar.

Robert tapped his thumb on the cover. “Calvin had this?”

“William. I found it while looking around his room.”

“What were you doing looking around his room?”

“What do you care?” A pause. “I’m worried he’s smoking. Point is, I found it.”

Robert nodded. “He know anything about it?”

“About…him? Of course not.” A pause. “You ever told your… Fiona?”

“No,” said Robert. They stared at the cover for some time. “Okay. Talk to Darren, keep your eyes peeled. If you hear anything from the boys that could prove that it’s him, you come to me.”

“What do we do if it is him?” asked Edgar.

“Well, what did we say we’d do?”

Fiona turned and headed back the way she’d come as silently as possible, her feeling of weary accomplishment replaced by disgust and fear.