“But the things you said to each other—”
“I am Corporate Dorkus 3000,” Ripper interrupts. “I do not compute your human ways.”
“All right.” Theo holds up his hands. “Fine. Forget I said anything.”
Kenny shoots by. “Actually, Suit, no offense, but it’s bad luck to stand in the middle of the bowl like that. We kind of need you to beat it.”
Theo nods, fake-serious. “Right. Bad energy. Better get some crystals.” He grins at me, but I widen my eyes and shake my head in warning.
Kenny circles back. “What’d he say about my crystals?”
“He loves them,” I assure him. “And believes in their healing power.”
“The Suit’s gotta go,” Ripper crows. “Emergency meeting, band only.”
“Go, Suit, go,” Kenny chants, winking at me as he passes. That’s when I understand: pushing Theo out is a demonstration of loyalty, an olive branch after yesterday’s argument.
I catch Theo’s eyes. The corners of his mouth tug up into a barely suppressed smile. The same adrenaline that flooded me while skateboarding rushes back even though I’m standing still.
“No worries,” he says, glancing at Ripper and Kenny as they cruise away. “They’re right. No dickheads allowed.”
Theo salutes me, just a touch of his fingers to his forehead, like I did to him the night of the pool party. He turns back around and keeps walking, leaving a complicated heat in my chest.
Ginny steps beside me. She looks at him, then at me. “Hey, Hannah?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember that space movie we watched in Mike Donavan’s basement in middle school, the one with the family and the robot?”
“Yeah.”
“What was the warning that robot kept saying whenever they encountered a dangerous alien life-form?”
I swallow, my eyes on Theo’s back. “Danger, Will Robinson.”
She pushes a finger into my arm. “Danger, Hannah Cortland.”
Chapter 10
Theo
Saturday, April 20, 2024
When I was a kid, I used to lie on my bedroom floor late into the night, playing my dad’s records. I had a dream that his favorite bands would act like a siren call and lure him home. Over the years, of course, that dream faded. In its place, I started imagining what my future life would look like—and I figured no matter what I did, the most important thing was to become the kind of man my father would regret leaving. In my wildest fantasies, I used to picture standing exactly where I am now, on the edge of an iconic stage, watching a rock band—myrock band—bring down the house in front of hundreds of screaming fans. So as the shouts of the crowd mingle with Hannah’s voice, as Ripper dances around the Sunset Theater stage, and Kenny’s drumming vibrates my bones, I can’t help but become that dreaming kid again, half shocked that I made my fantasies real.
The Saints’ song comes to a thundering end, and I stuff my hands in my pockets and survey the crowd. Like Roger predicted, the Saints’ virality sold a ton of tickets, and the size of the crowd seems to have breathed new life into the band. A group of guys close to the stage have gotten rowdy, knockingshoulders. People are stuffed into every square inch of the place, swaying and singing, knitted together by the music. If my dad—that gruff man who used to come home every night sore and dirty from the garage to put on a record—could see me now, I wonder what he’d think.
As the next song starts, I can’t resist nodding along to Kenny’s percussion. This song’s BPM is just a touch faster than a heartbeat. Slowly, it steals control over my pulse, making me sweat. Hannah leans in close to the mic with her eyes closed, fingers moving fast over her guitar. Her mouth opens in a perfectOas she raises her voice to hit a high note, and I’m stilled by the picture she makes, her messy hair covering half her face, effortlessly beautiful. This is what fans feel when they look at a star. It’s a seductive awe, a loss of professional objectivity. I let it heat me, then force myself to remember Hannah in the skate park telling me about her sister. She’s just a human being.
Slowly, the feeling fades.
“Last song,” Hannah says, wiping her forehead on her sleeve. “It’s a new one. You’re going to be the first people in the world to hear it.”
The audience erupts into cheers. I jerk my chin to Bowie. “What new song?”
He presses his lips together. “I don’t know.” But I can read his guilty body language as easily as I can read an irate email from Roger in thirty-two-point font.
“You’re a bad liar,” I yell over the cheers. “They’re supposed to clear new music with me.”
