“He’s invincible,” Matt whispers, at the same time Hannah mutters, “Show-off.”
Katrina slowly pulls the stick back out—no harm, no foul—and we breathe a sigh of relief.
Ripper throws out his arms and yells, “I am a golden god,” then blows hard on the fire, sending an impressive gust into the air just as a familiar man in a Himalayan warrior robe ambles past. Instantly, the robe catches fire.
“Gunthy!” Kenny yelps. Dr. G looks back at his flaming behind and shrieks, taking off across the living room. Ripper runs after him, shouting, “Dude, hold on! Let me put it out.” The two of them streak into the hallway.
“Well.” Kenny shrugs and turns back to us. “Not the first fire at a Gunthy party. Theo, truth or dare?”
I’m still debating whether to go chasing after the Fire Brothers, so I’m distracted when I say, “Truth.”
“I’m about to take your measure as a man,” Kenny warns. “Favorite album.”
It’s an impossible question to answer among musicians. I try to think of what would impress him without bruising his ego. Art-house rock so obscure no one’s heard of it? An underappreciated classic? Music to trip to? But before I can choose, whatever drug Dr. G is pumping through the vents cuts through all the bullshit and I tell the truth: “Whitesnake.Saints and Sinners.”
“Oof.” Matt winces. “You’ve heard ofgoodrecords, right?”
But Kenny’s face holds no condemnation. “Why?”
I don’t want to reveal pieces of myself to the band. But I’m in for a penny. Might as well go for the pound. “Because it was my dad’s favorite. He used to play it when he came home from work. After he left, I listened to it every night for a year.”
Matt crosses his arms. “That’s kind of a bummer story, man.”
I shrug, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. Except . . . after a beat, as usual, I can’t help but check Hannah’s. She’s watching me curiously. “My turn,” I say, to cut the tension. I lift an eyebrow at her. “You playing?”
Hannah frowns for a moment, like she’s weighing something. Then she says, “Truth.”
“Why won’t you let me play guitar?” Ripper calls, running back into the room shirtless and soaked, a wet, sooty T-shirt in hand.
“Because you’re the dummy who lit Dr. G on fire,” Hannah says.
Ripper flops on the floor. “Relax. He jumped into a bathtub. He’s fine.”
“The real question: Why are you called the Future Saints? Where does your name come from?” I couldn’t find anything about it in their interviews.
Ripper grins. “Easy. One day we’ll be worshipped as the gods of rock we are.”
“The ayahuasca is really unleashing you, huh, Rip?”
I’m wondering if Hannah will even answer when she clears her throat. “In high school Ginny and I were always getting called to the principal’s office, and our mom would get fed up. One day Ginny just looked at her and said, ‘Mom,relax. We might be devils today, but I swear we’ll be saints tomorrow.’”
Ripper throws his head back. “‘Tomorrow, tomorrow, there’s always tomorrow!’” Next to him, Kenny howls.
I study Hannah’s face. “So it’s a promise?”
“Promises are important to the human species,” intones Matt, like a master’s thesis sprung to life. “According to Yuval Noah Harari, our success is due to the fact that we’re the only species capable of collectively imagining the future. Making promises is what helped us to form early societies.” His attention moves to the corner of the room and he brightens. “Look! Bouncy castle.”
I’m still processing his whiplash moods when the whimsical opening chords of Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” emanate from the speakers. My stomach drops at the familiar notes. “Hannah, did you—”
She shakes her head. “I swear I had nothing to do with it.”
Matt gives me a guilty look and runs for the inflatable castle. I lunge for him, but Hannah grabs my arm. “Let him go. We can babysit from here.”
I watch him cannonball into the castle. “Rolling Stoneis either going to love us or hate us in the morning.” I’m trying to focus on Matt, but there’s a heat growing under my collar. Through the speak-ers, David Coverdale is singing about not knowing where he’s going, and every word is one I’ve memorized.
“Forget about work for a minute.” Whitesnake pounds the key-boards, and Coverdale’s voice rises. Hannah takes my hands and laces our fingers together. Before I can decide how to react, the electric guitars and drums come crashing in, and Hannah sways, forcing me to join her. She laughs and lifts our locked hands, and my heart lifts with them.
People around us start to dance as we move into the chorus and David Coverdale shouts about being born to walk alone. Hannah headbangs, thrashing her hair and playing air guitar like my dad used to, except she actually knows what she’s doing. But I don’t. I love and hate this song so much my heart aches at the dissonance.
