Kids in suits and cocktail dresses are crushed up against the stage, staring at her with stars in their eyes.
Hannah gives the students her most dazzling smile.
“I don’t like this,” Principal Herrera says darkly, crossing his arms. “She’s too giddy. It’s foreboding.”
“They’ve been great all night,” I assure him. “Total pros.”
“This last song is an homage to the Dead Kennedys, my sister Ginny’s favorite band,” Hannah says. “Ginny was a legend here at Bonita Vista High. One day you’ll all graduate and go off into the world and learn valuable life lessons. And you see, Ginny discovered something very valuable onherFall Bash night when she tried to lose her virginity.”
Titters erupt among the students. Beside me, Principal Herrera stiffens.
“Years ago, we wrote this song for her. Let it be a reminder to all of you about the dangers of combining sex and alcohol.”
I’m trying to smile at Herrera, but I know it’s probably coming out as a grimace. “See? It’s educational.”
The band launches into their song in perfect synchronicity, a wall of sound erupting out of nowhere—a technical feat that would be impressive, except I recognize the opening notes as one of the joke songs I’ve heard them sing on the tour bus. At least, I’d thought it was a joke. “Oh, no,” I whisper. “Please tell me they’re not actually doing this.”
Hannah leans close to the mic and half shuts her eyes. “She’s too drunk for love,” she sings, and Kenny and Ripper echo into their mics in short, staccato clips: “Too drunk for love.”
The crowd of formal-clad teenagers turns to one another with their mouths open. The next moment, they’re screaming.
“Absolutely not!” shouts Principal Herrera. “Inappropriate sub-text!”
“Such shitty luck,” Hannah sings, barreling away on her guitar. “All dressed up and she’s too drunk to . . . touch.”
Girls start holding hands and jumping, like the Future Saints’ monumental disregard for school rules is the best thing that’s ever happened to them.
“Cursing. Underage drinking.” Next to me, Herrera starts pacing. “I should run out there and take her microphone away.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” I hold up my hands soothingly. “It’s just a bit of fun. Look, your students love it.”
The tempo of the song slows playfully. Musically, it’s pretty inventive, a quality I’d admired in the van before I knew it would be used for evil.
“Took a couple shots,” Hannah sings, waltzing with her guitar, really hamming it up. “Tequila on the rocks. Thought she’d blow his mind. Instead, she’s barfing wine.”
“She can’t say that on school grounds,” Herrera groans.
Hannah actually tilts her head, finds my eyes on the side of the stage, and winks. Then she twirls, every inch the campy showman. “Too drunk—”
Herrera hits his tipping point. Before I can react, he speedwalks across the stage, sight locked on Hannah’s microphone. I gasp, the students gasp, the chaperones gasp, but Hannah sees him coming out
of the corner of her eye, twists the mic out of the stand, and takes off.
“For loooove,” she croons, dodging Herrera as he careens for her.
“Too drunk for love,” Kenny and Ripper echo dutifully. Hannah kicks her legs in a jaunty little dance as Herrera rears back around. Jesus, she’s actually having fun with this. She skids away from him and flings her arms out to the crowd when she’s successful. They cheer.
Kenny and Ripper escalate the speed—it’s the climax of the song, and Kenny smashes his drums, cymbals clashing one after the other. Hannah jumps off the stage still clutching themic, Principal Herrera scrambling after her much less deftly. The crowd of astonished, gleeful students parts while Hannah does a version of a run where she kicks her legs high in the air, Herrera limping after her. “Stay beautiful, Bonita Vista High!” she yells. “Ginny Cortland says never let the bastards grind you down!” As they cheer, she bursts through the double doors of the exit and streaks into the hall.
Chapter 44
Hannah
Saturday, October 19, 2024
Hannah Marie Cortland, as I live and breathe!” Keri Marisculo sprints down the beach. “It’s been too long!”
I stand up from the bonfire just in time to get tackled. “God, Keri, you haven’t changed a bit.” She’s got the same streaky highlights, same nose ring, that Bugs Bunny tattoo—she even smells like that supersweet Victoria’s Secret perfume we all wore back in high school. She hugs me so hard we almost tip into the sand.
