She rolled her eyes like she was teasing, but he could see there was a grain of hurt there. His mother liked to brag about having seen the Clash at a Deaf Club in Kalamazoo, but he decided it was best to leave that bit out for the moment.
I’m so far behind on everything. Even the Deafest kid in school knows more about music than me.
I don’t.
Sure.
I don’t know what it sounds like.
She paused at this.
Well?
You’re asking the wrong girl.
No, really—you hear stuff, right?
Not like hearing people.
Still. What does listening feel like?
Charlie looked up at the ceiling, as if maybe the answer was scrawled above her head. Around them, the music was running taut through the room.
Frustrating. Like, information is flowing in and I work really hard to sort through it but it still doesn’t make sense. And it’s slippery—it moves, changes, so when I—pah!—understand one thing, three more fly by. Plus when people see the CI they expect me to hear like a normal person, so they talk fast, they cover their mouths…
That sounds…bad.
Yeah.
But trying to follow a conversation is different than this, right?
He gestured at the speakers. To him, it felt a bit relentless, but he could see how someone might find solace in the steadiness, too.
This—
She copied the sweep of his arm.
Amazing. But I turn my implant off here.
You never listen?
Why ruin a good thing?
There were more shots, more vapor from Sid’s pen. Following Charlie’s lead, Austin downed a small white pill passed his way by one of the crew. The more he drank, the more he could see the bandmates’ allure—they were confident, moved with the assurance that they were doing exactly what they should be at any moment, even when much of what they were doing on the dance floor was objectively awkward-looking.
Seeing Slash glom on to a girl from the crowd—one to whom they hadn’t been introduced—helped his mood considerably. Austin held tight to Charlie as they danced, tried not to mind that the ferocity of her grinding intensified each time Slash inserted his tongue into the girl’s mouth. Austin let her exorcise the dregs of whatever had happened between her and Slash against him. The room spun, time stretched out languid before him, he closed his eyes and allowed his senses to contract to two: scent and touch, salt and heat.
Only when he began to sweat off the drugs did the jealousy crop up again. Slash tapped Charlie on the shoulder and asked her something Austin couldn’t track.
He says they’ve got a surprise. You want to go? Charlie asked.
O-k, he said, trying not to look too interested.
Right on, said Slash, and handed them both another shot.
* * *
—
Though he had been glad to be jacketless in the warehouse, outside it was freezing, and Austin pulled his hat down over his ears.
Where we going?
Their house.
He watched Slash and Lem slide behind a piece of plywood and into one in a row of boarded houses, to which Charlie had no reaction. The bandmates each returned with a brown paper grocery bag, a third boy now beside them.
G-r-e-g, said Charlie.
Slash tucked his bag under one arm, mimed a pair of little explosions with his free hand. Greg and Sid took off running, Sid waving for them to follow. Charlie said something aloud, Slash countered, then turned to catch up with his mates, who had already made it to the end of the street.
Maybe we should skip.
The glow of Charlie’s high had faded; she looked rattled.
You feel o-k?
Yeah, she said. It’s just that S-l-a-s-h and them can be…wild.
New Year’s fireworks?
Sure, she said. Right.
She didn’t look convinced, but Austin was still quite high and wanted to prove to Charlie that he could roll with a little mischief. He began to jog, pulling her along after her friends.
He and Charlie caught up with them at what looked like the on-ramp to an overpass, where the group had stalled and seemed to be arguing. He eyed the No Pedestrians sign at its mouth.
Do you know what they’re saying?
Not really. They’re looking for something.
Sid stomped his foot and the others rolled their eyes at him, but apparently his display of obstinence had decided something. Slash beckoned Austin and Charlie over.
R-e-a-d-y?
For what? Charlie said.
But Slash just bolted up the concrete incline. Charlie looked at Austin, then followed.
The highway was the emptiest Austin had ever seen it. It must’ve been nearly midnight, the whole county inside, staring at a tiny glass ball on television. Greg and Sid had run fifty feet down the road, where an abandoned car sat, a dirty undershirt tied to its sideview mirror. Greg smashed the passenger’s side window with a chunk of tar, and then, with Sid, began to push at the car, rocking it side to side.
What are they doing?
No idea.
Austin saw Slash sigh and hand his brown bag to Lem, then run to help. The three boys got a little more leverage, but it wasn’t enough. They turned to Austin.
You don’t have to, Charlie said.
I know, he said, but he was already walking toward them.
The four of them had the car on its side quickly so that it fell into the road, blocking the right lane. Lem and Charlie trotted over with the bags, and Austin surveyed the contents—as far as he could tell, they were filled with Roman candles and other fireworks. A single car whizzed by.
Slash thrust his arm deep into his bag and pulled a pair of small red cylinders from the bottom. He held them up to Austin, waiting for him to be impressed.
M-8-0-s! he said, when Austin didn’t respond.
Oh, he said, nodding, though he knew nothing about them. Cool.
Greg dumped the rest of the bag into the car through the broken window, and Lem did the same with hers. Then Slash flicked his lighter, flame undulating in the night wind, and pried open the fuel tank.
Now! he shouted as he tucked the firecracker into the tank and lit the fuse. The group sprinted back down to the lip of the ramp. Austin felt the explosion before he had time to fully turn and watch the show—crackle of red, white, and green cutting through the night. It was easy to be in awe of the colorful clusters breaking against the darkness of road and sky, conditioned as humans are to marvel at pyrotechnic displays. Then the fireworks gave way to fire. A plume of smoke rose, just a shade lighter than the cast of the sky itself, and Slash and his friends took off down the street, past their house, and deeper into the city.
Austin and Charlie followed them to a block that showed some signs of life. The group ducked into a bar, where inside, the New Year’s crowd looked less than celebratory. They pushed into a back room and took up residence in a corner booth.
They were all still heaving to catch their breath when a waitress slammed a tray of sweaty beers on their table and shook her head at them.
Hell yeah, said Lem, when the woman left.
I told you! said Sid.
The friends clinked bottles and Austin sat watching them revel for a while, without trying to understand what they were saying, or even what exactly had happened. The bartender brought a round of whiskey shots. They drank.
Why? Austin said, looking to Slash.
Huh? said Slash.
Austin cleared his throat: Why did you do that?
He was grateful that the group seemed unfazed by the thickness of his accent. It made him wonder what Charlie’s voice sounded like.
Two reasons, Slash said, holding up his fingers, but Austin lost him after that, and looked to Charlie.
He says it’s a protest, she said.
Protesting what?
Well, more like general display of dissatisfaction.
But wasn’t that someone’s car?
Charlie relayed.
He says, S-i-d watched and it sat there a long time. He says if the city has to spend money for cleanup, they get the message.
What message?
Anger, she said.