Ryan just stood there looking sad and glamorous, modeling. Liam tried to imitate him but he felt like a freak. His pants were falling down, his shoes were ugly, and the body paint was itchy.
“One Mississippi, two Mississippi,” he counted silently in his head, the way his mom used to count and pat his bottom soothingly at bedtime when he was little. He wished he was home, not playing Fortnite necessarily, but maybe talking to Shy on FaceTime and eating Ben & Jerry’s.
“More, Pimples! More!” Trey barked from behind him.
Liam raised his arms overhead like he was under arrest and faced the crowd. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.”
The result was stupendous.
“Yes. Shoot video now!” Trey hissed at the photographers.
Not to be outdone, Ryan mimed taking a bullet and fell down on the sidewalk. The boys in line hit the lighter apps on their phones and drew around him in a circle, holding a vigil over his prone form.
“Bullshit!” the boys chanted, their voices loud and furious. “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit…!”
“Bullshit!” Ryan shouted from the sidewalk, eyes closed, the veins at his temples bulging sweatily. The word echoed down the Bowery, ricocheting against the buildings and resounding in the cold night air. It felt like all of Lower Manhattan was filled with chanting boys. It was thrilling, powerful.
A siren wailed and a police car pulled up, lights flashing.
“Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit!” every boy on the sidewalk except Liam shouted. He zipped up his hoodie and flipped on the hood. He did not sign up to get arrested. He had school tomorrow. Homework to do. He wanted to speak to Shy, kiss Shy, maybe even eventually lose his virginity with Shy. He couldn’t do that in prison.
“Everybody up!” Trey shouted. “Models inside. It’s not real, folks. Sorry, just a promotional thing. Go home. Drop starts online tonight at midnight. Your bots will sell out everything in thirty seconds as usual. Go home. Get out of here. I’ll deal with the police. And don’t forget to hashtag Sublime in your posts!”
* * *
Roy felt a little drunk. He’d had those two pints with Peaches before anyone arrived, and was now on his fourth. Something about Wendy and Peaches introducing themselves to each other had made him feel even drunker.
Worlds collide.
“Roy? I’m having trouble with the name of the bar in London we used to go to before the girls were born, where they had karaoke. Soho Sugar something, wasn’t it? Roy?”
“I actually met Roy for the first time in here,” Peaches explained. “He was looking for a place to write out of the house. I made him sugary tea.”
Roy was vaguely aware that they were talking about him.
Worlds collide.
That was the problem with his book. He needed the worlds to collide. Right now they were just sort of lying limply in close proximity to each other, like discarded tissues. On Battlestar Galactica planets were always colliding and blowing up. He needed to blow something up.
“I think I am having an epiphany,” he said. “I’ve had several since I got here.” He’d begun to sweat. He needed his laptop.
“That’s fantastic.” Peaches patted his arm. “But could you stay, at least for a little bit? I have to get the karaoke started, and Tupper needs your help at the bar.” Elizabeth would be horrified if their most distinguished guest left early.
“He doesn’t need me. Look, he’s got help.”
A cheerful group of bearded, plaid flannel shirt–wearing men were behind the bar now. They looked like hockey players, grinning and bumping up against each other. They’d probably drink the place dry, but Peaches could restock. Or was it Elizabeth who did the restocking?
Restock.
“Roy, do you want to go home to your computer?” Wendy asked gently. She’d seen this faraway look plenty of times before. He was writing.
“It’s fine for now. I’ll just take notes on a cocktail napkin or something.”
Peaches wasn’t listening to them anymore. She’d noticed a change in the music. It was still the Go-Go’s, but there was a trancelike overlay that she hadn’t heard before, a rhythmic throb that made her teeth vibrate.
It was Philip Glass, she realized, her absolute least favorite composer of all time. Greg loved him. He took showers and did sit-ups and sun salutations to him. But to Peaches, listening to Philip Glass was like being anesthetized and endlessly prodded in the back by oboes and clarinets.
The sound system was near the basement stairs. Peaches could just make out the toes of a battered pair of silver Converse high-tops and a