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to tell her some of your dad’s stories.” Dora nudged Stubin playfully. “My girl’s got mad taste.”
    “She certainly does,” Adam agreed, turning to face forward in his seat.
    This time I was sure. I didn’t know what had changed, but he was definitely smiling when he said that.

    MegaWatts was decidedly off the beaten path. We got out of the cab on a street that looked like its overhead wires were supporting the telecom infrastructure of Southeast Asia. There was a small chalkboard A-frame sign perched on the street, right outside a 7-11 knockoff and a porn shop. It said “MegaWatts” in English, and a list of other things in Kanji characters—bands, presumably.
    There was a collection of gutter punks hanging outside—disaffected Tokyo teenagers who I instantly identified with on some misfit level. Adam opened our door and Mercy climbed out in front of me. He held her hand as she climbed out; jealously sawed at me like a dull blade. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.
    Dora looked at me pointedly. What could I do but act oblivious?
    “I can’t believe we’re actually here,” I said.
    “Me either.” Stubin nodded vigorously. “Super cool.”
    I examined the grungy half-lit entrance, the thick crowd spilling out of the club. It was do-or-die time. I knew I shouldn’t be out on the town in my tenuous mental state, but my common sense was drowning in the thumping bass of the club—and in the idea that maybe, just maybe , my Adam might return to me.
    “So are we just gonna stand here? Let’s go in,” Mercy said.
    “Hell yeah. Let’s do it,” Adam said.
    Dora grabbed Stubin’s arm and they plunged into the crowd together. Mercy, Adam, and I followed after.
    We forced our way down the sticky stairs and, within seconds, were entombed in a low-ceilinged black box that smelled like steamed gym socks and stale beer wrapped in a million decibels of skull-pounding grindcore. Beat-up leather jackets and peroxide mohawks were everywhere. The walls were covered with crudely painted anarchy symbols and it smelled like cigarette smoke. It was so loud I could barely hear myself think.
    I stayed right on Adam’s heels, immediately losing sight of Dora and Stubin. Panic rose in my throat, but I resisted the urge to pinch the back of Adam’s T-shirt. I wasn’t sure if our tenuous reconciliation extended to physical contact, and Mercy had staked a claim on his arm. The three of us traced the curves of the crowd, weaving our way through clumps of Japanese teenagers.
    The air curved in on me like a sinusoidal sound wave. I knew that feeling—that trapped feeling. The one that often preceded something worse.
    I actively ignored it. Maybe if I didn’t acknowledge it, nothing would happen. Club-goers bounced off my shoulders, causing electric explosions of sight and sound in my head. Another bad sign. Why had I set this in motion when I knew what could happen? Now I was stuck—either back down and be an even bigger freak than I already was, or stick it out and hope for the best. Unfortunately, my best wasn’t very good.
    Adam halted before the thickest part of the crowd, on the fringes at the back of the room. At the front of the room there was a teeny-tiny stage where a shirtless Japanese rocker, with chicken legs in skinny jeans and row upon row of studded belts, was screaming into a scratchy microphone. The spikes of his glo-hawk grazed the ceiling as the band’s drummer energetically pounded the sticks behind him like the cymbal might go out of style at any moment. I stood at Adam’s side, my knees knocking as I surveyed the rolling knot of tangled bodies bouncing to the music. For a second I thought he was going to plunge right in, but he looked at me and hesitated.
    “This is probably far enough for now,” he said.
    I nodded. “Yeah, let’s start here.”
    “I’m going to the bar,” Mercy announced, like she went clubbing all the time. “What do you want, babe?”
    Babe ? Adam turned to