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this guy sitting off to one side of the crowd, with a bottle of something or other, facing toward the river. He’s all curled up into a fetal position and sort of rocking back and forth, taking a swig from his bottle, and then rocking back and forth again. And his demeanor, the way his shoulders hunch and his head hangs, sets off a buzzer in the back of my head: familiarity. This kid hits me with a two-ton sack of déjà vu.
    I tap Randall on the shoulder as the song draws to a loud finish. “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing.
    Randall follows my finger and frowns. “ That’s Casey. He’s the Emperor of our little group.”
    “I thought you were the Emperor.”
    “Oh no,” he says, “I’m the Fool. Casey’s the Emperor.” He hikes his finger back toward uptown. “Renée’s the Hierophant.”
    “I don’t know what that means.”
    “I’d be a little weirded out if you did, to be honest.”
    “I want go talk to him. I’ll be back, okay?”
    Randall nods like he understands. “He’s in one of his funks, though. Don’t push him.”
    “Why, what are his funks like?”
    Randall opens his mouth to explain, but then gets this thoughtful look in his eyes. “Y’know what? Go find out. It’d be good if he tells you himself.”
    I get up and start walking through the crowd. The closer I get to Casey, the more I see that he’s dressed quite nicely. He’s wearing a white collared shirt and black slacks, and his hair is all slicked back and shiny. He looks very dapper, and I begin to wonder what he’s doing with a crowd like this. He has a round face with chubby cheeks and the tiniest hint of a double chin, but also has very dark patches under his eyes, only they aren’t painted on like Renée’s, they’re earned. As I stare at him, he takes another slug of whatever and holds the bottle out to me. I take it and take a very tiny sip, which burns nicely on the way down. I glance at the bottle. Jack Daniels. I’ve never had whiskey before.
    “Hi,” I manage to say very quietly. “You’re Casey, right?”
    “I’d prefer you not take the guidance-counselor tone with me, Locke,” he says in a deep baritone voice. “Locke Vinetti, the school friend, Randall’s cohort. Lovely night, isn’t it?”
    I nod. “It’d be nicer if you join us, sir.” What the hell? Where did that come from? Maybe it was the whole “Emperor” thing.
    He finds it funny enough to laugh a little. “‘Sir’? Call me Casey. Or ‘Emperor,’ if you’re into that thing.”
    “Thing?”
    He waves his hand back to the crowd. “Locke, Tarot. Tarot, Locke.” He takes another deep slug of whiskey. “It’s something Randall and I came up with, which all these kids have taken a little too far. There are even gangs now.” I look confused, and he sighs and continues. “The punks and rude boys are the Swords, the hippies and emo rockers are the Wands, the mods and indie kids are the Cups, and the metalheads and Goths are the Pentagrams. Mind you, in the original tarot it’s actually Pentacles or Coins, but they changed it to Pentagrams, what with the Satan-loving and the angry music, and the…Ah, whatever, you know what I’m talking about.” He spits like the idea has left a bad taste in his mouth. “The creators get to be the Major Arcana. Tollevin, Randall, Renée, myself, two or three others.”
    I’m absolutely amazed. I’ve never in my entire life heard something so incredibly wonderful. Tarot gangs. Tarot get-togethers. A youth network based on magical cards from medieval times. I couldn’t have come up with that in a million years. It’s all too great. This kid is fucking brilliant. “That’s insane. You did all this?”
    Surprisingly, he looks enraged. “ They did it,” he snaps. “I just came up with the whole idea one day after school with Randall, and it became this THING. Fucking… look at them. It’s kind of pathetic, right?” I fidget a bit. Well, this is awkward. Randall’s warning echoes in my head.