My fist grazes the cheekbone of some skeevy asshole sporting a broken beer bottle whose face looks like his neck threw up and right into the middle of our limp-dick standoff walks Rachel fucking Amber, Blackwell's blond-haired Barbie doll valedictorian prom queen rock star. She grabs me around the waist and tries to pull me out of the brawl, but Baseball Hat Guy shoulder-checks her off me. I knee him in the balls, causing him to bend over at the waist and damn near cough up his lungs onto the wooden planks of the rafters overlooking the concert stage. Out of nowhere, Skinny Guy clocks me right in the eye and is about to swing at me with his jagged-edged bottle when Rachel kicks it out of his hand, Karate Kid style. He's looking at her like you did not just do that and after Rachel kicks him in the nutsack with the laces of her Converse shoe, he's looking at the floorboards like holy shit, you did just totally do that. Rachel gives me a Cheshire Cat grin that looks like it's supposed to be reassuring—I grab her hand and run her toward the top of the staircase, pulling on the collar of her black jean jacket as she stares at the two dudes clutching their groins. Before we bail, I blow the pair of assholes a kiss that automagically turns into a middle finger. My body has a habit of doing these things without even bothering to consult my brain.

"Come on!" I say.

We almost crash into the wall of the landing as I hustle her down the steps and straight into the waiting arms—or should I say torso?—of Frank, who's looking at me pretty funny for someone who just got paid everything he was owed, so much so that I'm now back on the mailing list of the Medicinal Mary Jane Monthly.

"Shouldn't you be looking happier?" I say. "I totally just hooked you up."

"The only thing that's getting hooked up right now is you with trouble," he says.

Rachel pulls on my hand. Frank crosses his arms and looks past me. The two dudes from upstairs walk down the rickety steps bow-legged.

"What the fuck were you doing up there?" asks Frank.

"That's what happens when you decide to play hacky sack and forget to wear protection," I say.

Frank frowns at me, which isn't saying much because I don't think I've ever seen him smile. That about-to-rob-a-bank black ski-mask hat he's wearing doesn't exactly help his image, either.

"Fuck you, bitch!" says Skinny Guy. "You spilled my fucking beer!"

"Right," I say, "because the normal, well-adjusted response to a teenage girl's apology for bumping your beer is to follow her upstairs, break a glass bottle in half, and start swinging. You know what I'm talking about, right, Frank?"

Frank stares at Rachel like she owes him money. Rachel smiles back at him. My insides feel hot.

"No," says Frank. He sits down on the ratty couch that serves as his underworld throne. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on, Frank. I didn't start it."

"Not my fucking problem."

Frank won't take his eyes off Rachel. So much so that he doesn't even see the knife hurtling end over end past my head and into the wooden post next to me. Skinny Guy is left-handed and throws like a mutant.

A dude in sunglasses holding the leash to a mean-looking pit bull smokes a cigarette like this is the most normal thing in the world. A blonde and her date rest their heads on the table next to us, trashed out of their minds, oblivious to the action unfolding a few steps away from them. Meanwhile, Rachel looks like she's thinking about prying the dagger loose from its perch next to my face. Right as she's about to pull the blade out of the post, I yank her arm away and remove the shank with a grunt. Skeleton man has some fucking arm strength. Rachel, I'm not so sure about. I toss the knife handle-first into Frank's lap—Frank no longer has a lap because he's already standing up. He catches the blade handle with a cool-looking swipe, gives Rachel one last dirty look, and rounds on the two guys. They get quiet real fast.

"Back off!" Frank bellows.

He starts waving the knife around in front him, conducting an air symphony for a captive audience of two who want nothing to do with the music Frank's making. He shuffles them backwards through the mill, all the way back to the entrance guarded by that tattooed Samoan dude with flowers on his motorcycle who thought I was cute when I threatened to burn down his mill with an army of robot ninjas and a mechanical dragon. The dude with the pitbull and the shades just nods and smiles when Frank whips the knife into the wall six inches from his head.

"We should disappear, too," says Rachel.

She leads me by the hand toward a narrow hallway that funnels sweaty bodies toward the main stage, ground floor, the place I originally wanted to be when I got here but couldn't because there were too many shank-toting, beer-swilling shit-stains blocking the way to the mosh pit. I grip the corner of the hallway as Rachel tugs on my arm—Frank pulls the dagger out of the wall and holds it up to Skinny Guy's face.

"You got my overdue library books?" is what I imagine him saying.

Firewalk is just starting up their next song. The guitar chords shred through my skin, the bass line vibrates my bones, and the drums beat in time with the pounding of my heart. The only thing stopping me from thrashing is Rachel and her hands gripping both sides of my unzipped hoodie. She looks like she's about to kiss me, and then she lets go and starts throwing her body around: dark eyeliner, a black jacket with a skull patch, studded armbands, and shredded jeans lose themselves in an audience with a thousand moving parts. Even though she's rocking out like time and space don't exist, she doesn't leave my sight or my thoughts or my goddamn hips for the rest of the night. Her sweaty body floats around the dance floor, taking up all of the space and making every single other person here invisible, irrelevant, non-existent.

"Chloe?"

"Whoa, shit."

"Let's take a picture."

Click.

We step outside into misty rain whipped around by swirling winds. A half-moon floats in the night sky over the woods, our home away from home for the evening. We link arms and run between trees in the dark, not caring whether we face-plant or take a branch of pine needles to the face. We make it to the dirt road that leads back to town, where the open sky showers us with a chilly downpour. I take in Rachel's angel face with my eyes. She smiles back, blows me a kiss, and runs off into the night. I wave to her pony tail.

When I get home, I take off my jeans and think about Rachel's messy blond up-do until I'm relaxed enough to fall asleep.