For the record, I'm not a virgin. Also for the record, it wasn't a particularly good experience, involving alcohol and the younger friend of one of my dad's girlfriends who told me afterwards that she already had a boyfriend. I'm putting that here because I DO have a libido and it's been persistently bullying me these last few years. Whacking off to babes in magazines has been the only option for a while, but I promised myself I wouldn't pressure anyone into anything if I could help it.

I was never going to push myself on anyone; if they wanted me, they'd have to let me know in very clear terms because once burned and all that shit. I wasn't going to shut down completely, the way my uncle did, but I wasn't all that keen for more rejection either, so I planned to play it cool with Fi. She was already a friend, and I could handle that.

Mostly.

When I got home, I put a good serving of spaghetti in an old margarine tub for Wayne to find later, and I ate the rest. Yeah, yeah, I'd already had two servings earlier, but I'm telling you it was THAT good. I wasn't ready to sleep just yet, so I went to my room and did a little composing.

Mostly I was tempted to write a song about spaghetti, which would be dumb—trust me, there will NEVER be a heavy metal ode to pasta, alas. So I fiddled with a little tune and thought about Fi a bit. It started to come together when I could rhyme 'pride' and 'stride' in the first stanza, and then it fucking flowed.

Music was a language I understood. Not just the mechanics of notes and time signatures and harmonics, but also rhythms, chords, lyrics, keys and intent. I'd unlocked music all on my own at age seven, picking out melodies on the piece of shit guitar my uncle got for me at Terry's Pawn out on the highway near the War Zone.

But Eddie, I hear you say, why didn't you get into Band, or Orchestra then? Become first chair in something?

Let's just think about that, shall we? For one thing, both of those cost money. Those uniforms and instruments ain't free, and they ain't cheap, either. So that was the first problem. The second was that the middle school music program director hated my old man. Mrs. Tykner detested my dad ever since he'd sideswiped her husband's Cadillac while running from the cops.

Because of that, she wouldn't let me join any elective she was in charge of, calling me a 'destructive menace' to my face. Mr. Clarke and a few other teachers tried to overrule her, but it was no-go for the entire time I was at middle school. I think the reason Mr. Clarke lets me rehearse in the multipurpose room on Sundays is to make up for Tykner's bitchiness, and for that I'm grateful.

So I didn't take music in middle school and that automatically disqualifies you for music in high school. Both Dr. Lucas, the band director, and Mr. Pierce the orchestra teacher knew I could play guitar—both acoustic and electric; bass and some keyboard—but the only thing they could do for me was encourage me to practice, and sometimes invite me to sit in if they needed back-up. Mr. Pierce was also cool enough to slip me a few old pads of blank sheet music so I could notate my work.

So yeah, I write songs. Stupid ones, like 'Henderson's Bard Is Gonna Die' which I break out periodically during a Hellfire session, just to piss him off and make Mike and Lucas crack up. I also wrote one called The Hell I Will which is . . . let's just say it comes from a dark place I don't like going into very much.

That last one is a Corroded Coffin signature tune, by the way.

But I liked Stride, so I wrote it up and fell asleep, feeling good.

When Sunday rolled around, I was already in the Multipurpose room, tuning up, and feeling a little nervous. What if La Marseillaise was in some fucked-up key, with sharps all over the place? What if music in French was different from music in English? That last thought was so stupid right there that I cracked myself up.

I haven't found a song yet that I couldn't play. Might take me some months of practice, but I'm competitive enough with myself to do it, ya know?

I looked up when Fi approached, and glory of glories, she was wearing cutoffs.

Oh MAMA. Not gonna lie, I was gonna have to write another song about 'em.

So I cleared my throat. "What—exactly- did you tell Henderson?" Had to get my thoughts on something other than those killer legs.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Munson," She bluffed. "Not a thing."

"Hundreds of girlfriends? Thousands? An army of Munsonites, ready to fight to the death for me?" I demanded, waving my hand dramatically to play along. Honestly, the idea was fantastic and funny at the same damned time. Finding out Fi had a sense of humor as bizarre as my own—yeah, THAT was cool.

"More importantly," Fi stared at me, "what did YOU tell Henderson?"

I lifted my chin, trying to look imperious. "Well after that, I told him you were right, of course, and that you were there as my bodyguard before I dismissed you."

She giggled. "Somehow I don't think he believed either one of us."

"Probably not, but it's fun messing with his head," I agreed. "One of the few perks of being the DM."

"Riiiiight. So, uh, I guess we ought to get started. How do you want to do this?" She set my backpack down and dug out the xeroxed copies of the music and lyrics. I glanced at it, running my hand over the page and studying it intently. "Four four, so march time, key of E sharp . . . Yeah, we can do this. Let me warm up a little."

I didn't want to show how relieved I was—march time is dead easy, and one sharp is nothing. So I could play it, but I wasn't as confident on the singing part. The issue with Metal is that it's hell on the vocal cords. Between smoking and the gig at the hideaway, my performing voice isn't as much melodic as just raw.

We launched into the first time, and wow, it was shit. I was stumbling with some of the fingerings, and Fi was too soft; I could barely hear her even though she was standing right next to me. I had to call it as I saw it.

"That was . . . crap," I announced. "Fi, you're gonna have to sing loud, babe. Like, crank it to at least eight here because you're competing with the amp and I'm telling you right now that the amp is winning."

She nodded, and I was SO glad she didn't take the comment personally. "And I don't think Mrs. Lydecker is going to let me use a microphone."

So we did it again, and it was better, but Fi was still slow, and the pace dragged. I started stamping my right foot to keep the time, the way I do for Corroded Coffin, and that helped.

"Allons en-FANT de LAAAAA patRIE, la jour de GLOIRE est ARRIVÉ!" I bellowed. "Like that! Get it up all in their faces, like they did in the cafe, Fi! It's about the defiance, man! The one chance we have to show them we ain't backing down!"

She put more into the volume, but also made sure I was singing and not just yelling. By the time we hit "Nos sillons, sillons" at the end, the room was vibrating.

"Shit, we might end up recruiting the whole damn class with a banger like that one!" I told her, feeling a lot more confident.

Someone was applauding; we looked over to see Mr. Clarke at the double doors, grinning.

"Michelle Leydecker is going to lose her mind," he predicted.

Fi blushed, which was cute and even I felt a little embarrassed, but Mr. Clarke just waved and headed back out. I bumped Fi's shoulder with mine, eyes bright.

"Oh yeah, we're acing French this year," I assured her. "On gére!"

"Formidable!" Fi replied, and giggled.