Harmonic Feedback

“It appears that way. But I can call someone.”

“Someone, huh? You’ve got a lot of friends in a town you just moved to.”

I looked away, my stomach tensing at the thought of being alone with him.

“Okay, suit yourself,” he said. “Later.”

Then again, getting a ride home from Justin seemed a lot more exciting than waiting for Mom or even worse— Grandma. “Wait,” I called after him. “You can give me a ride home.”

He turned around and walked backward with a grin. “Oh, can I? Thanks, I feel privileged.”

I followed him to his car, scanning the shiny black paint. M3 gleamed back at me in silver. It looked like a 2006—333 horsepower. Not bad.

He held the passenger door open for me. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite on the first ride home.”

I hesitated. “Huh?”

Justin rolled his eyes and waved me in. “Never mind.”

I slid into the black leather seat, breathing in the faded stench of cigarettes. Probably from Kari. I didn’t like picturing her in this seat.

He got into the driver’s side and started the engine. A song with grinding guitars and piercing synthesizers roared through my ears, but he quickly turned it down and mumbled an apology.

“They’ve got a V-8 M3 now,” I said.

He backed out of the parking space. “You don’t strike me as a car fan.”

“I used to read Car and Driver and Motor Trend a lot. Now I’m more into sound design.”

“You’ve got some interesting hobbies. So—where do you live?” He pulled onto the main street.

“Make a left at the light.”

“Can you give me a general area?”

“It’s near the bay. That street you make a left on—”

“Holly?”

“Yeah. Keep going straight and then Holly turns into something else after you pass this really big church. I live three streets down from that.”

He glanced over at me with wide eyes. “Oookay. Let me get this straight. I hang a left on Holly, and Holly turns into something else, hopefully another street. And you live on the third cross street after the church.”

“Yeah, it’s either the third or fourth.”

He shook his head, smirking. “Please tell me you know the name of your street.”

I looked out the window, my cheeks growing hot. I never paid attention to names—only landmarks and how many left or right turns it took to get there.

He touched my shoulder before shifting again. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

A few moments passed before he tapped a button on his wheel, turning the music back up. The beat was danceable, and I liked the mix. Most modern songs overdid the compression to the point of killing any dynamic that once existed—they were just loud. Period.

“Who is this?”

He squinted at me as we pulled up to a red light. “Why—you hate it?”

“No, I kind of like it, actually.”

“It’s a band called Black Lab. They don’t normally do electronica. It was kind of an experiment, but I like bands that take risks.”

“Me too.”

“Do you consider yourself a music snob?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Yes.”

He raised his eyebrows at me. “Same here. And you lost points for not knowing Black Lab.”

“Don’t play the music game with me. I’ll win.” At least I did every time someone challenged me online.

“Oh.” He shook his head. “This is gonna be good. Try me. Throw some names out.”

“Porcupine Tree.”

“I’m torn between ‘Deadwing’ and ‘The Sound of Muzak’ for my favorite song, but I think In Absentia is a better album.”

“It was a little mellow for me. I preferred Deadwing—it was more visceral and dark.”

“Of course.” He rolled his eyes. “Okay, here’s one for you. Puracane.”

“My favorite song is ‘Shouldn’t Be Here.’”