by R. D. Tarver
“Anderson’s on the war path.” Alex gestured around the corner to where Principal Anderson was directing a contingent of uniformed police officers through a locker search. “She’s got the cops going through all of our shit after what happened at the lock-in.”
“Relax, just be cool. There’s no way they know who did it.” As the words left his mouth, Principal Anderson turned to meet Jesse’s eyes.
She pointed at the adjacent bank of lockers and led the officers towards it, never taking her eyes off Jesse.
“Yeah, but who do you think they’re gonna blame?” Alex’s eyes darted around the hall. “I can’t believe I always let you guys talk me into this kind of bullshit.”
“Did you leave anything in your locker?”
Alex shook his head. “You?”
“I never even learned the combination.”
Alex fidgeted nervously with the straps of his backpack as he followed the police officers with his eyes. “I gotta jet to class. If we get expelled, I’m going to kill all of you.”
“Just act normal and everything will be fine.” Jesse nudged his bandmate on his shoulder and repeated the mantra. “Everything will be fine.”
Jesse waited at Mal’s locker until the first-period bell. When she didn’t show, he opted to head to class rather than risk adding to his well-curated collection of tardy slips. She probably just overslept, he thought to himself. That girl can sleep like the dead.
3
Jesse tried to put the looming threat of Principal Anderson’s quest for vengeance out of his mind as he headed to physics class, one of his favorite public educational offerings—specially when Mrs. Ford delved into one of her famous in-class experiments. Mrs. Ford was one of his favorite teachers; coincidentally, she was also the only one of his new teachers to remember his name.
As he slunk towards his seat near the back of the classroom, he was surprised to see Mr. Agostino arranging a display of various musical instruments on Mrs. Ford’s desk.
A sizable loudspeaker and a microphone were positioned next to a wine glass on the lab table at the front of the classroom. The microphone was connected to a machine that Jesse knew to be an oscilloscope, but he could not identify some of the other modular devices on the table.
“Good morning, class. As you may have heard, Mrs. Ford was involved in a terrible animal attack over the weekend. I will be filling in to the best of my abilities until we find a substitute while she recovers.”
A flurry of conspiracy theories were presented for consideration from a few of the more outspoken students in the class.
“I heard she got mauled by a bear.”
“There’s no bears around here, stupid.”
Another student piped up from the back of the class. “Whatever it was messed her up so bad that they were only able to keep part of her brain alive. And now she has to live the rest of her life in a fish tank or something.”
The classroom erupted with laughter.
Agostino held his hands up. “I assure you, Mrs. Ford is expected to make a full recovery. In the meantime, I would like to supplement her lesson plan for today with a study of the physics of sound—acoustics.”
The guidance counselor approached the lab table, producing a box of protective headphones which he passed out to each student.
“Most of us tend to think of sound as an invisible force, but it actually requires a physical medium to travel through in order to form, such as air, water, stone, or even glass.” Agostino switched on the loudspeaker and gestured to the equipment on the lab table. “Once generated from a sound source—such as this signal generator—sound vibrates through the surrounding medium as it travels from the source and forms a sound wave.”
Jesse applied the clunky headphones and watched as Mr. Agostino tapped the wineglass with a metal rod. As the glass sang into the microphone, a corresponding waveform rippled across the oscilloscope’s rectangular screen.
“All physical matter has a resonant frequency—a natural threshold that determines how it is affected by vibrations of sound waves. By exposing an object or medium to its own resonant frequency at a high enough volume, we can cause the catastrophic failure of that object.”
Mr. Agostino replayed the tone through the signal generator and increased the volume of the loudspeaker until the glass cracked.
“And that is how sound can manipulate matter. Pretty impressive, yes?” He picked up a bizarre looking implement: a round resonator fashioned from a cured gourd, with a row of thin metal tines affixed to its surface. He held the contraption for all to see as he continued. “And since you seem to be interested in grim tales, let us take a closer examination of the lives of the ancients through an exploration of their traditional instruments.”
The classroom settled into a steady hum of hushed conversation as Agostino lectured.
“In an earlier, more superstitious time, some ancient cultures believed that singing—particularly in the form of an angelic chorus—channeled the voice of the gods.” As Agostino passed around the instrument, melodic chimes filled the air as the students manipulated the metal tines. “In contrast, it was also believed that musical instruments, fabricated by the fallible hands of humans, could be used to speak to the spirits of their ancestors.” He lifted a beat-up, old violin and plucked its strings. “Some were even known to conjure up the devil.”
“Is it true that if you play some records backwards you can summon Satan?” asked a frizzy-haired girl in purple overalls who always sat in the front row.
“It’s called backmasking. My brother showed me on one of his kiss records,” said a pockmarked boy with rubber-banded braces.“I think you mean Knights In Satan’s Service,” corrected another student.
“Or ac/dc—Antichrist, Demon Child. They all worship the devil,” said another.
Jesse watched as the classroom devolved into a frenzy of pop culture sound bites and regurgitated urban legends. He felt bad for the guidance counselor who seemed to be fighting a losing battle.
Agostino began to bow the violin, softly at first, then creating strange dissonant chords that sprang from his fingertips. A group of the more curious students began to gather around the desk to examine Agostino’s musical offerings.
Something about the chord Agostino played and the strange tones that seemed to rake against the air left Jesse thinking about the recent experience in the mine. He replayed the scene in his mind’s eye over and over, and realized he was growing more curious as to Mal’s whereabouts.
He was already on his feet when the class bell rang.
“Mr. Lynn, could I have a quick word?” asked Agostino.
Jesse sighed internally and did his best to focus his attention on the request.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I noticed you have not made it to one of our appointments in a few days.” Agostino parted his mustache between his thumb and index finger as he spoke. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Jesse was beginning to become annoyed with his guidance counselor’s perceptiveness. “I’ve just been busy with band practice after school. We have a pretty big gig coming up.”
“Is that so?” He probed Jesse with his dark eyes. “Then I believe congratulations are in order.”
“Thanks.” Jesse tried to curb the impulse to flee into the hall to resume his search for Mal.
Agostino began to reassemble the various instruments on the desk in preparation for his next class. “I do not mean to keep you, but I do hope that we may catch up soon.” He gestured to the open door. “Sometimes, at your age, it does not take much to feel like your very world is being torn asunder.”
“That part about being able to use music to summon forces from the netherworld…you believe that?”
“It does not matter if I believe it, but the sentiment—or perhaps ‘wish’ is a better way to think about it—may serve as an indicator that there is something within the collective human consciousness that wants it to be true.”
Jesse felt
sheepish in continuing the line of questioning, as he had yet to articulate his own thoughts on the matter. Despite his unease, something within the back of his mind prodded him to delve further.
“In your research, the ethnic music—”
“Ethnomusicology,” corrected Agostino.
“Yeah. In that research, did you ever read anything about people actually summoning demons?”
Agostino squinted his eyes and looked to the ceiling as he pondered the question.
“History is rife with widespread accounts of agents of the netherworld being summoned to do the bidding of their vengeful, power-hungry human masters.”
“But was there ever any proof or evidence that they actually did?”
“The passage of time makes it all but impossible to discern factual accounts from myth and legend.”
“Seems like that’s almost all anyone talks about these days when it comes to music.”
Agostino nodded as he chewed on the corner of his mustache. “Fascinating times. I would hazard a guess that not since the Salem witch trials, or the various European inquisitions that preceded them, has there been such widespread social hysteria regarding the attribution of demonic or satanic influence on contemporary American society.”
The second-period bell rang out over the hall speakers.
“Speaking of demonic music,” said Jesse, “I better run to class. Thanks for the info.”
“My door is always open.”
4
Jesse took the long way to his second period class, hoping again to catch Mal at her locker. With no sign of her, he sprinted to class to beat another tardy bell.
As he turned the corner, he ran smack into a dense wall of letterman jackets. The pungent scent of Drakkar Noir filled his nostrils as he looked up to meet the gaze of a tall, neckless youth sporting an overgrown red flat top.
Flat Top pushed Jesse against the lockers and yelled in his face.
“I thought I told you to watch where you’re going, freak!”
Flat Top’s spittle rained down on Jesse’s face. He recognized the fire-engine red rectangle that sat atop the round, freckled face, giving him the appearance of a flabby exclamation point—the jerk-off who knocked over his chili dog on the first day of school.
Jesse mentally prepared to face off against what appeared to be the entirety of the varsity football team. He felt a species removed from the army of robust, muscle-bound specimens towering above him.
At least he wouldn’t die a virgin.
“Hey, isn’t that one of those stoner asswipes who was fucking with Kenny?” someone asked.
A chiseled-face jock with black, swept-back hair emerged from the pack and stuck his nose in Jesse’s face. “So you and your scummy little friends like to sit around and worship Satan, is that it?”
“I’m just trying to get to class,” Jesse smiled.
“You think it’s funny?” asked Flat Top. “You think it’s cool to worship the devil?”
Jesse retreated behind his smile, which was beginning to grow stiff.
Black Hair shoved his finger into Jesse’s chest as he spoke. “Yeah. What’s your deal, man? You can’t get laid so you and your little faggot friends go out in the woods and get each other off, listening to your shit music?”
A familiar voice cut through the verbal assault just as Jesse was being squeezed against the wall of lockers.
“Who says he can’t get laid?” Mal appeared, pushing her way in between Jesse and the amassing jocks. She slapped a flyer against Black Hair’s chest. “While you and the rest of the boys are chasing each other across the field wearing those cute little tights, Jesse and his band will be rocking the Beggar’s Banquet Hall next Friday night.” She gave Jesse a deep kiss, and took his hand as she strode past the group of jocks. She turned back, sticking out her tongue between her index and middle finger. “And they make all the girls cream their jeans.”
The football team were a mix of jeers and dropped jaws.
Once they were out of earshot he pulled her close. “Perfect timing. Where the hell have you been? I can barely function in this place by myself.”
She offered a meek smile as they ventured down the hall.
“Everything okay?”
“There are just so many fucking assholes in this world.”
“Yeah, I know.” He looked over his shoulder, relieved to see an empty bank of lockers. “I can’t believe people like them exist in real life. Thanks for saving my ass.”
She looked through Jesse as she wiped her eyes.
The tardy bell rang.
After a deep breath, she let out a low guttural growl and proceeded to put a dent in one of the lower tier lockers with a heel of her Doc Martens. She grabbed Jesse by the collar. “You wanna get out of here? I’m not in the mood for this fucking place.”
5
A fresh rain began to fall as they ran, hand in hand, down the wooded, leaf-littered trails that meandered away from the school grounds towards the newly built housing additions to the east. As the rain came down harder, they ducked under the patio roof of one of the empty model homes.
“It’s fucking pouring. Should we go back?”
Mal gestured towards the back door. “Let’s see if it’s open.”
“Truancy and breaking and entering? Busy day.”
“No one lives here, yet. Besides, we’re soaked, and it’s coming down harder. You want to catch pneumonia out here?” Mal tried the back door. When it didn’t budge, she pulled out her driver’s license and forced the latch open.
Inside, the newly built model home was sparsely furnished and pristine white; the carpet and walls practically glowed in the shadows. Jesse flicked the light switch in the kitchen to no avail.
“Electricity probably hasn’t been turned on yet,” he said.
Mal had already kicked off her boots and was in the process of peeling off her shirt and jeans. She draped the wet clothes over the chairs that surrounded the kitchen table.
“You’ll catch your death,” she whispered as she pulled off Jesse’s shirt.
“What if somebody comes in?”
She left the question unanswered as it resonated within the empty house. The bare white walls volleyed the insipid utterance over and over like a loose tennis ball that Jesse longed to recapture.
He followed her up the stairs and into the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made and covered in throw pillows.
“This clean-sheen, cookie-cutter bullshit is really getting on my nerves.” Mal tussled the bedclothes and threw the pillows on the floor. “That’s better,” she sighed. “Now, let’s do something dirty in it.”
The warmth of her mouth contrasted against the cool wet skin of her body. She smelled like patchouli and burnt sage. Goosebumps marked her naked flesh as she called for the warm press of his body against hers. Their love was quick and heated, feeling somehow like the answer to a question that was never asked.
After they finished, they lay side by side staring at the ceiling.
“So let me get this straight,” Jesse started. “When Hell Patrol makes it big, and I buy you a big, beautiful house like this one, you’d be disappointed?”
“That’s so sweet.” Her eyes transitioned from somber grey to icy blue as her face lit up.
He wondered what she saw when she looked in his eyes, and if it was anything like this.
“You want to lock me up in a suburban death cage, drowning in credit card debt, while you and the kids choke down what passes for meals that I learned to make from my only friend, television?”
“It’s not all bad. You can also self-medicate with alcohol and Xanax to mask your inevitable depression.” He shrugged his shoulders as he finished the thought. “Which will be severe after you’ve put aside your promising photography career to wait on me and the kids hand and foot.”
“You paint such a beautiful picture—how could I refuse?” Mal laughed in contagious little bursts. She kicked him over onto his side and placed her cold feet into
the small of his back. “When hell freezes over, Jesse Lynn.”
They held each other in silence for a long time.
“I know this is going to sound fucking stupid, but do you ever think about Halloween?”
“Only like every day of my life.” She traced the skin around his shoulder as she whispered. “It’s my favorite holiday.”
“I meant this last Halloween,” he said. “Like less than a week ago—in the mine? I keep having these weird dreams.”
“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” she said, suddenly turning cold. She sat up and started putting on her bra. “I already feel crazy enough just dealing with my own shit.”