The Loudness

by Nick Courage

  “Hey,” I say.

  “So howya doin’?” he asks, looking back toward his coffee cup. It’s obvious that he’s anxious to get back to whatever he was up to before I interrupted, but now we’re stuck in a conversation. I kind of wish I hadn’t said anything, but there’s no helping that now that we’re in the thick of it.

  “Oh, good. Really good.”

  The mustachioed chef slaps the aluminum counter at the back of the room. “Buh-scuits,” he calls out, and then he disappears into the depths of the kitchen. I try not to let out an audible sigh of relief.

  “That’s us,” I say, heading toward the back of the room and a plate of steaming, golden biscuits.

  “Oh, hey,” Greg says, looking up from his coffee again. “If you were looking, everyone’s at The Corner.” I thank him for the heads up, but he’s already back to staring into his mug. Conor, on the other hand, is all talk.

  “Who’s that?” he whispers. “I can’t believe you know people here. What’s The Corner? These look amazing!” He delicately picks up one of the biscuits with two fingers, like Mrs. Wallace might, and takes a bite. Unlike Mrs. Wallace, he allows a thick dollop of butter to drip from the biscuit onto his shirt.

  I take a bite as well, and immediately decide that I only ever want to eat biscuits for the rest of my life. They’re warm and taste like they’re made from cornmeal and something like chunks of hot broccoli. The tops are dusted with a red pepper concoction, which makes me sneeze on my first bite, but after the initial burn, the soft interior melts in a soothing pool of butter in my mouth. Even though it’s steaming, the coffee helps cut the spice, and our lips leave rainbow oil slicks in our mugs. We finish off the plate, and I go back for a second round.

  “I feel so stupid for not knowing this place existed,” Conor says, licking grease from his fingers.

  “I didn’t know either,” I say, feeling like I’ve always been here in Foods, drinking oily coffee and shooting the breeze. “It was my mom who told me. It’s all tied into the construction.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “I know, construction’s one thing. This . . .” I gesture out at the room and the Other Side beyond. “Something else.”

  “I don’t ever want to leave,” Conor says, picking up another biscuit.

  “Me neither.”

  When we finish our second cups of coffee, we decide to check out The Corner. Conor, emboldened by the night ride and buzzing from the coffee and “buh-scuits,” asks the pinwheel lady where we might find it, and she tells him to follow the sound. She also offers him a pinwheel, and he takes it with a smile.

  Bellies full, we kick off into the street, feeling on top of the world. Back in the Green, everyone’s been asleep for the past few hours—with the exception of Grammy, who’s probably still entertaining. Since we’ve been in Foods, the street has emptied, and I get a brief chill despite the warmth of the night . . . until I hear chatter wafting from down the block and realize that almost every Other Sider must be at The Corner. It’s so close that we decide to leave our bikes at Foods and, hands in pockets, we do as the lady with the pinwheels suggested and follow the noise.

  It’s a short walk, but long enough to let the excitement of being alone on the Other Side in the middle of the night sink in. I look at Conor to see if he feels it too. The nervous smile plastered across his face lets me know that he does, and it just gets wider as we near the crowd milling around the front yard of a shotgun-style house where the street dead-ends. The moon’s high in the sky now, and it’s probably nearing midnight. Not that the Other Siders care—a trumpet trills through a clumsy scale as we approach, and there’s a nice drum beat accompanying it—a wild, tribal rhythm contrasting against the trumpet’s soaring melody.

  The house itself, like most other surfaces on the Other Side, is plastered with flyers and posters. The door—propped open with a shaggy block of cement and only partly visible over the tangle of people socializing in front of it—has been painted over so many times that it’s easier to make out the texture than it is the lettering. But I think it says “The Corner.”

  I check the ragtag crowd of Other Siders for Rachel or Tom, but don’t see anyone I recognize, so we squeeze and jostle our way inside. Like Tom and Rachel’s house, there are no interior walls in the building, making it a sort of miniature dance hall. And it’s loud inside, louder than I would’ve expected. There must be at least a hundred people in here, all of them are laughing and talking and jerking to the music, which is emanating from one very noisy duo at the far corner of the room.

  The space itself is a lot like the inside of Food Eats—undecorated except for the stamped tin ceilings overhead. The walls are plain white and unflyered; the floors have been painted white as well, but scuffed back into a sort of grimy grey, and the only piece of furniture is a small bar made of thick, roughly hewn planks of wood. It occurs to me that, except for Tom and Rachel’s place, the Other Siders tend to decorate the outside of their houses and just let the insides be.

  What The Corner lacks in architectural ornamentation, it makes up for in characters. I’m glad again that I brought Conor with me instead of Scott—he’s wearing one of his jerseys, a bright yellow and green shirt, so we’re not totally twins. A guy in a backwards hat and no shirt dances across our path with a woman in a green velvet romper, and Conor looks at me with wide eyes.

  “I . . . see why you snipped ’em,” he says, pointing at my sleeves.

  “Yeah,” I nod, but at that moment I catch Tom’s eye across the room and feel myself going a little red. I’ll be matching someone tonight, just not Conor: Tom’s still wearing his sleeveless DMBRVR smasher. I look down, hoping that maybe he didn’t recognize me, but it’s a ridiculous trick to pull. The whole reason I came down here was to steel my resolve with sludgy coffee and then find Tom and Rachel, and here Tom is, squeezing through the crowd toward me and Conor, who looks over at me and shouts, “Do you know that guy too?”

  “Shhhh,” I shout back. “Yeah.” Tom’s almost next to us now, and is holding out his hand for a shake . . . until he hesitates and wipes it across his chest. I don’t blame him—being zapped once is bad enough.

  “Hey, Hank,” he says, all warmth and welcome. “Where’ve you been all my life?”

  I introduce Tom and Conor, and Tom asks where Dad is. He must’ve made some impression here; first Greg, now this. It occurs to me that maybe they don’t want kids running around the Other Side, and I try to choose my answer carefully . . . but I feel myself taking too long. The song ends, and the room goes relatively silent before I answer.

  “Hey, boys’ night out—no biggie. Rachel’ll be happy to know you’re here,” he says, scanning the crowd. “I’m gonna go find her. Help yourself to the bar.” Conor raises his eyebrows at me, and Tom catches it. “Just apple cider. Non-alcoholic. We were too impatient to let it ferment. Tastes better this way, anyway.”

  “Rock and roll,” says Conor, making to high-five Tom. Tom, remembering his last shock, squints at us skeptically. “It’s cool, it’s just me,” I say, and Tom slaps Conor five before backing into the crowd. The drums start back up, slowly at first, and then getting faster and faster. The room starts swirling to the beat, spinning and laughing and spilling apple cider. Tom spins into it, and then it’s just Conor and me again.

  We make our way along the walls to the bar on the far side of the room. It’s lined with brimming mugs, and we take two. I know it’s basically worthless here, but I throw some scrip down as a tip, and we go back to watching the room. It really is another world here; it’s hard to believe the Green Zone and the Other Side exist in the same universe. The Green’s so hard-scrabble, so utilitarian—and the Other Side . . .

  It’s like a wonderfully dirty whirlwind of color and sound.

  I take a sip of the cider and look over at Conor to see if he loves it as much as I do—it’s super sweet, and more cinnamon than apple—but he’s staring at the dance floor, transfixed. I take another sip, and have set
tled into a head-nodding half-dance when I’m startled by the bartender tapping me on the shoulder.

  I turn tentatively, wondering if I’ve done something wrong . . . if—and the thought freezes me with irrational fear—Tom pranked us into drinking alcoholic cider. But it’s Rachel, still in her tuxedo shirt dress that’s belted thickly in the middle. Still just a little grubby. A little paint-spattered, too.

  “Like it?”

  “I . . . I love it!”

  My voice sounds high-pitched in my head, and I wonder why I suddenly feel so nervous. Like, sweaty-palmed nervous. I wipe my hands dry on my shorts and tell myself that I definitely, definitely don’t have a crush on Rachel. I just . . . I guess I’m not used to much attention. Meanwhile, Conor and Rachel are staring at me, waiting for me to come back from my space journey.

  “Nice shirt,” Rachel says, looking me up and down. I swallow hard and think of Freckles.

  “You too,” I say, wincing as soon as the words leave my mouth. “So hey.” I poke Conor’s side. “This is my friend Conor. Conor, this is Rachel.”

  “Nice ta meetcha, Rach,” Conor says, not sweaty or nervous.

  Rachel and Conor exchange pleasantries, and then the conversation sort of wilts as we watch the dancers and sip our cider. Before I know it, Rachel’s on the other side of the bar, dragging Conor and me by the wrists onto the dance floor. Her grip is strong, her hand cold and unexpectedly rough. Conor’s loving it, and immediately starts shrugging his shoulders in exaggerated rolls, integrating into the crowd. I’m not sure exactly what to do, though—it’s more awkward to stand still, like I’m doing, than to dance . . . but I don’t know how to dance.

  I look around and decide to copy the first person who looks like they have moves. Rachel’s reaching her outstretched hands toward the ceiling and shakes them like she’s found religion, and I do that for a while until my arms get tired. Then I do a sort of modified stomp dance, courtesy of the shirtless guy in the backwards hat, letting my arms hang free. Conor’s doing a neck-swaying monkey thing with his eyes closed, and I can’t stop myself from laughing. Rachel catches my eye and laughs too, but then she breaks away, moving through the crowd to the far side of the room.

  We keep dancing, even though Rachel’s gone. The drums are frenzied, and the floorboards bend and creak to the rhythm, bouncing us up, keeping everyone moving. The room’s pulsing like it’s alive. And then, in counterpoint to the drums: a lugubrious, throbbing bass line. Everyone’s head turns: in the corner of The Corner, in a dirty tuxedo shirt dress with paint flecked up and down her arms . . . is Rachel. She smiles at the room and thumbs the thickest string of her heavily stickered and similarly paint-flecked guitar.

  The room reverberates, the walls literally shaking, and then explodes in cheers. I’m cheering too, yelling my head off. So is Conor. The drums keeps pounding, and the bass keeps throbbing, working through a raucous crescendo. The people and the dancing and the music, the cinnamon sting of cold cider at the back of my throat—it’s overwhelming, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment of solace, to center myself, but am confronted with shocks of colored light playing against the inside of my eyelids; a dancing retinal noise.

  And then, from the corner of the room, an electric squeal—

  Tom, plugging in his guitar with maximum feedback. The room explodes again, louder than before, as Big Dumb River launches into what I recognize as the first song from their record—Rachel screaming, mostly incomprehensibly, alongside Tom’s shrieking guitar:

  Do it! Do it! Do it!

  I look over at Conor—he’s sweat-soaked and bouncing along with the rest of the Other Side, riding the warped wooden floor beneath us. I shiver and hug myself, wiping the sweat from my arms and checking for a tell-tale buzz. But I’m fine—goosebumped, but not outside of myself, not like before. I just feel . . . older, alive in the world.

  I keep hugging myself well into the set, happily shivering despite the heat.

  The sun shines impatiently through my bedroom windows, and I squint, trying to remember how I got here. Someone knocks on the door, also impatient, and I roll out of bed. Conor’s tangled in a pile of sheets on the floor, drooling, and I step over him as nimbly as I can and make my way downstairs. My feet feel heavy on the steps, and for once I don’t have the energy to take them three at a time.

  I’m halfway down when there’s another insistent knock at the door.

  “Coming,” I yell through a bubble at the back of my mouth. Clearing my throat, I try again, “I’m coming!”

  More knocks in response. Continuous knocking, in fact, until I open the door and catch Grammy off guard, mid-knock.

  “Henry,” she says, shrilly. “Why aren’t you at School?”

  I’m so tired that by the time I can formulate a coherent response it’s too late.

  Grammy inhales sharply, shaking her head. “I went by the School to give you this.” She gestures accusatorily at me with a loosely wrapped plate of melon cubes, likely leftovers from her get-together the night before. “And Mr. Moonie had no idea where you were. No idea.”

  “Time?” I ask, scratching my head and trying not to yawn. I realize as I’m asking that it’s too bright and hot and noisy to be anything but noon, and immediately run upstairs to wake up Conor, yelling “One second, Gram!” over my shoulder.

  Upstairs I nudge Conor with my foot, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror while he rolls over. I slept in my clothes again, and my hair has decided to wake up in right angles. I try to smooth it down, but it won’t take.

  “Conor,” I say, and he covers his head with the sheet. “Conor!” He grudgingly opens his eyes. “Conor, we overslept.”

  “What?” he says, sitting up and shielding his face from the sun. “Overslept?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s probably twelve or something.”

  He sits for a second, taking it in, and then—genuinely confused—asks, “So what?”

  It’s a good question, and it stops me in my tracks. Why does Grammy care whether or not I’m at School? It’s not like anyone’s been on time since the Powerdown, and there’s not much reason to even be at School for the time being. I leave Conor to wake up at his own pace and make my way back downstairs.

  Grammy’s standing in the foyer next to my and Conor’s bikes, still holding the melon plate.

  “Gram,” I start cautiously, “why’re you so upset about me not being at School?”

  “Your parents,” she says dramatically, and then stops and recomposes herself. “Henry, if I’m looking after you, I have to know where you are.”

  It doesn’t seem quite right. If Grammy was that concerned about me being alone, she would’ve insisted that I stay at her house. I’m thirteen, though, and—like she told my parents before they left—old enough to be looking after myself for a few days.

  Grammy walks over to where I’m standing on the stairs and gives me a long and tight hug. “Henry, until your parents get back . . .” she whispers, her body shaking with silent sobs. “Until your parents get back, you have to promise me that you’ll be where I can find you.”

  “Okay, Grammy,” I say, feeling a little remorseful. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She pats her cheeks dry with her fingertips and looks me in the eye. “I have so, so many meetings, Henry—so much business . . .” Her body shudders as if she’s about to start crying again, but she holds it in. “But I’ll be by, I’ll be checking in on you.” She kisses me loudly on my ear.

  “Okay, Grammy,” I say again, wondering what could be bothering her. It couldn’t be me, not really. Or my parents, who are safely in the City by now, probably halfway through finalizing the Charter, if not done with it already and on their way back. And Grammy’s usually the strong one in our family—the one Mom and Dad go to when they have problems. It doesn’t make sense, her being so upset, and that worries me.

  “What’s . . . what’s wrong, Gram?”

  She puts the melon plate on the hall table and walks toward the door as
if to leave. “Growing pains,” she says over her shoulder, as she disappears into the sunshine.

  Conor walks up behind me and slaps my shoulder. “Everything okay, Hank?”

  “Yeah,” I say, not really knowing whether everything is all right or not. I shake myself of the uneasy feeling Grammy brought over and grab a handful of cantaloupe. Popping a slimy cube in my mouth, I twirl an invisible mustache and say with my best super-villain accent: “I could use a buh-scuit, though.”

  Conor laughs, and we wheel our bikes out into the day. Outside, the sky is a brilliant, all-encompassing Mayan blue, and any doubts I’d been having about the rightness of the world immediately evaporate. Walking our bikes to school, we recount our adventure in checklist form: Last night we rode our bikes (forefinger). Alone (middle finger). Through the Grey Zone (ring finger). To get the coffee (pinky). That kept us dancing until morning (thumb).

  And the ride home was nothing. We were too tired and happy to be scared, and the route was familiar enough—at least to me—that it went quickly, like it was less an adventure than a daily routine.

  “Hey, man,” Conor says, interrupting our recollections with a flash of furtive sincerity. “That thing . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “The, um. The Mouse thing?”

  “Hey,” I say, feeling magnanimous. “Not even a thing.”

  “So it’s okay if we bring them next time?”

  “Maybe let’s play it by ear,” I say, my stomach falling at the thought of having to babysit a bunch of kids on the Other Side. I’m happy I brought Conor, but I want it to be just ours for just a little longer.

  “Sure,” Conor says, and then looks toward the School and sighs. We’re almost there, less than a block away. “Don’t really see the point of this anymore, though.” I start to agree with him, but feel suddenly too exhausted to carry on the conversation. I wonder how many hours of sleep we got, and figure that if we got home before dawn and woke up around noon, it would have to have been about eight full hours—certainly enough to function.