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Theroomwastiny.Asinglebed,adesk,andasimplewardrobefilledalmostallthespace;eventurningarouawkward.ButtoCra,thiswasherbunker—herair-raidshelteragainsttheentireworld.
Shetossedherbackpatothebedand,fromthedeepestinnerpocket,pulledouttanesemangavolumeslikeamagi—coversprihwide,watery-eyedgirls.Shedroppedherselfontothesoftmattress,thenreachedoutandpressedthepybuttonontheoldCDstereobythebed.
ShiinaRingo’svoice—zyandwiredatthesametime—floodedthefour-tatamispastantly.
Thiskindoflife—tingeverydolr,squeezingherselfthroughnarrosbehesystemaher’swatchfuleyes—tookupmostofheryouth.
Thatwasexactlywhythoserareafter-schoolhoursinthebasementoftheoldactivityter—whenshecouldletthefive-stringbassroarwithoutrestraint—weresoprecioustoher.
Andwhyshewouldn’tallowaoruinthem.
Whichwasalsowhy,thatevening—thesameafternoonattheendofChapter1—wheainstudentabruptlycutstraightthroughtheband’srhythm…
Crastoppedplug.
Sheliftedherhead.
Andintheeyeshiddenbehindherrimlessgsses,somethingfshed—rareonherface,sharpasabde:
aggression,andunmistakabledispleasure.
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