First they ran through another song–a heavy metal song–and Danny sat and watched. Not only did he not know it; he didn’t think he’d ever heard a song quite like it. It had both a softer, melodic part that Matt sang and a harder edged vocal part. Another kid–someone Danny saw all the time in the hallways, but who wasn’t in the orchestra–floated behind Matt, microphone in hand. He didn’t look like the sort of kid who would be in the band. (But then again, Matt Finnegan didn’t either.) This guy had wild frizzy hair and a long almost beard-like goatee. He was stocky and his belly bulged beneath his tight t-shirt. He’d chime in now and then with thick, guttural exclamations. In a middle part of the song, he took over completely: Shut uppppp! Shut upppp! Shut up when I’m talking to you–shut uppppp!

The tune crashed to an atonal finish and Danny was surprised to hear a smattering of applause. Peering back into the darkness of the auditorium, he could see a handful of occupied seats–maybe two dozen. Mostly they were band or theater kids with nowhere else to go. Josh Hermitage was sitting asleep in the front row, his arms folded, his legs stretched out, his big sneakers plopped one on top of the other, his head back, his mouth open. The deafening volume didn’t seem to have bothered him in the slightest.

Danny thought he could make out Mr. Darcy and Ms. Moss in the back where they always sat. He knew they were supposed to be important but he had no idea what they actually did. Then he saw, maybe twenty or so rows in front of the teachers, a line of eight or nine theater kids including on one end, Beth Fullerton and on the other end Gabrielle and somewhere in the middle: Tara. Her head was turned; she was whispering into her friend’s ear and a wicked grin flitted across her face. God, Danny would have liked to have had her sweet breath in his ear.

He glanced up at the stage. The band was looking down at him. He opened the clasps on his violin box and realized his fingers were trembling. He was both nervous and excited. He didn’t even know the song. Matt, standing near the edge of the stage, guitar strapped over his shoulder, gestured to Danny come on stage which Danny did. To his embarrassment, the small crowd cheered him. Gabrielle was on her feet and so was Tara. His heart was pounding like crazy. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to play,” he said.

Matt put his arm around him and whispered through a quick overview of the song, which to Danny, sounded like a whole lot of the same note over and over again. He shrugged, resigned. At least he could play it. “But listen to the melody,” Matt said. “Because after the second chorus, you’re going to solo.”

Danny now looked incredulous. “Solo? But I don’t know the song.”

“Just make it up as you go,” Matt said, turning away and stepping towards the microphone. His low whisper boomed about the darkened auditorium. “This is a Velvet Underground song called ‘Venus in Furs.’” He looked back at Humpter, seated behind his drums. “Oh,” and he said into the mic, “and this is the, uh, first time we’ve ever played this one.” He nodded at Humpter who gave his hi-hat four slow taps. The music began. Loud and chaotic: a slow pulse, a slow cacophony. Matt’s guitar cut through the noise and then his voice: Shiny, shiny…shiny boots of leather layered a slightly sinister melody on top. Danny hacked away at his one note.

The tune plodded forward and, at the chorus, the chord changed. Beneath the jet black hair, closely cropped and covering his hear, beneath the skull casing, in the little swirl of the hippocampus, the melody, as it unfolded, was being recorded. By the time, the second verse began Danny’s violin traced Finnegan’s vocal. Kiss the boot of shiny, shiny leather… And here and there, when there was space, Danny could run down a quick succession of three or six or nine notes up or down to the next, but he had to be very, very careful because the song was so sparse, he knew too much would kill the mood.

On the third time through, Matt didn’t sing. The bass and the drums trudged forward and Danny carried the melody. Matt would strike each chord and let it hang, like smoke, until it blurred into feedback. Danny’s violin emerged through the nebula, a somber variation on the melody: slow like the original. He’d never felt like this. Not all the times he’d played the violin. This time it all seemed to fit together.

In the audience, he could only see Josh, who’d been roused from his nap but had a puzzled look on his face. He didn’t care. He couldn’t see the rest of the audience, their faces quiet and contemplative. Mr. Darcy and Ms. Moss were both very still. Down the row, the townspeople sat transfixed, even Gabrielle, even Tara. When the song squeaked to its conclusion, they leapt up and screamed and applauded and Danny was embarrassed and quite happy. In the very back, Ms. Moss was standing too and whistling and cheering and even grumpy Mr. Darcy was giving a reluctant bit of clapping. Matt gave him a high-five; the big burly guy with the goatee gave him one too, and his head was swimming as if he’d spun around in a circle too many times and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do next and he wouldn’t have known but the hi-hat crashed four times and the band kicked into another song and the big, burly guy was howling: When you’re riiiiipe, you’ll bleed out of control, you’ll bleed out of control! Danny retreated off the stage.

Outside, in the hallway, he could still hear the dull roar of the band jamming. He was walking back down the band hallway, when he heard behind him quick footsteps. He turned. Tara was running to catch up with him.

“Danny!” she said. He stopped and she pulled up in front of him “Dude,” she said and her eyes were all wide and she had her arms spread out like she couldn’t quite think what to say. “That,” she said, “was fucking awesome.”

Danny cocked a smile. “That?” he said. “I just made that up as went along.”

She was smiling, Tara was, and kind of nodding. “No, you are talented,” she said, and she was still nodding, and it was kind of awkward but kind of not and neither one of them knew exactly what to say and then they were kissing. She’d kissed him, quickly bridging the distance between them and squeezing his cheeks between her hands. The violin case fell with quick couple of thuds and a dissonant chord. His hand was up on her head, his fingers fanning out through her dark hair. His left hand found the curve of her hip and her slender little waist. Then it was done and she pulled away and eyed him and said, “Bye,” and scurried off down the hall. Danny stood, his back against the wall, between the “always” and the “onward” of the school song. He let us his head knock gently against the painted brick, taking a couple deep breaths before remembering his violin and shouting, “Oh fuck!”