Chum

I'm standing there, just a few feet away from the stage, my whole body vibrating from the roar of the guitar and the thump-thump-thump of the drums. It’s an assault on the senses, and I feel positively comatose, just squeezing Jamila's hand so hard that I'm certain I'm about to bruise it while she hurls herself up and down. Frankly, if I didn't know better, I would think she's using her powers to lift herself higher - but there's no breeze in this place, not even a single bit of wind, sweat-soaked or otherwise, to grab hold of.

But the crowd, man, it's something else. Like a living thing, pushing and pulling. One song bleeds into another, and I feel a little less like I’m standing and a bit more like I'm floating in this sea of people. Jamila seems to be loving it, her arms lifted, her eyes closed, her head tilted back as if she’s absorbing the music right into her soul. I kind of envy that. But she’s holding my hand, and that's grounding me, telling me that I'm not entirely lost in this craziness.

I can see it, though, up front, where the lights shine brightest and the crowd seems to churn like a stormy sea. People are just going nuts. Throwing elbows, shoulders colliding, legs kicking. It's chaos, an outright battle, and all set to the pounding rhythm of my would-be brothers-in-law thrashing away on their instruments. I have no idea what that’s all about. Is this a concert or some kind of weird fight club? I have to assume this is normal behavior here given the way that nobody is interrupting it.

Then the unbelievable happens. Jamila lets go of my hand. And not just that, she actually moves forward, toward that swirling vortex of madness I've been quietly dreading the whole time. She steps in like she's stepping into a dance, the layers of her dress floating around her like she's some kind of rock and roll fairy. My hand feels cold all of a sudden, empty. And my brain is firing off a dozen questions a second. Where is she going? Why is she going? Should I follow?

My eyes dart around, catching glimpses of others in the crowd. They're into it, lost in the music, the atmosphere, the shared frenzy. And here I am, feet glued to the floor, my empty hand making a fist, then opening, then a fist again. My stomach's churning, not because I’m sick, but because I’m scared. And I feel dumb for being scared, because it’s just a concert, but everything inside me is screaming that it's not 'just a concert'. It's a whirling gyre of death, and it looks like something you need to survive rather than enjoy.

Every person that gets whacked in the face hard enough to bleed just adds another layer of overstimulation to my stretched-to-its-limits brain. There must be at least fifteen, sixteen people here bleeding, but it's hard enough to think, much less focus on however many vascular systems I can detect.

The band starts a new song, a crashing wave of sound that jolts me from my thoughts. It's louder, faster, the screaming vocals barely words but pure emotion. Jamila is swallowed by the crowd, disappearing into that frenzied pit. My feet finally move, like they've been cut loose, but I don’t know whether to step forward or step back. My hands clench into fists at my sides.

I'm stuck, torn between the safety of distance and the terrifying unknown, between holding back and letting go. Because that's what this is, right? It's not just a concert, not just a night out. It's a test. A test of bravery or stupidity, of letting myself be free or keeping myself caged. I've faced down criminals, taken hits that could crush a car, but this, this small decision, terrifies me.

And it sucks, it sucks so bad because I want to be there, right there in that mess of human emotion and catharsis. With her. Jamila's somewhere in there, and I need to be there too. But I can't make myself move, and that makes me feel even smaller. Smaller than small.

The song reaches its crescendo, the guitars wailing like the end of the world. And I’m still standing here. Outside. Alone. But then, as the last notes ring out and blend into the roar of applause and screams and thrown beer cans. I look around for Jamila, the crowd clearing a bit as one song ends and another begins. And then I see her, making her way back to me, her eyes shining, her lips parted in a breathless smile. And it's like the world snaps back into focus. She reaches for my hand, and I grab it like it’s a lifeline. Because it is.

"Alright you fucking animals, this song is for a very special, dear friend of ours in the crowd tonight. It's not something from our demo tape. It's not even one of ours. And after this we've got one last song. No encores," Tariq pants into the mic, totally out of breath.

Jamila squeezes my hand and pulls out of the spellbound crowd to get up close to my face, her entire body drenched in sweat. "Mosh with me," she wheezes, just as out of breath as her body.

"I don't know what that means!" I say, trying not to whimper.

"This song's called Passenger!" Tariq whispers from the stage, booming through the concrete, reverberating in my bones. A chill of recognition goes through my spine.

"Come let out all that feral energy, Bee," Jamila offers, grabbing my hand with her other, squeezing it between both of her palms. She looks down at me. I look up at her. "It's catharsis."

"Deftones Passenger?" I ask, grabbing her hands with my other. Now we're both holding all hands together. One big finger tangle.

Jamila winks at me as the guitars roar to life, a familiar song played at twenty percent higher velocity. Nasir has added at least twice as many bass drum hits as I'm sure exist in this song I've listened to all my life on the way to school.

Here I lay, still and breathless

Just like always; still, I want some more

Mirrors sideways, who cares what's behind?

Just like always, still your passenger

The tug of her hands is irresistible. A magnetic pull that draws me closer, and it's like a countdown in my head. Three, two, one, ignition. I follow her, because at this moment, I'd follow her anywhere. We plunge into the whirlpool of people, bodies crashing into one another like human bumper cars, each impact absorbed, welcomed. I've never felt anything like this. It's controlled chaos. Everyone's throwing themselves into each other, but it's like, not in a mean way? They're smiling, laughing, some even hugging it out after a particularly hard bash.

Chrome buttons, buckles, and leather surfaces

These and other lucky witnesses

Now to calm me, this time, won't you, please?

Drive faster

And me, I know this song. When Tariq starts belting, I belt with him. I feel it in the back of my throat, rattling my teeth.

Roll the window down

This cool night air is curious

Let the whole world look in

Who cares who sees anything?

I still hesitate for a moment, all these instincts telling me to be careful, not to hurt anyone with my stupidly strong jaw or the teeth that could probably bite through a car door. But then Jamila, she's right there next to me, slamming her shoulder against some massive dude who must be like, twice her size? And she's laughing, wind whipping her hair around her face, and it's like seeing her makes something click.

I'm your passenger

I'm your passenger

I'm a predator, a shark. Not a man-eater or anything, but like, you know, don't mess with me. And this pit of writhing, flailing humans, it's like an ocean of prey and other predators, and we're all just trying to coexist in this messy, beautiful way. Like a feeding frenzy, but the only thing we're devouring is the music and the adrenaline. I'm a tiny little 14 year old nothing but every time I slam into someone like a pinball I send them reeling. I demand space. I demand respect.

Drop these down, then put them on me

Nice, cool seats there to cushion your knees

Now to calm me, take me around again

Don't pull over, this time, won’t you, please?

And so I let it go. All the fear, the hesitation, the nagging voice in the back of my head that tells me to play it safe, stay in the shallow end. I dive deep. I slam into someone on my right, put my weight into it, and they stumble back, laughing, their eyes wild and welcoming. And I'm laughing too, throwing my head back like I've just discovered something I never knew was missing. Like I've come home.

Drive faster

The music drowns out everything else, and it's just this wall of sound that fills me up. I catch a glimpse of Jamila, and she's still grinning at me, her eyes alive with this fiery light. She’s nodding, like she's saying, "Yeah, that's it. That's you. Unleashed."

Roll the window down

This cool night air is curious

Let the whole world look in

Who cares who sees what's at night?

People start to recognize, giving me more room, which is kinda awesome because it means they're acknowledging that I can hold my own. But also a little scary, because it's like I'm spreading my territory, claiming more of this ocean for myself. And then I think, screw it, why shouldn't I? So I keep going, keep slamming, keep roaring my defiance against, I don't know, everything that holds me back, I guess.

Throw these misty windows down

To catch my breath and then

Go and

Go and

Go, just drive me home and back again

As the song hits the steady endpoint I'm so familiar with, I notice the rest of the crowd clearing out around me - or maybe I'm just in the eye of the hurricane, dragged into the center of this hell. Demon Core drags this part out, even going faster than the song normally goes. It doesn't last this long, and it doesn't have riffs like this, but the texture is the same, the way I just need to throw myself up and down until my lunch comes up with me.

Here I lay

Just like always

Don't let me go, go, go, go

Go, go, go, go

Take me to the edge

And then, before I know it, the moment has ended. The song drags out in that final instrumental verse, that lingering bookend, and without a pianist, Ibrahim just plucks tinny, tiny notes out from the bottom of his guitar strings. Jamila looks back at me, nose bleeding, leaking over her lipstick, while her makeup is just smeared into a mess around her face. I'm sure mine looks just as bad. My nose is bleeding too, but I can't remember when it happened.

It feels like… I don't know. I can't even say that. I can't even think it. But it feels like it.

I've never felt such a need to devour someone before. My mouth fills with saliva. My body feels warm in uncomfortable places, but I don't care.

Tariq leans down. He sits on the edge of the stage. He makes eye contact with Jamila, and then with me, and he smiles, and then he looks at the rest of the crowd, and he grins. "You know what this is. I better see all of you in the fucking pit or I'm banning you from the next show."

"He's not serious, is he?" I ask Jamila, my throat raw and hoarse. She smiles and refuses to answer.

"This is Scarification. You've been a lovely crowd. Please tear this motherfucking building down."

Jamila's big, almond-shaped eyes meet mine, and she grins, a devilish twinkle in her eyes. Yeah, she's not telling me if her brother is serious, but he doesn't seem like he's joking. I lean closer to her and shout, "He's gotta be joking, right?" over the roar of the crowd.

"Wouldn't count on it," she shouts back, her smile widening. She takes a step back as a gap in the pit clears.

The drummer kicks off the next song with a heavy, pounding beat that you can feel in your bones. It's not just loud; it's a force, like a windstorm. I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a hurricane. A very loud, very metal hurricane. The guitars join in, and the crowd erupts. It's not just a shift in the music; it's a shift in energy, in atmosphere. You can taste it. Feel it. Like when a storm's rolling in and the air turns heavy.

Jamila somehow manages to make this look graceful as she shoves into and is shoved into. She has a rhythm, not like me, where I’m all sharp elbows and staccato movements. She flows; I kind of jerk along to the beat. We’re different, but somehow it's still so easy to get lost in the music, in the moment.

Until he steps in. And it's like the way the air feels before a lightning bolt hits the ground. It's like a ripple going through the crowd. I look over, and he's got no hair on his head, just a sheen of sweat that catches the stage lights. His arms are like tree trunks covered in tattoos — geometric lines, skulls, plus sign shaped symbols I can't make out in detail. His face is set in a scowl, like he’s pissed at the world and he’s gonna take it out on everyone here. Which is pretty much what starts happening.

He doesn't just bump into people, you know? There's this weird, intentional force to it. Like, he’s not flinging himself in a direction; he's aiming. He's got these balled-up fists and he starts swinging them like he’s in a street fight, making contact with shoulders, chests, faces. And people start to move, not like before where it’s just bodies bouncing against bodies. Now, they’re actively trying to put some distance between him and themselves. It's like they're all repelled, as if he's got a magnetic field of pure jerk energy.

He's not like the rest of us. Jamila and I were just trying to be part of the same electric current, the same flow. He wants to be the breaker, the disruptor. And I don't know, maybe some people enjoy the chaos he’s causing, but not me. Definitely not me. Even if I don’t know what this is, what it's supposed to be, I know that’s not it.

And then his eyes lock onto Jamila. Oh, no. I can feel my jaw tighten, my muscles coiling. I pull myself out, back into the crowd, but on the very first layer where I can keep an eye on things. I feel my entire body pulsing with adrenaline. I know this feeling in my bones. The feeling of being in a fight. I try to shout over the guitar and the screaming crowd, try to call for "Jamila!" but it's useless.

My voice gets buried in the thick wall of sound as I try to shout, "Jamila!" It's like trying to toss a pebble into a hurricane. Completely pointless.

Instead, I grab. My arms shoot out like they have minds of their own, and my hands find her shoulders, jerking her just a step back. Baldy's fist swoops through the air where her face used to be, missing by inches. There's a look in his eyes, something nasty, like sewage water. He turns and it's different this time. His face contorts, lips pulling back in a snarl I can't hear but definitely feel. He's shouting something, words lost in the swirling chaos of noise, but it's the intent that comes through, loud and clear. His hand reaches out, not to hit, but to grab — his fingers clawing at the fabric of her hijab, trying to yank it off her head.

And something inside me snaps.

He swings one more time, and I hear the tone of the crowd around me change. People starting to get fed up. I've noticed a sort of unspoken chivalry in the most chaotic hour and a half of my life - when someone falls in this hell, everyone stops at once and picks them up. Someone dropped their glasses and the entire thing came to a halt. And now, this guy trying to pick on a girl, and the entire crowd notices, already forming a barrier around him.

Too bad for the crowd I don't need any backup.

I swing once, adrenaline singing through me while Tariq's voice soaks every last inch of air. My fist, my knuckles that are harder than steel, my weeks of training punching form, my muscles that grow unfairly fast compared to everyone around me, my protective, killer urges, it all combines to let me punch way above the weight class of my size. Maybe if he saw me coming, it wouldn't have hurt so much.

But he didn't, and I feel his jaw buckle under my hook. His mouth immediately fills with blood - I can tell. He goes spinning into the crowd, and they bump him like a pinball, sending him onto the ground.

I know what to do now. I'm not even thinking about it. Zero thought has happened in the past thirty seconds and zero thought will continue to happen.

I climb on top of him and I bare my teeth. All of them. Blood drips from my face onto his unmarred, pale skin. I purse my lips out as I snarl, making sure he can read every word over the cacophany above me.

"Don't. Touch. My. Girlfriend."

He looks at me, undeterred. When he yells, he does it the same as me. Slowly. Deliberately. Ensuring he can be understood over the noise.

"Dyke. Bitch."

My vision goes red.

My vision tunnels, and there's nothing else in my entire world except for his face and my fist. I punch him again, this time in the chest, hoping to crack a rib. I want him to suffer, but I don't want him to get brain damage. He lets out a groan that drowns in the echoing guitars and drums, his eyes squinting but not quite closing, and spits up blood. I grab him by the collar of his shirt. I want him to look at me. To know what's happening to him. And why.

Just as I pull my arm back for another swing, two large hands grab my shoulders and yank me up, off the guy. I thrash, ready to fight whoever's pulling me away from my prey. But the hands are steady, firm but not crushing, and a voice yells in my ear, "Kid, you proved your point. Let it go."

I look around, panting, and see two burly guys holding the tough guy between them, lifting him off the ground like he's a piece of trash they're hauling out. The crowd parts for them, and no one tries to stop them. I’m breathing heavy, my fists clenched so tight they’re shaking.

Jamila rushes to my side, her eyes wide but relieved. "Are you okay?" She asks, but it's a dumb question. Of course, I'm not okay. But I'm not going to say that to her. I throw her the shakiest thumbs up of my life.

She wraps her arms around me in a tight hug, and for the first time in what feels like forever, my muscles relax a little. "Thank you," she whispers into my ear.

"You don't ever have to thank me for that," I reply, still shaky, still not quite believing that any of this is real.

The song finally ends, a crashing wave of cymbals and distorted guitars, and Tariq’s voice fills the space as the music fades. "Thank you, Camden! I'm sad that this basement is still standing but I'm glad y'all came out here tonight. Nadia up by the bar is selling shirts and demo CDs, remember to share that shit on LimeWire or I'm hunting you down."

Just as the crowd starts to disperse, a figure practically leaps off the stage, guitar still slung over his back. Ibrahim makes his way through the thinning crowd, eyes scanning until they land on us.

"Hey," he says, out of breath but clearly concerned, "you two okay?"

"Yeah," Jamila answers before I can. "Thanks to Sam, here."

Ibrahim looks at me and nods, relief clear on his face. "Saw what you did from the stage. Glad someone handled that crowdkiller before we had to call him out. Hate singling people out like that."

"Crowdkiller?" I ask, the term tasting unfamiliar on my tongue.

"People who intentionally try to hurt others in the pit," Ibrahim explains. "That guy you clocked? With those tattoos? Classic skinhead, probably came here just to start something. You'd be surprised how many of those guys show up to a band that's 3 Pakistanis and a Palestinian."

It's like someone tossed a bucket of ice water over me. I just beat up a skinhead? That's, like, a Nazi, right?

"I guess we owe you," Ibrahim continues, unaware of my internal meltdown. "Why don't you two come backstage? Or, well," he gestures to a makeshift area behind some curtains and dividers at the back of the basement, "what we call backstage."

Jamila grabs my hand and squeezes, blood smearing along my fingers.

It feels wet. Sticky. It gets under my nails.

Warm and wet. She smiles and talks for me. "We'd love to, Ibby."

I grin dizzily, blood trickling down my teeth.