Chum

The basement of the Lonesome Dove smells like sweat and cheap beer, like how I imagine most basements of dive bars would. It's all narrow and cramped, with concrete walls that feel like they're closing in, and a ceiling that'd scrape someone's head if they were six feet tall or taller. Probably not a great place for a concert, but the energy was insane. Demon Core's just wrapped up their set, and the members are breaking down their stuff, rolling up cables, packing away guitars.

Ahmed's busy disassembling his guitar, meticulous, every movement precise, pulling cords from an amp the size of my torso. You'd think he was defusing a bomb or something, the way he's focused. Tariq is busy chatting with some fans near what you could generously call the 'stage', selling them on merchandise, telling them to go see Nadia upstairs. Someone throws a pair of panties at him. I grimace, because that's disgusting. He dodges it like it's the twentieth time it's happened and they fall onto the stage. Nasir is busy wiping sweat off his drumset, and I notice that it's got, like, three hammers attached to the bass drum.

Nasir, Uncle Nasir, Jamila called him earlier, catches my eye as I stare at his drumset. There's like a million pieces to it and it's like a circle around him. He's big, so it's a big circle, but it's so filled with stuff that I can't imagine he'd even fit if it were smaller. There's so many different parts, and I think I see a cowbell. Does he really need a cowbell? "You like my set?" he asks, and I suddenly realize I've been staring for a while.

"Yeah," I say, "it's just… how do you even play that fast? Like, it doesn't make sense. There's no way you have enough arms for that." I'm pretty sure my jaw is hanging open, which is not the most dignified look, so I force it closed. Jamila giggles at my side and I look at her. "What? I'm serious. It's impossible."

Uncle Nasir laughs, a deep belly sound that makes me think of Santa Claus if Santa Claus were a Palestinian drummer in a metal band. "You're talking about the blast beats, right?" he asks.

I nod, because 'blast beats' sound awesome, even if I don't know what they are. "Sure. Blast beats."

His eyes light up, like someone just asked a geek to explain their favorite anime. "Alright, sit down," he gestures to a stool near the drum set. It's covered in, like, five different band stickers. I sit. He points to the double pedals below the bass drum. "See these? Foot pedals. That's how you get that speed. One foot hits one pedal, other foot hits the other, back and forth real fast. It's like…drumming with your feet. Mix that in with the snare and you get a blast beat. You're basically using all four limbs at once."

I look down at the pedals and then back up at Nasir. "Four limbs? That's like… octopus-level multitasking. I can barely control two at a time."

"Basically, yeah!" he says, sounding way too happy about it.

Jamila leans in, grinning. "I never knew you were so interested in drumming, Sam. Planning on a career switch?"

I roll my eyes. "Please, I can barely keep rhythm by tapping my foot. I just thought it was cool, okay?" My fingers drum against my thigh. "I don't even know if sharks like music."

"Maybe you're the first," Nasir suggests, still wiping down his drumset, not questioning the shark quip. "I think you'd have a killer beat."

Jamila snorts at the pun and I can't help but join her. "You're hilarious," I say, but I mean it. There's something warm and inviting about Nasir, and I think he'd be fun to hang around, even if I can't understand half the things he's talking about when it comes to drums.

"Yeah," I finally say, looking back at the drum set with newfound appreciation. "Killer beat. Got it."

"See?" Nasir grins, showing off a gold tooth. "You're getting it. Music's not just noise, it's like a conversation between instruments. You just have to know how to listen."

I smile, because that's kinda beautiful in its own way. Maybe someday I'll understand the language. For now, I'm just glad someone could translate a little bit of it for me.

Jamila nudges me and gestures toward Ibrahim, who's already busy breaking down his elaborate setup, coiling wires into neat loops. "Ready to meet the maestro?" she asks, her voice muffled through pinched fingers.

"As ready as I'll ever be, I guess," I reply, rolling my shoulders. My senses still feel hyper-aware from the earlier fight; I can practically hear each rustle of fabric as band members shove instruments into worn-out cases. There's a strange contrast between the heavy music that was just pounding through the air and the now-mundane sounds of a room settling back into its usual, dank atmosphere. I don't even know what this basement is used for otherwise.

Ibrahim pauses what he's doing, like he senses us watching him. He looks up and locks eyes with me, and suddenly it feels like the room's a bit less dank, a bit less dark. "You two alright?" he asks, standing up fully. His gaze is sharp, discerning, like he's taking the measure of us and finding something he approves of. "You handled that guy well."

I meet his gaze and nod, still feeling a little weird about the whole thing.

"You look like you could use some bandages," Ibrahim says, turning his attention to a makeshift table that's really just a plank of wood set on some cinderblocks. The table's crowded with cables, set lists, and water bottles. He reaches under it and pulls out a first aid kit. As he walks over to us, he pops it open to reveal a neat array of bandages, antiseptics, and painkillers.

I glance over at Jamila. She's holding her nose and her free hand is stained red. But she waves him off. "I'll be fine," she says. "Just a nosebleed. Occupational hazard, you know?"

Ibrahim's eyes flick to the first aid kit, then back to us. "You sure you don't want a band-aid or something? I mean, with all the… bleeding." His voice has this tired note to it, like he's done offering but would feel guilty if he didn't triple-check.

Jamila gives a little shake of her head. "Nah, we're okay. Just a little roughhousing, you know how concerts get."

Ibrahim turns his gaze toward me, "And you? Sure you're alright?"

I glance at my hands, still sticky from Jamila's blood. They'd scraped up from the fight, but there's no real injury anymore—just blood, my own and not, stuck under my nails. I might get a nosebleed later, but even that's starting to clot. "I'm good, really. Don't worry 'bout it."

"Alright, if you say so." Ibrahim's eyes narrow, scrutinizing, then soften as he looks away, busying himself with a roll of cables. "Can't be too careful, you know? Especially after what you two did out there with that crowdkiller."

God, that word again. Crowdkiller. Makes me feel like I'm stuck in a video game with boss fights. Except the bosses are, what, neo-Nazis? I swallow, and it's like trying to gulp down a whole lemon, pulp and all.

"So, you two come to metal gigs often?" Ibrahim finally asks, breaking the awkward silence that was just starting to cling to the air like humidity.

"Jamila's the fan," I say, nodding toward her. "I'm more of an accidental groupie."

Jamila laughs, eyes lighting up, but I can tell she's still a little tense. "Sam's selling herself short. She was right there in the pit with the rest of us."

"Yeah, well, when in Rome," I reply, shrugging. It's not like I had much of a choice, following her into the crowd.

Ibrahim looks us over, the corners of his mouth tilting up. "Well, Rome appreciates the assist."

As we talk, we help them with their equipment, lifting amplifiers into their cases and coiling instrument cables. Tariq and Ahmed are busy on the other side of the 'backstage', disassembling the drum set with Uncle Nasir. The atmosphere is weirdly homey for a place that smells like stale booze and wet dog.

"So, you two are in school together?" Ibrahim finally asks. "Jamila talks about you all the time. Says you're her best friend from school."

That catches me a bit off-guard. I mean, we're teammates, sorta mentors to each other in a weird superhero student-teacher swap, but school friends? I suppose it works as well as any other.

"Yeah, yeah we are," I say, opting not to correct the implication that I'm the same age as Jamila. No need to spill all the beans, right?

Ibrahim grins, but it's more in his eyes than his lips. "Well, it's good to know my sister's hanging around with good people."

We finish up with the gear, and there's a sense of finality as the last amplifier clicks shut. And for a second, I'm glad that for all the weird, tense, anxious moments, I'm here.

It's good to feel human, just a teenager in a basement of misfit toys, even if it's all built on a fragile web of half-truths and unspoken secrets. Because sometimes the lies you tell to keep the peace are better than the truths that could break it. And as I look at Jamila, her smile tired but genuine, I think maybe this — whatever this is — is worth preserving. Even if it's just for a little while longer.

Please.

It's gotten darker outside, streetlights flickering to life as the sky takes on the deep blue of evening. The Lonesome Dove's neon sign casts a buzz-filled glow on the mostly empty parking lot. Most of the crowd is gone now, headed off to wherever metalheads go after their souls have been sufficiently shredded. Just us, Jamila, and Demon Core are left, barring nameless stragglers, working to get their gear loaded into a van that looks like it's seen better days.

Ahmed is carefully stowing away his guitar, each movement methodical, as if he's solving a complex puzzle. Tariq is on his phone, probably posting on social media about the gig. Ibrahim is dealing with the sound equipment, coiling wires with a practiced hand. And Uncle Nasir? He's sitting on a makeshift stool, chugging water like he's just run a marathon.

"Could you hand me that amp?" Ahmed asks, nodding towards a bulky piece of equipment near my feet.

I crouch down to pick it up, conscious of the way my muscles contract and relax as I do. Even after all these weeks, the changes in my body still feel new, exciting, and a little scary. I hand it to him.

"Thanks," he says, slotting it into the van with a satisfying thud.

Jamila comes over, her nosebleed finally stopped, but the dark stain remains on her tunic. She's holding a bundle of black fabric—t-shirts, hoodies, band merch.

"They said we could take some as a thank-you," she says. She hands me a t-shirt that has the band's name, Demon Core, in an unintelligible scrawl, and a logo of a screwdriver cracking a skull open. I'm sure my mom would love it.

"Nice," I say, unfolding the shirt. It's an XL, probably could double as a dress on me. "A little big, though."

"Band sizes," Jamila grins. "They always overestimate."

"XLs are all we have left at the end of the night, usually," Tariq calls out from the front of the van, kicking something on the dashboard.

Warm and damp, her fingers brush against mine as she gives me the shirt. The touch is quick, casual, but it sends a shiver down my spine. Is it wrong to read into that? To hope?

"Hey, you two need stickers?" Uncle Nasir asks, walking over. He's holding a roll of band stickers, each one a miniature of their logo.

"Sure," Jamila and I say in unison, and then laugh. It's a comfortable moment, free of any of the night's earlier tension.

Uncle Nasir peels off a couple and hands them to us. "Stick 'em wherever you want. Spread the word, you know?"

I take mine and look at it, holding it up to the dim light. I can see putting this on my laptop, or maybe the back of my phone. Somewhere it'll be seen, somewhere it'll matter. Jamila sticks hers on the water bottle she's carrying, smoothing it down with a satisfied nod.

Ahmed and Tariq join us, Ahmed carrying a guitar case and Tariq still engrossed in his phone. Before we can continue the conversation, Uncle Nasir comes over with a playful grin and slaps a third sticker onto my forehead.

"Consider yourself branded," he chuckles.

I scrunch my face up at him and peel the sticker off. On a strange impulse to be funny—or maybe just memorable—I toss it into my mouth and chew it to bits. As the adhesive fills my mouth, I instantly regret the decision, and not just from the taste.

"Oh, man, you actually ate it!" Uncle Nasir laughs, clearly amused.

I give him a sheepish grin, accidentally showing off more of my teeth than I intended. It's Ahmed who notices first.

"Whoa, those are some wicked chompers you got there," he says, eyes widening a bit.

"Yeah, got into a bit of an accident when I was younger. Near-death experience and all that," I say, hesitating for a moment. "It left me with these teeth. And that's it!"

I feel a pang of guilt for bending the truth. I'm not lying about the near-death part, but the rest feels like a disservice to both sides of me—the everyday Sam and the one that's Bloodhound. But right now, in this moment, I'm just Sam.

"Man, nature gave you quite the dental plan," Uncle Nasir adds, visibly impressed but not suspicious. "That's pretty hardcore."

"Metal," Ibrahim mutters from a distance. I close my mouth, curling my lips back into place.

Jamila shoots me a knowing look. She's one of the few people who understands the whole story, who knows the weight of the teeth I just so casually displayed. She smiles at me — a slight, quick thing — but it's enough. Enough to say that it's okay, that this small deceit is a drop in the bucket of things we keep hidden.

"Thanks for helping us out," Ahmed finally says, breaking the moment but not the mood. "It's not every day we get fans who are also roadies."

The slight awkwardness dissipates as the subject changes, but the atmosphere remains easygoing. My teeth are soon forgotten as the conversation shifts back to the more mundane, back to the pleasantries that make up everyday interaction. Still, the little moment of honesty and deception lingers in my mind, a reminder of the double life I lead.

"We're versatile," I reply, grinning.

"We should head out," Tariq says, pocketing his phone. "Long drive ahead. We're headed to Trenton next!"

"Exciting," Jamila snarks. "I've always wanted to go to Philadelphia 3."

They climb into the van, each one settling into their designated spots like pieces of a well-played game. Tariq turns to us before he hops in.

"Thanks again," he says. "You two ever want to see another show, hit us up. VIP treatment."

"You don't normally give your family members VIP treatment?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Have you met our dad yet?" He asks.

I don't understand what he means by that, but I assume it makes sense, so I just nod my head. Jamila waves as the van's engine sputters to life. It pulls out of the parking lot, leaving behind the scent of gasoline and the lingering notes of a night that felt out of the ordinary.

I turn to Jamila, who's now scrolling through her phone, probably texting her mom to let her know we're okay.

"Fun night?" I ask.

"The best," she replies, not looking up. But I see her lips twitch into a smile.

Yeah, it was a good night. And as we start walking away from the Lonesome Dove, I can't help but think how many more good nights there could be.

But that's a thought for later.

Our phones go off at the same time.