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something big happening around the 21st of June. A party somewhere around Portland where
     the Flame was supposed to play. He had heard the band only on other people’s iPods. They didn’t make albums — just bootlegs
     here and there — and there were only a few photos of them floating around on the Internet. Yet every kid in Portland knew
     every word to every song — which hadn’t happened in the northwest since Nirvana, when Nix was still in utero. It would likely
     be the biggest gathering of freaks in the region all summer, but no one seemed to know where it would take place.
    “Yeah, I heard something.”
    “When you get the four-one-one, you let me know and I’ll call this transaction even, and throw in the next two rolls.”
    “Whatever, man.
Four-one-one.
I’m not going to help you deal to thirteen-year-olds in their daddies’ BMWs.”
    Bleek smiled and sighed as if the idea pleased him. He nodded to Finn. “Ah, Evelyn. I remember her when she was just a wee
     thing.”
    Finn started. “Was it life that turned you into such a complete asshole, or were you born this way?”
    “Born this way.” Bleek smirked. “Just like you. Except with balls.”
    “Get the fuck out of here before I kick your ass.”
    “What are you going to do? Strangle me with your hairdo? You’re pathetic, Terwilliger.” He sniggered then turned to Nix. “Nothing
     like two fucked-up teenagers with nothing better to do with their time than harass hardworking men like myself! Fine. Deal’s
     off.”
    “It’s yours.” Nix passed the roll back to the dealer.
    Bleek parted the brush. “Nice talking to you, gentlemen.”
    “Uh, Bleek?”
    When he turned and saw Nix’s outstretched hand he smirked, then reached in his pocket for the twenty. He wadded it up and
     threw it at Nix, who caught it left-handed, never taking his eyes from Bleek’s. The older boy’s gaze fell first.
    “Nix, buddy, you got to start hanging with some more motivated people.”
    Bleek let go of a branch and disappeared into the gathering darkness.

C HAPTER 3
    I T HADN ’ T BEEN A PLAN EXACTLY. More like triage. Something to make Ondine feel better after her parents rolled out of the driveway; something to get her
     out from under her cornflower-and-cream-striped duvet before she convinced herself she’d made a huge mistake and called up
     Trish and Ralph and begged for a ticket to Glen-ho, Evanston, whatever. It was strange: just at the moment her “mirages” intensified
     — she didn’t know what else to call the visions she’d had since she was little — she’d chosen to distance herself. Desperate
     to believe she’d made the right decision by staying, she’d come up with a distraction. Ergo (with impeccable teenaged logic),
     party. She’d been thinking of it for a while, a real grown-up affair with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Trish had left phyllo
     dough in the freezer and a few bottles of booze in the liquor cabinet. The Masons trusted their daughter, and why shouldn’t
     they? Ondine was always trustworthy.
    She supposed she should celebrate her newfound independence — isn’t that what unsupervised kids her age did? — even if she
     didn’t feel much like celebrating. Truth was, it was four in the afternoon and already she missed her family. She’d even made
     another cup of Starbucks just so that things wouldn’t feel so empty. She’d taken a nap in Ralph and Trish’s bed, pressing
     her head to where her mother slept. The pillow smelled like Trish’s sandalwood-scented hair.
    In her dreams, butterflies with women’s heads flitted through red maple leaves. Max had turned into a huge white worm and
     was trying to climb onto a branch where Ondine and her father sat. Trish called to them from the house. Her voice sounded
     like bells ringing —
    Ondine stumbled to her bedroom to pick up her cell.
    “Hey,” she mumbled. It had been drizzling most of the afternoon, but now the sun had broken through the clouds and