“Well, make sure you watch out for me!” Esther said too loudly, trying to plaster over the moment with bluster and cheer and self-deprecation. “We all know I’m the liability here.”

Susan let out an unnecessarily loud bark of fake laughter. “Our Esther—face so pretty, standards so low. I’ll drink to that.”

And she tossed back her whisky so fast that she nearly choked. Which Esther considered fair retribution for being so rude about her taste in men.

Disaster dodged, the three of them reverted to safe territory, discussing the other occupants of the bar, trying to guess which course they studied based solely on their clothing. The only one they agreed on was that the student dressed entirely in black except for a scarf, sipping an espresso, must be a Philosophy student. It helped that he was lounging back, making sure the cover of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason was on display as he read.

When Susan returned with the next round, the three of them decided they had enough change to spare for the jukebox, thereby putting an end to what appeared to be an endless rotation of Tom Jones songs.

“So, what are we going for?” Susan asked, change in hand, peering into the bowels of the jukebox.

“Ooh. That one.” Daisy pointed. “The artwork looks really pretty . . .”

“Daisy!” Esther was horrified. “That’s not how you choose music!”

“No, Daisy,” Susan muttered. “One must make a selection inversely proportional to the music’s appeal. Let me demonstrate . . . Look, some Metallica. That’s up your street, isn’t it, Esther?”

Mortified, Esther hissed, “What? Those sellouts? How dare you.”

“There’s some Deftones?”

“I mean, the early stuff’s the best.”

“Black Veil Brides?”

“Mm.” Esther wrinkled her nose. “Getting a bit mainstream.”

“Twenty One Pilots are alternative, aren’t they?”

Esther’s involuntary gasp of horror was so forceful, she nearly asphyxiated. As she coughed and spluttered, Susan thumped her gleefully on the back.

“See, Daisy, this one is a connoisseur of the darkest gift humanity has given us: music that is impossible to listen to.”

Esther was used to people mocking her taste in music—after all, she’d had a lifetime (well, six years) of being misunderstood. The way of the goth was a dark and lonely path, one only trodden by those driven from a heartless society, united by a love of obscure music, the allure of the grave, and the eternal problem of dealing with deodorant stains on black clothes. Esther didn’t need her new friends to love the same things she did. Nevertheless, Susan’s mockery was a puff of air extinguishing the little candle of hope that burned in Esther’s blackened heart.

Buying three tickets to see Necrotizing Swamp next term had been a bit optimistic.