Rob McGhee was the son of Reverend Robert McGhee, the pastor of Good Shepherd Episcopal. Father McGhee was so high church that you could argue Rob was more Catholic than anyone else in the car. (Especially since Rick was a Methodist.) Rob went to high school at Jesuit over Episcopal for a number of reasons—but most likely because his father was close to leaving his flock (or vice versa). Rob had been raised so Christian it was almost untenable, but he wasn’t naïve or saintly, just anxious, high-strung, a confused vineyard worker. Under a mop of dirty-blond hair cropped new wave, Rob was a manic dreamer, a guitar pick tucked between his teeth, fidgety, his fingers folding, drumming, knuckles cracking, fingernails in constant chaw as the preacher’s son imagined what John Lennon meant by “no religion.” His worrywart tendencies were antagonized to the hilt by the bathtub cynicism of Steve O’Donnell.

“I’m telling you I can get there.”

“Yeah, get her to pity you.”

“Stick, it’s sad that you are so lonely that you have to lash out at others like this.”

Sticky—a nickname earned for an incident freshman year involving pocket pool, a melted Jolly Rancher, and fingers glued to his algebra test in Chaplinesque fashion—loved to talk shit. He was the best athlete of the bunch but was close to dropping JV football and basketball for music. When not suffering from a case of the fuck-its, he was going to be Jimmy Page, and he and Rob—who, well, he wasn’t Robert Plant, more like Robert Smith—had plans that extended well past their third, breakout album. Sticky had a wide, pied-Irish face, real caterpillar brows, and a great widow’s peak of Kennedy hair lacquered in Outsiders style. He affected lazy punk and too-cool-for-school. He did care; he just didn’t let you know.

“Lexy said this is the dance where girls pick their guy for the year.” Rob belched out a fat cloud of Dr Pepper. “Winter Snowball, Sadie Hawkins, prom. Tonight’s the night you have to get all that going.”

“Fuck that noise,” Rick said.

“I’m not getting married. But I’d settle for some boobs in my face,” Sticky announced to the floor mats of his driver’s seat. The car swerved as he felt around for his Cult tape. He was doing fifty in a thirty, driving over the lane bumpers, but traffic was light and death not imminent.