I couldn’t parse the lyrics. There was no heroic guitar soloing. No chorus with slick background vocals. Zero production value. It was as though someone broke into their rehearsal space (I imagined a musty, low-ceilinged basement) and dropped a mono-channel tape recorder in the middle of the floor, and because of the analog recording intrusion the band played louder, faster, angrier. Hints of melody surfaced and imploded, only to ooze back later, and then the song abruptly finished, crashed, and it was the end of the speakers and the tape player and the Datsun and maybe the rest of the world because it was all too much. Then the next song exploded. My initial response: I didn’t like it. It was too much. The emotion and lack of control was dangerous, too painfully confessional, and I wanted to hide from its rawness, but I couldn’t stop listening.

I said, “They’re okay, I guess.”

Mercy turned down the volume and smirked at me. “Better than Def Leppard.”

My face turned into a tomato. I wouldn’t have been more embarrassed if she walked into my bedroom and saw all my stuffed animals. “Who says I like them?”

“You look like someone who listens to Def Leppard.”

That was mean of me. Even though it was true.

“What does someone who listens to Def Leppard look like?”

“You.”

“What, like my face and hair or my clothes? These aren’t my regular clothes.”

“What are your regular clothes?”

“Jeans, sweatshirt or sweater, not that different from yours.”

“I notice you haven’t denied your Leppard allegiance.”

“I—I don’t like their new record at all, but their older stuff, before they got super popular, is still good.”

“Fair enough.”

Two air fresheners shaped like pine trees dangling off the rearview mirror couldn’t fully mask a damp, skunky smell. Her window was half-open (and not level), and heat blasted through the air vents. She had to leave the heat on, otherwise the engine would melt down. “Total nuke show,” she said.

Her shoulder bag was in my lap and under my hands. I snaked one hand out to roll down my window a crack. The forced hot air wasn’t oppressive, but it was soporific.

Mercy said, “Your cousin Jen says hi, by the way. She’s doing well but can’t wait to leave Maine. Or maybe she’ll stay and grow weed in the woods.”

Was she a mind reader? The Def Leppard bit was one thing, but how did she know about Jen? Though my strait-laced (as far as I knew) cousin never struck me as the weed type. Weed type? Christ, I was ridiculous.

Mercy didn’t say anything else, waiting me out, or waiting for me to figure it out. And oh, yeah.

I said, “You heard me tell Cayla you knew my cousin, right? Sorry, I just—”

“Don’t worry about it. I get it.”