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“Aren’t you tempted?”

“I’m tempted all the time by lots of things,” he replied. “But alcohol and drugs aren’t among them.”

I was about to ask what tempts him, when Len broke in.

“Hey, Jess. Um. Flu, Sara wants us on soon. It’s almost. Um. Time.”

“Cool,” Marcus said, handing me his cup as Len headed toward the Game Room. “You can finish this for me.”

“Uh, okay.”

“Oh, and don’t worry,” he said when Len was out of earshot. “I didn’t slip you a roofie so Len can have his way with you later.” Then he grinned.

He is maddening.

Sara stumbled on the stage, her tube top slipping so dangerously low that it was almost a belt. Her lipstick was smeared from nose to chin, a sure sign that P. J.—or someone else—had discovered the only surefire way to shut her up.

Sara shouted into the mike so loudly that when her words were amplified by the sound system, they (with the exception of the occasional “Omigod!”) came out totally garbled and unintelligible, or so I thought. When she paused, the crowd cheered, as if they understood.

Pepe had miraculously found me again in the crowd. Knowing how good he is with languages, I consulted him for a translation.

“She said that if the band totally sucks, it’s—omigod!—totally not her fault and that the audience should totally throw things at them if they totally want to.”

Leave it to Sara to promote civil disobedience at her own party.

Then Sara screamed something else, the band took the stage, and the audience roared.

Len stepped up to the mic. I remember thinking that standing in front of the mic, guitar strapped over his shoulder, in a Nirvana Bleach T-shirt, Len looked really hot. I also remember thinking that I would forget about how hot he looked the moment he opened his mouth.

“This is the Anti-Homecoming!” Len said. “We’re Chaos Called Creation!”

No stuttering. No babbling. Remarkable. I was wrong. He still looked hot.

Then the band launched into their first song.

Marcus stayed stage-left, almost completely hidden behind the speaker. I was surprised by this. I thought for sure he’d want to be up front and more conspicuous.

I don’t know if it was Marcus’s addition to the band, the extra rehearsal time, the clear skin, or what, but Len was a smoother, more confident front man for Chaos Called Creation than he ever was for the Len Levy Four. He looked and sounded less tortured. And the band sounded great in that loose, loud, guitar-heavy way. It was too punk for dancing, too pop for moshing. Perfect for hopping and head-bopping. I’d say they were kind of like the Clash, though everyone else would probably compare them to the Strokes. I prefer eighties synth pop, but I was obviously in the minority. When they finished their first number, the audience went apeshit. Sara grabbed me from behind by my shoulders and shook me violently, both with her hands and her voice.

“Omigod! They totally don’t suck! Omigod! I can’t believe it!”

Even Manda was impressed. “They rock!”

“I scored the winning touchdown in today’s game,” slurred Scotty, dejectedly. He had gotten very drunk and disheveled since I last saw him. He had ditched the jacket and was wearing the tie around his head like a kung fu master.

“And their songs are all about how women are the superior sex,” continued Manda, ignoring her boyfriend.

“Really?” I hadn’t been able to understand any of the words.

“Yes! I am so impressed!”

She wasn’t the only one. There was a lot of commotion after the band finished. Chaos Called Creation was swarmed by fourteen-year-old Hoochie Babies who were wearing more body glitter per inch than actual clothing. It was gross. Just gross. You know what? Seeing those little girlies push up on Len made me want him for myself. He was my geek cute guy, not their guitar god. And if he wasn’t brave enough to make a move, then goddamn it, I was going to do it for him.

I stole Pepe’s beer and pounded it. Then I snatched Bridget’s cup and did the same. All in less than sixty seconds.

I know, I know. Liquid courage backfires because when you