Free Californium by R. Dean Johnson Page A

she’s ready in case she decides to jump into the hurricane too.
    By the fourth song, me and Keith are swirling around the room and crashing into each other. It only goes for about a minute, and just when we’re getting tired, the song ends. We catch our breath; then it all starts up again.
    As the last song ends, with Keith holding his arms up in the air like all the cheers coming from Astrid’s backyard are for him and me spinning in my desk chair, holding two pencils in the air like I’m a drummer, my dad comes booming through the door without knocking. “Are they done?”
    Keith drops his arms but his legs are still spread out funny from the pose. I spin the chair back to the desk and shuffle the flash cards. “I think so.”
    My dad walks straight over to the window and looks down at Astrid’s yard. “I wonder if Alex knows about this.” He turns to me. “Is this one of those punker bands?” I can’t believe my dad even knows those words. “Do you know these guys?”
    â€œI don’t
know
them. I’ve heard of them.”
    My dad shakes his head and starts walking out of the room. “Well, I wish I hadn’t heard them. But if I do again, I’m calling the police.”
    Keith doesn’t have to tell me how bad it will look to be theguy whose dad breaks up parties. But he does anyway. “You need to signal Astrid somehow.”
    â€œSure,” I say, “but what’s the signal for
Keep it quiet, my dad’s a jerk
?”
    Twenty minutes later, when the guys from Filibuster start coming back onto the patio and picking up their instruments, I run downstairs to the living room. My parents are on the couch, looking relaxed for once. Mom’s hair is down and she’s leaning into my dad’s shoulder while they watch TV. It’s the way they used to look every weekend back in Jersey.
    I don’t have a plan, so I just blurt out, “You can’t call the police. It’s Saturday.”
    â€œIt’s scaring your little sister,” my dad says. “She thought we were under attack.”
    In my head, there’s a squadron of electric guitars flying over our house. I grin a little because it’s got to be a joke. “Come on.”
    My dad isn’t smiling. “Have you seen these punkers on the news? They’re violent.” He looks at my mom, who nods, then back at me. “That’s not music.”
    When Treat played the Clash for us in his room, the cassette case had a picture of a guy smashing his guitar, and there were songs listed like “Spanish Bombs,” “Clampdown,” and “The Guns of Brixton.” But these are just high school guys. They’re Astrid’s friends.
    â€œReece,” my mom says and sits straight up. “Do you know these kids?”
    â€œI don’t know. Not really.”
    A rattle and rhythm of thumps force their way through our living room wall.
    â€œI’m calling,” my dad says.
    â€œWait,” I say. “It’s the weekend.”
    â€œIt’s almost ten o’clock,” my dad says. My mom puts a hand on his arm and he looks at her. “Well, I can’t just let them keep going all night, Eileen.”
    â€œMaybe,” I say and don’t know why I’m saying it, “I can talk to them.” I look at my mom and she looks at my dad.
    His chest heaves once, a big, thinking breath. “If you go over there and tell your friends to quiet down, I won’t call the police.”
    â€œOkay,” I say and head for the stairs to get Keith.
    â€œNow,” my dad says, stopping me at the first step. “Right now.”
    .
    It doesn’t feel real walking through Astrid’s side gate, through the dark, past the trash cans and two guys going the other way. It’s Yankee Stadium half an hour before the first pitch—the nerves and excitement about what could happen—and each step