Admission by Travis Thrasher

said.
    “What?”
    “That looks sorta like a face. Staring at us through the window.”
    “Huh? Where?”
    And then she freaked out, jumping up and dropping her mostly empty glass of Perrier. It hit the wood floor and shattered. Bruce sluggishly shifted up to see what was happening.
    “There was somebody there—Shane, I swear there was a face right there, and when I told you it suddenly disappeared—”
    We both got up and ran to the back.
    “Hey—go out the front,” Shane said to me. “I’ll go out back.”
    “Neighbor?”
    Shane shook his head. “No. There’s an older couple on one side and a family on the other.”
    I opened the front door and stepped out into the darkness. I walked to the driveway slowly, listening. My heart was racing. I went out toward the trees, walking in the grass.
    I heard a slight rustling of bushes on my right and started to turn, but then heard steps. Suddenly something heavy cracked against the back of my skull, and before dropping to my knees I pictured the old apartment and the opened door and the spray of blood spilling on the white wall, and then I was out.

THIRTEEN
          March 1993
    JAKE PULLED AWAY FROM anxious lips and found himself in the arms of Laila. She sat behind the wheel of the car, the snow falling on the windshield, heat blowing out on his legs. Music pulsated in the two-seater, Sinead O’Connor’s voice sounding off a war cry. He was leaning against Laila, and in the moment, the picture seemed surreal.
    I’m dreaming
, Jake thought to himself, but he knew he wasn’t.
    He kissed her, giving in all over again.
    And trying to figure out how he’d gotten here in the first place.

    It had started a week ago with Mike Fennimore getting tickets to Pearl Jam. They had only released two albums but were already the “it” band (along with Nirvana) for grunge. Neither Mike nor Jake was a die-hard Seattle sweetheart. Pearl Jam rocked and Nirvana was raucous and raw, especially after about eight beers. The other groups that were being anointed by the movement—Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, even the pretenders known as Stone Temple Pilots—weren’t in the same league as the bands led by Kurt Cobain and Eddie Vedder. Backin October,
Time
magazine featured Vedder on the cover, making him their generation’s unofficial spokesperson.
    Mike just wanted to see them live, so he got three tickets off a scalper for $250 apiece. He said it was an early birthday present for Jake.
    “Who else is coming?”
    “The biggest fan who will take my bribe.”
    “Huh?”
    “Whoever wants it has to drive.”
    Jake laughed. “I’ve taught you well, young Jedi.”
    A week later, Bruce sat behind the wheel of Mike’s white Toyota Celica. It still smelled new—a college gift from his parents. Mike sat in the passenger seat, with Jake in the back.
    That was how the trouble started, designating Bruce as the driver.
    “No heavy drinking tonight,” Mike made him promise after Bruce named every song on the two Pearl Jam albums and even a few on their upcoming release.
    Mike forgot, or perhaps just didn’t realize, that Bruce’s vice wasn’t of the liquid sort. By the time they were heading downtown to the venue, Bruce was, as the old saying went, high as a kite.
    On the drive to Chicago, listening to rock and barely able to talk over the volume, Jake recalled how he’d first met Mike. It was music. Pure and simple.
    After a typical night out, he had come back to his dorm and passed a gauntlet of students hanging out and talking and living a bored life. Mike was among them, wearing a T-shirt that read NIN. Jake paused for a moment and called out to the skinny guy with the spiked black hair.
    “You like Nine Inch Nails?”
    The kid looked a bit surprised at being singled out. Or maybe he was reacting to the slightly drunk tone and look that Jake gave off. He gave a suspicious nod.
    “‘Pretty Hate Machine’ is awesome,” Jake said, then left without waiting to hear