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“Mm.”Hervoicewaslevel—andcruel.“Theguitar’sloud.Thedrummer’sdouble-kicksounds…weird.”
Thenshedrovetheneedlestraightintothewound.
“Andwithoutlowend,itdoesn’tsoundlikeall.”
Thedrummer,mid-sip,nearlychoked.Thevocalistahmguitariststaredatthisaudaciouseleventh-gradegirsifthey’dneverseenagirlintheirliveswhodaredtalktoElianShe.
Elianblinked.
Then,insteadofgettingangry,somethingbrighterfredinhiseyes—i,sharpandhungry.
“Gotanastymouth,”hesaid,smilingashenodded.Hesteppedbadpoihebiggest,mostexpensivebassampintheroom.“Ifyouthinkwe’remissinglowend,thenwhatareyouwaitingfor?”
Cradidn’tanswer.
Sheunzippedhergigbag.Theheavybckfive-stringbassslidintotheair.
Withpracticedease,sheslungitoverhershoulder,pluggedinthecable,andcasuallyturheamp’sbassandmidknobs.Whenherrightthumbstruckthethickeststring—thelowB—
Boom—
Adeep,fullwaveoflowfrequencyrolledout,soheavyitfeltliketheflooritselfvibrated.Itwastheabsolutelowendtheseseniorshadbeenwaitingforallweek—andcouldn’trepce.
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