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eating. Not like The Rat. The Rat always has that jumpy nervous energy, drumming a beat out on anything he can tap his hands on, that makes me feel a little panicked.
    I keep my gaze steady. I smile instead of rolling my eyes. I remain neutral. I nod enthusiastically, feigning interest as The Rat tells me that his friends are all in really big bands. But I don’t know who the guys are, and even though some of them look vaguely familiar, I’m unimpressed.
    The Rat and the cool-looking crowd gather to one spot by the grill as one of the guys occupies himself by flipping the meat. They immediately get into an intense discussion. Then I think The Rat forgets I’m there with him. He’s probably not used to having someone tag along. He’s probably used to being a loner.
    I don’t care. I zone out and just watch them talk. It’s as intense as the academic discussions between Mom and her colleagues, only The Rat and these guys are no intellectuals. They are not trying to solve existential questions. They are not debating the meaning of life, or the origins of the universe.
    They are talking about golf.
    “Well, my slice was back in full force, so I couldn’t get a par to save my life,” someone says.
    “Why don’t you just admit that you suck?”
    They laugh.
    “I just got this new sixty-degree wedge that I think should finally help my short game.”
    “Have you played the Beverly Hills course?”
    “No. We should go there.”
    “I’m a member of that club, so I can get us a tee time.”
    “Great, next Thursday.”
    “I’m in,” The Rat says.
    “Me, too,” someone else chimes in.
    Unbelievable. The Rat plays golf? I try to picture it, but I just can’t.
    “Rat,” I say. “Rat.”
    “Oh, hey. Katy.” Like he’s suddenly remembering that I’m there. Clearly I should be wearing a T-shirt that says I’ M WITH C LUELESS .
    “See, your Pops doesn’t just play drums well,” one of the guys says. “He plays a mean game of golf, too.”
    Everyone laughs.
    It’s not that funny. Or, maybe the conversation is funny for aging punk rock people, but not for me. It’s boring. I can’t even follow the conversations they are having around me. I have no
in.
No common ground. There is no thread for me to hang on to, which makes me zone out. Instead, I make up conversations I’d be having with Leticia if she were here with me. We’d maybe talk about their clothes. Leticia is really into clothes.
    I think they look normal
ish.
Their jeans look expensive. Their shirts are pressed. Their shorts are stylish. And their sneakers are hip. Next to them, The Rat just looks like Pigpen. He looks wrinkled and faded and threadbare. They look money, and he looks poor.
    “Man, what I wouldn’t give for one of your careers,” The Rat says.
    Everybody laughs. Even The Rat is trying to pass it off as funny now, though it’s obvious he was being truthful.
    “But Suck is legendary,” one of the guys says.
    “Well, ‘legendary’ didn’t buy me a house,” The Rat says. “I’m still stuck in the Rat Hole at Grunge Estates.”
    “Aw, Rat. We just had better bands,” one of them says jokingly.
    “Bigger hits.”
    “Better luck.”
    “Sober sooner,” The Rat adds.
    They all laugh again. They laugh easily. Move easily. I notice that out of the six of them, only two are drinking beer.
    “We’d better go,” The Rat says. “See you guys at the Punk House.”
    “Yeah,” one of them says. “I can’t wait to see Suck live again. You guys always put on the best shows.”
    “Yeah, we destroyed,” The Rat says. “Literally.”
    The Punk House looks relatively tame from the outside, but as I help carry The Rat’s drum kit inside, I almost throw up. The inside of the house is even worse than the Rat Hole.
    The carpet is stained. Crusted, even — possibly with puke. There are bottles and cans and overflowing ashtrays everywhere. The pizza boxes on the table in the dining area are swarming with ants. The kitchen sink is