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was really the best name since the Sex Pistols.
    Dustin sighed. The garage was cluttered with bikes and ski equipment and at least one dartboard, which Starhead—their drummer—had placed on his stool to make himself taller. One of Starhead’s tom-toms refused to screw tight and drooped from its stand like a giant flower. Then there was the issue of Tarwater’s bass, which still had Twisted Sister and Def Leppard stickers on it from his formative musical years, circa last year. Occasionally, when they were tuning up, he’d break into the bass line of “Rockof Ages.” At times like this Dustin wondered whether they were really destined to write the next chapter in punk history.
    â€œTurpitude is singular,” Starhead said. True to his nickname, he’d shaved a star into the top of his head, which he ducked down to show people whenever he introduced himself. “You can’t just add an s to it.”
    â€œWho says?”
    â€œIt’s like being called the Friendships. Or the Moneys.”
    Biesty shrugged. “You can say that. ‘Moneys.’ If you have different kinds of currency.”
    â€œAll right,” Dustin said, trying to avoid an argument. It often occurred to him that his main function as bandleader was keeping the peace. “So we’ve got the Turpitudes, Viet-Nun, and Toxic Shock Syndrome. We each get two votes, the rule being you can’t choose the same name twice.”
    â€œWhat about mine?” Tarwater said. The fact remained that Tarwater was a good bassist, so you had to take his suggestions seriously no matter how stupid they were. If you pissed him off, he might threaten to leave the band or refuse to turn on his amp until you performed one of the dreadful ballads he’d written, perhaps “Despair Is My Silent Angel” or “Brothers Won’t Be Shackled (White, Red, or Brown).”
    â€œOkay, Tarwater,” Dustin said equably. “What’s your idea?”
    â€œThe Butt Hawks.”
    â€œThe Butt Hawks?”
    â€œYeah.” He smiled proudly, despite the silence.
    â€œWhat signifies this breed of hawk?” Biesty asked.
    â€œWhat do you think ?”Tarwater said.
    Dustin cocked his head, trying to look encouraging. “Is it, like, a hawk that flies out of your butt?”
    â€œNo. Jesus.”
    â€œI’m just trying to get my mind around it.”
    â€œA bunch of guys who like women’s butts?” Starhead offered.
    â€œNo, you fuck-brains.” Tarwater paused, perhaps for emphasis. “It’s a mohawk that grows out of your butt. ”
    â€œWow,” Dustin said.
    â€œThat’s disgusting,” Biesty said. Dustin shot him a glance over Tarwater’s head. “Disgusting, but ambiguous.”
    â€œHow about Asshawk?” Starhead suggested. “Just for, like, brevity.”
    To settle things, Dustin shredded a piece of paper into little pieces and then handed them out. Everyone wrote down their top two choices and stuck them in a baseball cap. Dustin had a sense of something historic in the making. He tallied the votes. In the end, Toxic Shock Syndrome won out narrowly with three ballots. (The Butt Hawks got two, which could only be explained by illegal voting.)
    So began the first official practice of Toxic Shock Syndrome. Dustin tuned his Stratocaster with a feeling of long-awaited departure. He’d worked all spring at Randy’s Audio Emporium so he could have enough money to take the summer off, his last before college, and steer the band toward greatness.
    â€œAre you going to tell your dad our new name?” Starhead asked, twirling a drumstick.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHe’s our number one fan.”
    Dustin frowned. “He’s not a fan. He likes barbershop quartet records. I think he’s just had a head injury or something.”
    â€œIt’s pretty weird,” Biesty said, wedging a cigarette between the strings of his