The Vinyl Underground

by Rob Rufus

  “Man,” Milo said, “we should ditch today.”

  “You wanna?”

  “Yeah, let’s go to the beach, or somethin’.”

  “The beach sounds nice.”

  “Cool.” He added, “We should go get Lewis. There’s no way he’s here today.”

  “It doesn’t look like many seniors are.”

  “We may’ve created a new holiday!”

  “Maybe so.” I grinned.

  I pulled the car back out of the parking lot. But instead of heading toward the beach, I drove around to the front entrance of the building. I stopped under the awning, and then shifted into park.

  “Wait here,” I said, “I gotta go drop somethin’ off first.”

  I grabbed my backpack.

  “Don’t leave me out here,” Milo whined, “one of my teachers will see me and know I ditched!”

  “If anyone hassles you”—I shrugged—“just pretend you can’t hear ʼem.”

  Then I got out of the car, leaving the engine rumbling and Milo grumbling. I pushed through the front doors and into the empty concourse of the school. I passed the principal’s office. I passed all the trophies, entombed in their glass. I turned down the normally crowded hallway to find nothing but unopened lockers.

  I passed by every one of them until I reached Room 112.

  Only three of my Government Two classmates were there—kids who likely never found dates to the dance. Mr. Donahue was at his desk, flipping through his attendance sheet.

  “Mr. Donahue,” I said, as I approached.

  He raised his eyes.

  “How nice of you to join us, Ronnie,” he said.

  “Actually, I can’t stay.”

  “Just dropping off your term paper, I take it?”

  “Well,” I said, “sorta.”

  I took off my backpack and sat it on his desk. I unzipped it, and then I removed the stack of fifteen 45rpm vinyls. I handed them over to him.

  Mr. Donahue looked at the records, confused. Then he noticed one of the letters. He slid the envelope out of the sleeve. He read the name of the sender. He read the return address. He looked back up at me.

  “There’s fifteen in all,” I said, “which is enough to meet your word count. I’m sorry, I conscientiously object to writing about a politician. But if you wanna read about real courage, then you can read about my brother. Courage lives in the kids on the front of the lines, and those wild enough to live outside of ʼem. But I refuse to waste a second thought on the bastards who pushed ʼem there.”

  Mr. Donahue’s eyes turned back to the records.

  “Interesting point, Ronnie.”

  “Well, sir,” I rasped, “these are interesting fuckin’ times.”

  Then I walked right out of the classroom. I passed all the lockers. I passed all the trophy cases, passed each and every name honorable enough to mention.

  I felt the rumble of the 409 even before I reached the doors. Milo had the radio cranked to the max, and I could hear Barry McGuire growling out “Eve of Destruction.” The drums ricocheted off the walls of the school like a muffled yet jangly echo.

  Loud music and loud ideas—the teenage national anthem!

  I pushed through the doors of that institution, and I placed a hand over my heart. I wasn’t yet sure what it meant to move on, but I was ready to take the ride. It was the end of the world and I was alive and the sun, for once, was shining.

  acknowledgments

  My dog Bootsie, who sat vigilantly through every outline, draft, and edit of this novel. Thanks for keeping me on task, baby. Miss you every fucking day.

  Librarians and teachers, for the bravery it takes to push subversive ideas.

  My readers, for sticking with me. Floored and humbled by your support.

  Nat, my brother, for being my eternal creative partner (even when your name isn’t on the cover). Couldn’t do it without you, bro.

  Shannon, my agent, for fighting the good fight and dealing with my crazy ass. Your support, help, input, and advocacy mean more than I can properly say.

  Kelsy, my editor, for helping me craft this into something really special.

  Everyone at Flux for their openness and support.

  Dad, for the help, and your willingness to revisit the war for me.

  Mom, for the perpetual (some would say almost nagging) encouragement.

  Liz, the real-life Wild One, for the inspiration, partnership, help, and support.

  My friends.

  My bandmates.

  My fans.

  My heroes, who don’t even know I exist.

  Until next time,

  Thanks.

  About the Author

  Rob Rufus is an author, musician, screenwriter, and activist. His literary debut, Die Young With Me (Touchstone, 2016) received the American Library Association’s Alex Award and was named one of the Best Books of the Year by Hudson Booksellers. It is currently being developed for the screen. Rob lives in East Nashville, Tennessee. You can catch him on the road playing with The Bad Signs or Blacklist Royals, and find out more at www.robrufus.net.