After I won his heart by pretending to know the names of heavy metal bands. "Devildriver?"  he’d ask, and I’d purse my lips into a tom tom. "Cradle of filth?" he’d continue & my head banged like Commerford’s calloused thumb against the bass. I guess I thought we’d traded for something irrevocable, the way every day at 3 p.m. the dismissal bell clanged through the metal lab like thunder on a high hat, & there he was again by the water fountain, or there he was pretending to read the 4H posters. But along came Vicki C. with that glitter-dappled tongue ring, her black O of lipstick like a door to somewhere softer. Suddenly Broc was curling the weight of a drafting desk for her, & I was all alone to bore open the mouth of my birdhouse. All of these are American dreams, we sang. All of these are American dreams.