“Jesus,” I sighed, “that really is crazy. For the record, though, I’m just on the wrestling team with those idiots. But we’re not friends.”
“If you were, you’re sure not now. You’ve aided and abetted the enemy.”
“How exactly are you the enemy?” I asked. “Milo told me you’re Japanese, not Vietnamese. Come to think of it, he told those guys the same thing. I heard him.”
“They don’t care if I’m Vietnamese or Japanese or a fuckin’ Mongol,” she scoffed. “I’m different from them. That’s all it takes to be considered an enemy.”
She tossed her cigarette out into the street.
I dropped mine onto the sidewalk.
“It was nice to finally meet you,” I said, “enemy or not.”
“See ya later, Raspy Ronnie from across the street.”
With that, she started down the sidewalk, back toward our neighborhood.
“Hey,” I hollered after her.
She turned around.
“Come by sometime, if you dig music. I’ll show you my brother’s records.”
“If I dig music?” she snorted, and laughed as she walked away.
I stood in that same spot until her laughter evaporated into the night. I tried to place the feeling washing over me, but it had become so unfamiliar I labeled it an utterly new sensation.
Peace.
Brief and unexpected.
The sweetest sucker-punch of all.
four
Music Geeks Anonymous
I found Milo in the locker room before practice. I sat beside him on the bench without any acknowledgment, the way only best friends can do.
“Prince Valiant emerges,” he grinned.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled.
“Yeah, yeah my ass! I thought you said what happened last Friday was no big thing.”
“It wasn’t a big thing,” I said, embarrassed.
“That’s not what Hana told me. And she’s as cool as they come, so if she says it was a big deal, it was a big deal.”
I changed into my shorts and began lacing up my wrestling shoes.
“Stink give you any trouble today?”
“Nah,” I said, “I’m sure it’s fine. He’s all show and no go.”
“I hope,” Milo said. “Hana said he was acting batshit.”
“Yet I’m the one she socked in the face.”
Milo started laughing. I chuckled too, and shut my locker.
“You must be one of those pain pervs,” he said. “I can’t imagine inviting a girl over to listen to records right after she punched me.”
Until then, I hadn’t considered the possibility that Milo had the hots for Hana. I couldn’t believe it didn’t cross my mind earlier, and I felt an awkward sort of guilt creep slowly up my throat. Had I overstepped by asking her to hang out?
“I meant, like, the three of us,” I stammered, “not just me and her. I was thinking we should start a record club, since we all live on the same block.”
“A record club?”
“Yeah,” I said, “a club that meets up once a week to listen to music. Everyone brings an LP and a single, and then gets to swap ’em afterwards. A bunch of kids are doing it, I read about ’em in Rave magazine.”
“I dig it. Just say where and when.”
“Ask Hana if she feels like joining, and we’ll figure it out from there.”
“I’ll ask her after school.”
He shut his locker. I stopped him before he walked out.
“Hey man,” I said, “can I lay some Best Friend Shit on you?”
“Always.”
“Do you like this chick? Like, like her like her, or are y’all just friends? Because I don’t wanna get in the middle of—”
His laughter cut me off. “If you knew her better, you wouldn’t ask,” he said. “I already get called ‘shrimp’ and ‘dweeb’ enough at wrestling practice. I ain’t interested in dating a girl who can kick my ass six ways to Sunday.”
“Right on,” I nodded. “I just felt like I should ask.”
“Why,” he asked, “do you like her?”
“Nah, like you just said, I don’t even know her. But she’s a badass chick that’ll actually talk to us. So, I mean, what’s not to like?”
It was an eternally inarguable point.
―
Hana was into the idea—and just like that, our record club was born. I figured we’d meet at my house, but she insisted on her own. (She was allowed to play music as loud as she wanted. Otherwise, what was the point?)
Our maiden audio voyage was set to depart at 7 p.m. on Thursday.
Be there, or be squarer than square.
So I hurried home after wresting practice to shower, and then spent an hour in Bruce’s bedroom, agonizing over what to bring. I chose a full-length I was confident about—Psychedelic Lollipop by Blues Magoos—but picking a single was impossible. It was ridiculous, the way I labored over the decision. I was so damn determined to choose something left of the dial, a song that a girl from a big city like Chicago wouldn’t roll her eyes at.
After flipping through the shelves for an eternity, I surprised myself by looking in my special stack of vinyls—the singles that had Bruce’s letters tucked safely inside. A few singles deep, I landed on one that struck me. It was an old song, a real heart-buster. As I touched the thin paper dust sleeve, a memory shot through me like a jolt of electricity.
Bad Bruce, his shades on for full effect, slowly lowers the 45 onto the turntable.
“For all the four-eyed forlorn lovers out there,” he croons, “here’s one with a slow beat for the back seat. And speaking of going parking tonight, how’s the weather, Raspy Ronnie?”
“Too cool for school,” I said softly, pulling the single from the shelf, “with a hundred-percent chance of young love.”
I held it out to Wolfman, who lay curled at the edge of Bruce’s bed.
“What do ya think, Wolfie? “
He farted. Loud. His tail began to wag.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I grabbed the 45 in one hand and held my nose with the other.
He farted again. I couldn’t help but laugh.