“The same.” I didn’t know why I brought him up. I shoved aside the stacks of records we’d pulled out earlier and sat down on the edge of the futon, finally out of breath from the dancing.
“You okay?” She sat down next to me.
“Yeah, I’m just tired.” I rolled my ankles around and yawned. I guess I could’ve said more on my dad’s behalf. But there was nothing I could tell my mom about him that was going to make her change her mind all of a sudden and run down to Millville to get back together with him. So what was the point?
“He’s not seeing anybody?” she asked. “Your dad, I mean.”
“Not really. He dated this waitress a while back. Last year. They went out for a month or two. Just to the movies and stuff. Then she broke up with him or something. I dunno. He doesn’t really talk to me about it.”
“What about your love life?”
“What about it?”
“You tell me! Any secret crushes at school? Boyfriends back home you’re pining away for?” She raised her eyebrows at me.
“I’ve only been at Prince one day. And there’s no—There’s not anybody back home.”
“Well, give it time. Who knows? Over at that school, you’ll probably end up meeting some Saudi Arabian prince, and next thing you know you’ll be heiress to an oil fortune!”
“And then I’ll buy the building back!” I laughed, but Mom’s eyes dropped, and she looked sad again.
“Kiddo.” She ruffled my hair. “I’m glad you’re around.”
“Thanks.” I looked down at my hands. “I mean, seriously. Thanks for letting me come stay with you.”
“Oh my gosh, we’re gonna have so much fun.” She yawned and stood up. “Let’s do one more, okay?” She pulled me to my feet. “The Alligator, and then we hit the sack.”
We got used to staying up all night last summer. Brian and I, plus Donald and his girlfriend, Bonnie, and our friend Ben, and whoever else he could wrangle. We’d go hang out at the abandoned bowling alley sometimes, but mostly we’d go to the woods near Ben’s house. The guys built a little half-pipe skate ramp out there, and we’d spend all night beneath the tall pines, skating and drinking beer that Donald bought with his fake ID. We’d get a bonfire going, turn the radio on, and stay up till dawn, when we’d go to Waffle House, or have chicken biscuits with the early-morning old-timers down at Hardee’s.
By July, I was tired. It seemed like everything was getting split up, like I was two different people depending on who I was with. Dory was home from college in Athens, so when I’d go down to my grandmother’s house, she would get me into Club Mod, this crazy gay club where we’d dance all night and hang out with the drag queens. They were catty and funny and smart, not like Brian and the guys. I didn’t tell Dory about Brian, and I didn’t tell Brian too much about Dory. Dory would’ve thought Brian and the guys were stupid rednecks, and Brian already thought Dory was, in his words, “a dyke.” He called her that when he saw all the mixtapes she made for me. I told him he didn’t get it, but if I told him about going to gay clubs with her, well, he really wouldn’t get that.
Plus, Brian and I had kind of started dating. It was my own fault, I guess. We got bored one night and started fooling around. I didn’t want to sleep with him, though. He started calling me more often after that, and the two of us started spending more time together on our own. By the time August rolled around, he was getting more and more insistent, wanting to know why I wouldn’t sleep with him. I told him it was because I was Catholic, and that shut him up for a while. The more we were together, the more I realized that just because we both liked Nirvana and skateboarding didn’t mean I wanted him for a boyfriend. I wasn’t even sure I wanted him for just a friend.
“He sounds like a drag,” Dory said when I finally told her about him. It was the last weekend before we both went back to school. I thought I wouldn’t see Dory again until Thanksgiving. Neither of us knew then that I’d end up back in Atlanta in just a few weeks’ time.
“I’m kind of bored with it,” I admitted. We were hanging out in Dory’s room. I was reading back issues of Sassy magazine while Dory made a mixtape for someone back in Athens. “But he likes me. And we’re friends, besides.”
“Big deal.” She flipped the tape over. “I’m friends with a lot of people, but I’m not gonna hop into bed with them. You don’t have to sleep with anybody. Especially at your age.”
“There are ninth graders at my school who sleep around.”
“So what? They’re probably insecure and they think that’s the only way anyone will like them. You’re smarter and more interesting than that. Wait until you meet someone you really love. Someone who makes you feel special. Otherwise, it’s not worth the drama.”
I decided to take Dory’s advice. I wasn’t really in love with Brian. I planned to break up with him before school started. I planned to break up with the whole group, actually. After all three guys found out they’d made the varsity wrestling team back in the spring, it was like a spell came over them. Well, Ben was the same doofus as ever, but Brian and Donald got cocky over the summer. And once school started, it got even worse. They started walking around like they owned the place. They picked on underclassmen and started fights after school. I kept procrastinating, thinking that Brian would surely break up with me himself. But he never did. Finally, during the second week of school, the first wrestling match of the year came. They won decisively. I figured this was the time to break up with him. He was in such a good mood, he probably wouldn’t even notice.
We were sitting in his truck, out in the woods. There was a bonfire going outside, and tons of kids, more than just our usual group.
“Brian, I was thinking about you and me,” I started.
“Yeah, I was, too,” he said.
Maybe this would be easier than I thought. “Well.” I pulled at the door handle, nervous. “I was just thinking maybe we should take a little time off.”
“Time off what?” He took a swig of his beer.
“I mean, like, maybe we should go back to being friends for a while. Go back to just hanging out.”
“What the hell,” he swirled the beer around in the can. “Seeing as how you won’t sleep with me, we’re pretty much just hanging out now, aren’t we?” There was a hard edge to his voice. For the first time, I felt scared to be alone with him.
“Brian, come on—”
“I don’t get you, Maria. I mean, you come on to me, but you don’t wanna sleep with me, and now you decide you wanna break up altogether. And I ain’t never done anything to you. I’d sleep with you, if you wanted to. How many other guys at this school you think you’re gonna get?”
“I don’t—I don’t know.” And I didn’t care. I didn’t want to sleep with anybody at Langley.
“You know what people are gonna say about you when they find out what a frigid little tease you are? When they find out about that dyke friend of yours down in Atlanta?”
“Brian, gimme a break.” I rolled my eyes and opened the truck door. This was stupid. “This isn’t working out. I’m done.”
“You’re not breaking up with me.” He leaned over and grabbed the door handle, slamming the door shut. “You hear me? No fucking way are you breaking up with me. I’ll tell everybody about you. You won’t be able to walk through the goddam door at Langley.”
“Brian—” I tried to laugh, but he fixed his glare on me, and I realized he wasn’t kidding. A nauseous chill came over me. I looked past him, out the pickup window at the kids around the bonfire, the beer keg, the kids smoking joints in cupped hands. All I could think was, How do I get out of this? How on earth did I get here, and how in the hell do I get out?
4
“How was your day, dear?” Travis drawled in a nasal voice.
“Ehh, get me a beer,” I growled. This was our little joke, the housewife and the businessman. Travis was always home when I got there, in between looking for jobs during the day and going to rehearsals at night. Mom picked up more h
ours at work, so we barely saw her in the weeks leading up to the move.
I took off my headphones and plunked my algebra book down on the kitchen table, next to a huge stack of records. Travis handed me a Dr. Brown’s black cherry soda from the fridge. My new favorite drink, since you couldn’t get Cheerwine in New York City. I poured it in a glass and went into the bathroom to take off my uniform.
“What’s the deal with all those records?”
“They’re Vic’s. She’s getting rid of them,” Travis called out as I changed into my sweatshirt and jeans. I came back into the kitchen and hung my Prince blazer on the back of a chair. Travis had put on my headphones and was listening to my Walkman.
“Who is this?” he said, loud over the music. I pulled one of the headphones away from his ear and leaned in to listen.
“Sleater-Kinney,” I told him. “My friend Dory likes them a lot.”
“Huh.” Travis nodded his head in time to the music, then took the headphones off. “Chicks.”
“Huh, chicks? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“They’re no Heartbreakers,” he said, clicking the Walkman off. “I’m just sayin’.”
“Huh. Dudes,” I said in a Beavis and Butt-head voice. Travis elbowed me.
“You got homework?” he asked.
“Don’t I always?”
“You gonna do it?”
“Don’t I always?” I repeated. Prince Academy was turning out to be just as bad as Langley, maybe worse. The kids were even more stuck-up, completely ignoring me if I tried to start a conversation or sit with them in the cafeteria. The only strategy I could think of was just to buckle down, get good grades, and get out as fast as I could. That, and keep reminding myself that at least I was in New York City.
“Brainiac. You got time to help me with these records? I’m gonna give myself a hernia trying to carry them all.”
“Sure. We’re taking them down to the trash?”
“Nah, there’s a place down the street that does buybacks on vinyl. You oughta go through ’em first, though. Vic said we could keep whatever we wanted.”
“Why’s she getting rid of all these?”
“Less to move. Extra money. The better to buy more records with.” Travis grinned. I flipped through the stack. “She said it’s all stuff people gave her that she doesn’t like or stuff she’s got two of.”
I stopped flipping. In the upper left corner of a Kris Kristofferson album, I read my father’s own cramped signature. A. Costello. Kris Kristofferson was his favorite. I looked through the rest, barely noticing the titles, just looking for his signature again. But there was only that one.
“You’re keeping Kris Kristofferson?” Travis looked over my shoulder. I shrugged, defensive.
“There’s some country music I like.”
“You do, huh?” He grabbed an armful of records. “You know what you get when you play a country song backwards?”
“What?”
“You get your truck fixed, your dog comes back to life, and your mama gets out of prison.”
“Ha, ha,” I deadpanned, collecting the rest of the records.
“Shake a leg, willya?” He held the door open with his foot. “These things don’t get any lighter.”
“Hey, is that your boyfriend?”
I looked up from the 99-cent record bin and glanced around. There was nobody behind me. The record store clerk was grinning down at me from behind the stack of records we had just brought in.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yeah. I was asking if that guy’s your boyfriend.” He nodded toward Travis, who was browsing the CDs at the back of the store.
“Him? No, he’s my mom’s boyfriend.”
“You’re pulling my leg. How old’s your mom?”
“Why, you wanna date her, too?”
“No, no.” He laughed. “You’re right. None of my beeswax. Where’re you from, anyway?” He leaned forward on his stool, folding his arms on the counter.
“Rivington Street.” I turned back to the bin I was looking through. The store reminded me of a place called Rocksteady Records back home. Except this place had even more weird old records. Like Ethel Merman’s disco album. I thought about buying that one to send to Dory, as a joke.
“You don’t sound like you’re from Rivington Street,” the kid behind the counter kept on. He was annoyingly chipper, a chubby teddy bear in a Black Flag T-shirt.
“I was born here. But I just moved back. I’ve been living in South Carolina since I was two.”
“Oh yeah? Whereabouts?” He took the record off the player next to the cash register, and the store got strangely quiet.
“You wouldn’t know it,” I mumbled.
“Try me.” He slipped one of my mom’s records out of its sleeve and put it on the turntable.
“Millville. It’s south of—”
“Spartanburg. Right off 85. I’m from Gaffney, myself.” He dropped the needle on the record, and the sound of twangy, buzzing guitars filled the shop.
“No way.”
“I can see the big peach from my mom’s backyard,” he said. Gaffney was famous for its huge water tower in the shape of a peach.
“Really?”
“Naw, I’m from Pickens. I just say I’m from Gaffney to impress the ladies.”
I rolled my eyes. He moved the stack of records aside and extended his hand.
“I’m Gram Medley. Spelled G-R-A-M, as in Parsons. My mom’s favorite singer.” We shook hands. I noticed how nice his smile was.
“Maria Costello.”
“As in Elvis?”
“I guess.”
“So what brings you to Rivington Street, Maria Costello?”
“School.”
“Same here. I’m at NYU, myself. Music major. I play piano. Tried to get into Juilliard, but”—he shrugged—“turns out genius in Gaffney is only fair to middlin’ at Juilliard.”
“Travis is a musician, too,” I blurted out. I wanted to steer the conversation away from school. I wasn’t sure why, but suddenly I didn’t want Gram to know that I was only in eleventh grade. “He’s a guitarist.”
“Oh yeah? Where’s he from?”
“Um … Queens, I think.”
“That’s too bad.” He reached into his back pocket. “We have these parties, me and my roommates over at NYU. SSKs.” He pulled a flyer out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was the size of a postcard and read SSK POTLUCK—EVERY THIRD THURSDAY. SUITE 230, HARRISON HALL. SWEET TEA PROVIDED—BYOB.
“SSKs?”
“Smart Southern Kids. My roommate Sandy came up with it. I wanted to call it Rednecks Who Read, but he’s a physics major and I guess he didn’t want it to sound like a book club. It’s all us Southern kids who are at NYU. Everybody makes food—fried okra, fried chicken, turnip greens—then we just eat, hang out, talk about all the stuff we miss from back home. We meet up every third Thursday and on certain special occasions, like the Alabama-Auburn game. Or Clemson-Carolina.” He gave me a knowing smile, but I’d spent years not giving a crap who won the stupid Clemson-Carolina football game.
“Sounds like fun.”
“It is—wait, hand it back for a second.” I gave the card to him, and he scribbled something on the other side.
“My phone number.” He handed it back to me. “Give me a call if you wanna come down to the next meet-up. Or if you just wanna talk or whatever.”
“Thanks.” I could feel myself blushing. How did this happen? All of a sudden some college guy was giving me his number. What do I do now?
“Hey, I thought I heard my name.” Travis leaned on the counter.
“Maria was just telling me you’re from Queens. Hey, I’m Gram.” Gram reached his hand down to Travis. Travis didn’t take it. Gram cleared his throat.
“Gram’s from Gaffney. Near where I live. Used to live,” I explained to Travis. Travis just looked at me, then glared back at Gram.
“Well, uh—y’all sure are getting rid of some good records
here,” Gram said, holding up the cover of the record he was playing. “You really wanna part with this Moby Grape? And this live Neil Young record—it’s not out on CD—”
“Yeah, we’re sure,” Travis said quickly. “So, what can you do?”
“Lessee, I can give you …” Gram flipped through the stack, counting quietly under his breath. “Eighty-five. Sound fair?”
“You can’t do a hundred?”
“Standard price we pay is two bucks a record. A few of these are worth a little more than that, so”—he shrugged, apologetic—“I’m actually rounding up.”
“Ninety, man. You said yourself, we’re getting rid of some good stuff.” Travis gave him a look. “Ninety’s fair.”
Gram looked at me, shaking his head. “Ninety it is, then,” he muttered, opening the cash register. “Dang. My boss is gonna kill me.” He counted out ninety dollars. “Here you go.” Travis pocketed the wad of cash.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” Gram smiled at me. If he was upset over Travis haggling for more money, he was over it already.
“Maria, I got rehearsal.” Travis was already at the door. “We better go.” He didn’t even wait for me; he just left. The bell on the door handle clanked, and I had to hurry to catch up.
“Nice meeting you,” I called back to Gram.
“Likewise!” I heard him shout as the door shut behind me.
“Hey! Slow down!” I had to run to catch up to Travis. “We’re not that late. What’s the matter?”
“That guy’s a scumbag.”
“You know him?”
“No, but I could tell by looking at him. Some fatass in a Black Flag T-shirt playing hippie music. He’s a poser.”
“I thought he was nice. He gave you ninety bucks. And he invited me to a party.” I showed Travis the flyer.
“Gram. What’s he do, deal drugs?”
“He’s named after Gram … Parton or something.”
“What’s SSK mean? Is that some kinda skinhead thing?” He flipped the flyer back at me and took his cigarette pack out of his pocket.
“No, it stands for Smart Southern Kids.”
Supergirl Mixtapes Page 5