by Gayle Forman
“My jacket,” he whispers.
“I’ll give it back next time.”
When we get to Lou’s car, he hesitates. “Are these stolen? Because I can’t accept stolen vinyl. It wouldn’t honor the records.”
“They’re not stolen,” I tell Lou. At least not in the way he thinks.
He belts the crates into the back seat, like an overprotective father. I hand him the Goldmine book but he tells me to keep it. “I think you’re gonna need it.”
Beethoven’s Anvil
When Chad calls to ask if I want to take a road trip to catch Beethoven’s Anvil in Vancouver, it’s been nearly a week since I heard from Hannah. I’m assuming I blew it.
“Son, you weren’t far enough along to blow it,” Chad says. “She probably hasn’t called you because they’ve been on the road.”
“They have?”
“Vancouver’s the last stop on their tour, so we can surprise her. See if we can’t get you a real kiss.”
“Sure,” I say, playing it casual, though the mere mention of kissing Hannah gives me the stirrings of what I now know is a psychogenic boner. “And maybe I can try to sell some records.”
“So you are selling them?”
“I am.”
“You’re gonna bring them with?”
“I thought I’d start with some flyers. Then I can sell them by private appointment.”
“Private appointment. Fancy.”
“That’s me. Fancy.”
“Okay, Mr. Fancy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The next night, Chad comes by the store to check out Gaga. Ike has taken it completely apart, oiled the bits, and scrubbed the rust off. The brass is so gleaming, Penny Macklemore could check her gums in it.
“Looking good,” Chad tells Ike.
“Missing some parts, but she’ll be up and working in no time.”
Chad turns to me. “You ready?”
I nod, heart galloping at the thought of seeing Hannah again even though she is five hours away.
“You got your papers?”
“In here.” I tap the backpack full of flyers.
I climb into Chad’s truck. “Hey, about Gaga, thanks for fronting the money.”
“I thought you’d be pissed. Like you were about the inventory.”
“I’m not. It’s just, don’t spend any more money on the shop, okay?”
“How come?”
“For one, you’re saving for the Stim. And also, I have no idea when I’ll be able to pay you back.”
“Who said anything about paying me back?” When I don’t answer, Chad continues. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
“There is?”
“Sure. I mean you could reimburse me, with interest.” He waggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly. “Or you could make me partner and let my investment be my equity stake.”
“You want to be a partner? In our store?”
“What’s so crazy about that?”
“It’s like wanting to book a berth on the Titanic, after it hit the iceberg.”
“Was that movie a book first too?” Chad asks.
“Not that one,” I reply.
“Just checking. Anyhow, I know the store’s not thriving, but once we open new revenue streams with the café, the records . . .”
“Chad, we cannot sell the records in the store.”
“You just said you were selling them.”
“But Ira can’t know that.”
“Why?” Chad asks.
“He’d be devastated.”
“Why?”
“Because I promised Sandy . . .”
“Promised him what?”
You gotta promise me . . .
“That I wouldn’t.”
“But Sandy’s dead,” Chad points out.
“I’m aware of that.”
“Aren’t promises, like, null and void when someone dies?”
I shut my eyes against the memory.
“Not this one,” I tell Chad.
“Fine. We’ll diversify in other ways. And if you make me a partner, you wouldn’t have to pay me back. Or even pay me, until we turn a profit.”
“I hate to break it to you but we haven’t turned a profit in years, and the chances of doing so, even if we diversify, are small.”
“Like how small?”
“I don’t know.”
“Gimme a number. Thirty percent? Twenty?”
“Maybe ten.”
“Ten, huh?” Chad grins, as if he’s won the point. “Do you know the survival rate for seventy-five-foot falls?” Before I can answer, he crows, “Ten percent!” He breaks into his most shit-eating grin. “So don’t come at me with long odds, son. I eat long odds for breakfast!”
* * *
Not long after, I start seeing billboards in French. They don’t have French signs in southern Washington. They do, however, have them near the Canadian border.
“Shit! Chad, you went the wrong way.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“We’re going north.”
“Obviously.”
“The show’s in Vancouver, Canada?”
“Did you think it was in Vancouver, Washington?”
I don’t answer. That’s exactly what I thought.
“Who plays in Vancouver, Washington,” Chad scoffs, “except for bands too shitty to get shows across the river in Portland?”
“I dunno. Bands who live in Washington, not Canada.”
“We live closer to Vancouver, Canada, than Vancouver, Washington. What’s the big deal? I go there all the time . . . Wait, did you not bring your passport?”
“I don’t even have a passport.”
“How do you go to Canada without a passport?”
“I don’t go to Canada. I thought we were going to Vancouver, Washington.”
“But I told you to bring your papers!”
“I thought you meant flyers!”
“Why would I tell you to bring flyers to sell records in a city five hours away?” Chad shouts.
“I don’t know!” I shout back. “Why would you tell me to bring flyers to sell records in another country?”
“I didn’t! I told you to bring your passport.”
“You said papers . . .” I cry. Because this means I’m not going to see Hannah. And I didn’t see her at Bogart’s. And maybe there is no such thing as the good kind of inevitable. I smack my head against the window. “Fuuuuck!” I scream. “I’m such an idiot.”
“You’re not. It’s hella confusing with two Vancouvers.”
“I meant thinking it was gonna happen with Hannah. It’s never gonna happen.”
“I wouldn’t say never,” Chad says. “She did half kiss you.”
“Well, I’m never gonna full kiss her if I don’t see her.”
“Who says you’re not gonna see her?” Chad says, veering from the fast lane toward an oncoming exit without dipping below seventy.
“I don’t have a passport, remember?”
“So?”
“Kind of a deal breaker.”
“That depends,” Chad says, pulling off the highway.
“On what?”
He looks like the cat who swallowed the canary. “If you like Hannah enough to commit an international felony.”
* * *
About ten miles from the Canadian border, Chad pulls the truck over. “This is your stop.”
We’ve traveled forty miles east out of our way to go to a quieter border crossing where Chad swears he will be able to drive through without even stopping. He apparently comes up to Canada all the time for cheaper prescription meds and has some kind of special pass. “At Peace Arch they sometimes stop you, but at this crossing, you basically roll right through.”
I get out of the cab and climb into the bed of the truck. Chad instructs me to pull the cover over me.
“You okay?” he calls.
“I think I’m gonna puke.”
“Well, do it quietly.”
“What if we get caught?”
“They never stopped me before.”
“You never went across with me before. I have bad luck.”
“Son, there’s no such thing as bad luck. And before you argue with me, remember a para just said that.”
“It’s different with me.”
“So do you wanna bail?”
There’s part of me that does want to turn around. The doomsday worrywart that is always searching the sky for flaming asteroids. That part of me knows that if I get caught, it’ll mean arrests and lawyers and more agita for Ira and spending more money we don’t have.
But I am so tired of that part of me. I want to eat long odds for breakfast too. I want to be more like Chad. And I really want to see Hannah.
“Fuck it,” I say. “Let’s break some laws.”
“Aaron Stein, OG for love.” Chad laughs. “If we ever start a band, can we call it that?”
The doomsday worrywart recognizes that us starting a band is about as likely as me and Hannah getting together. Or me getting over the border successfully. But for now, I’ve banished that motherfucker. And so I tell Chad, “You bet your ass we can.”
* * *
The moment I become an international felon is so unremarkable I barely register it. I feel the truck slow, then accelerate. Then a few minutes later Chad hits the horn, beep, bippety beep-beep. We didn’t come up with a code but I know what this means. A few miles later, he pulls over at a Tim Hortons and I hop out.
Because we had to detour so far to the other border crossing, it’s nearly ten when we get to the club. Chad’s worried we’ve missed the set but I don’t care about hearing Hannah so long as I get to see Hannah. The friendly bouncer tells us they’re up next, before checking our IDs and telling Chad about the access ramp.
“Wow,” I say after we’re let in. “Bouncers are so much nicer in Canada.”
“Everything’s nicer in Canada.”
I get Chad situated next to the stage and head off to buy him one of the two beers he has promised to limit himself to, plotting how I’m going to find Hannah. I’m trying to get the bartender’s attention when there’s a touch on my wrist. I swivel around, unable to hide my smile.
“You’re here?” Hannah looks surprised.
“Why? You think a thing like a border would keep me away?”
“Not the border, but your deep hatred of music . . .” she teases. “I’m glad you came. When you didn’t show up at Bogart’s, I sort of figured you weren’t into it.”
“I did show up. We weren’t on the list.”
“I left two tickets for you at the box office myself.”
“Are you serious? The box office sent us to the stage door and the bouncer was such a prick. He said we weren’t on the list and refused to check with you. And then it was sold out so we couldn’t buy tickets. And I would’ve called you but I don’t have your number.”
“We should probably remedy that.” She grins, whipping out her phone.
“We should.” I grin back.
After we exchange digits, she flags the bartender and orders a bunch of beers and two club sodas. “One for you too?” She holds up a bunch of raffle-type tickets. “On the house.”
“I have to make a confession. I don’t actually like club soda.”
Hannah laughs. “You should’ve told me.” The nice Canadian bartender clears his throat, waiting. “How about a ginger beer?” Hannah asks me. “It’s nonalcoholic.”
“Sure.”
“And a ginger beer,” she tells the bartender. The bartender gets to work and Hannah turns back to me. “I’m glad about the bouncer. I mean, not glad, but happy that’s the reason you didn’t come.” She nibbles on her thumbnail.
“We tried. I swear we tried. I tried so hard I almost got my ass kicked by the bouncer on your behalf. And he was big. Like refrigerator big. It would’ve hurt.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You should be. And Chad lectured him on toxic masculinity.”
“I’d have loved to see that.” The bartender returns with the tray and Hannah hands over the drink tickets and a Canadian ten-dollar bill for a tip. “I gotta go. But come backstage after the show. I have something for you.”
“Really? What?”
“I’ll show you after the set. So no rushing off.”
“I committed an international felony to see you tonight. I’m not going anywhere.”
I return to Chad, who’s now deep in conversation with two Canadian superfans.
“I was just telling them how we know the band,” Chad brags.
“You’re so lucky!” Canadian Fan One replies. And for that minute I do feel that way. Me, Aaron Stein. Lucky. Who’da thunk it?
“We’re huge fans,” Chad says. “Snuck him over the border without a passport and everything.”
“Wow,” the fans enthuse.
“I just saw Hannah at the bar.” I can’t stop grinning. “She wants us to come backstage after.”
“That’s my boy,” Chad says. “OG for love.”
“OG for Love: Is that your band?” one of the fans asks politely.
Chad and I just crack up.
* * *
Officially speaking, this is my fourth Beethoven’s Anvil show—but it’s only the second time I’ve actually seen them play. And it’s the first time since I started to get to know Hannah.
Maybe that’s why I notice things. Like how the band comes on stage, one member at a time: first Claudia, then Libby, then Jax, the pitch amping up as each one picks up their instrument, culminating in this wave of energy that erupts the minute Hannah bounces onto the stage, already singing, already dancing, barely stopping to take a breath for the entire set.
Like how the set is paced: for the first few songs the temperature and intensity are dialed up until the crowd is screaming along to the anthemic “To Your Knees,” but then it’s brought back down again, with the moodier and more melodic “Negative Numbers.” As the crowd sways together as one, I realize none of this is accidental. Hannah is the author, plotting us through an emotional experience, but with music.
I didn’t buy it before, when she said books and songs were different ways of telling a story. I’m starting to believe it now.
* * *
After the set ends, Chad invites the Canadian Superfans to meet the band.
They squeal, loudly, and squeal again when we enter the greenroom, swarming around Hannah, Jax, Claudia, and Libby, fangirling, taking selfies, finding scraps of paper to get autographs. Hannah keeps glancing at me, then looking away. Like maybe she’s as happy to see me as I am to see her.
Finally, the Superfans leave. “Thank you so much!” gushes Canadian Fan Two to Chad.
“We’ll keep an ear out for your band,” says Canadian Fan One.
“And good luck sneaking back over the border,” Canadian Fan Two says to me.
“Thanks,” I say.
The door shuts behind them and I finally get a moment with Hannah.
“Your band?” she asks, eyebrow going up.
“Long story . . .”
“And one I have to hear,” she says, with a slow smile.
“So you see, when I heard you were playing in Vancou—”
“Hey,” Claudia interrupts. “What did they mean about you sneaking over the border?”
“That’s the thing,” I tell Hannah. “I didn’t have a passport, so Chad smuggled me across.”
“Hid him in the bed of my truck,” Chad brags.
“Then you were serious before?” Hannah asks. “About the international-felon
thing?”
“I mean, yeah. It’s no big deal, right? It’s just Canada.”
“Illegally crossing an international border is pretty serious,” Libby says.
“We used the NEXUS lanes,” Chad says.
“The NEXUS lanes close at midnight,” Claudia adds. “Which is now.”
“And going home, it’s the American border agents,” adds Libby. “Not nice like the Canadians.”
“Maybe they won’t search the truck,” Chad says.
“You better hope not,” Libby says. “Otherwise Aaron might be headed straight to Gitmo.”
“At least it’ll be a Canadian Gitmo,” Jax says. “It’s probably nicer.”
“Everything’s nicer in Canada,” Chad agrees.
I sink into a chair, my scalp pinpricking with perspiration as the doomsday worrywart returns to his rightful place. What was I thinking? My breath speeds up but I can’t seem to get enough air in my lungs. Black spots dance across my vision.
“Hey.” Hannah’s voice sounds far away. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“How? How is anything gonna be okay?”
She is quiet for a minute as she thinks, and then her voice takes on that clear, calm authoritative tone I heard the night she corralled people to carry Chad into Maxwell’s. “Like this. Everyone, listen up: Change in plans. We’re going to leave now, and Aaron’s going to come with in the van, hidden with the equipment. Chad, you okay to drive back alone?”
“Sure. No problem.”
“I can drive with you,” Jax volunteers. “If that’s cool.”
“Totally cool,” Chad says.
“Okay, Jax will drive with Chad. We’ll hide Aaron under the equipment and Claudia will exploit her magnetic sexuality to flirt with the customs agents. Then we’re going to drive over the border without any kind of problem.” She takes my hand. “I’ll get you home.” She squeezes. “I promise.”
Jax and Chad agree to stick around to get paid while I help the band load out. In the back of the van, Hannah makes a cubby for me amid the amps, the guitar cases, the drum kit. If it weren’t for the possibility of high crimes, it would be cozy.
