We drove past the bookstore, which was in a typical Virginia strip mall, but we didn’t park in the lot out front. Instead, Nathan found a spot several blocks away on a residential street.
“You ready?” Nathan took a final sip of his coffee, and I reached for it, hoping the caffeine would balance out the adrenaline buzzing through my system. He handed it to me.
I took a swig, then choked and spluttered on the contents. It wasn’t coffee.
“Is this . . . tea?”
“Oolong,” Nathan replied.
“Who drinks oolong?”
“Literally a billion people,” he said, pulling on a baseball cap. “Ready now?”
I nodded, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand.
We avoided the well-lit parking lot and walked down the dark alley behind the store.
“How’d they get into this place?” Eric asked.
“Some kid who goes to Westside—his dad owns the building, and he jacked the keys.” Nathan paused. “Or so they told me.”
I edged closer to Nathan. “Doesn’t this shopping center have security guards?”
“Sure does,” he said. “Want to know how much they make an hour? A hell of a lot less than they’re making tonight.”
We passed the store’s delivery entrance and kept going until we reached a narrow door with a single lightbulb above it. I spotted a couple of kids in the shadows, the chrome-orange tips of their cigarettes glowing in the dark. Nathan knocked. I could make out the pounding rhythm of music on the other side of the door. A guy stuck his head out, releasing a blast of sound into the night. He looked around before grudgingly letting us in.
As we walked through the empty back room and into the bookstore, the music hit me like a physical thing, a hum that traveled up my legs and settled in my chest. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Most of the light in the room came from the dancing bodies, people wearing glow-stick bracelets and flashing LED lights strung around their necks or attached to their clothing. A few lights were aimed up at the walls, illuminating empty bookshelves in flashing blue and green and purple. All the freestanding shelves in the middle of the room were gone, but signs still hung overhead to divide the store into sections. People thrashed around in Self Help and Young Adult, and where the Children’s section had been, someone had hung a makeshift sign that read The End Is Near.
I tried to imagine how I might re-create it all on paper when I got home: the shapes, colors, textures. But even if I sprayed a coat of fixative over the whole scene and hung it on my wall, I couldn’t possibly capture it.
“Whoa,” Eric said. He had a humongous grin on his face, and he bounced slightly, like he was about to jump out of his skin. “This is totally old school.” He looked over at us. “Tonight, you must call me by my rave name. Gambit.”
“Let’s just find Park,” I said.
Nathan greeted friend after friend with shouts and complicated handshakes, and I realized his clothes weren’t the only thing different about him tonight. His step bounced, his shoulders slouched, and he unleashed a sly smile I hadn’t seen before. I left him to his friends and scoured the crowd for Park. The store was large enough to have a lower level for music and DVDs, and I walked over to the railing and leaned on it, looking down. People thronged around a central DJ station where a dark-haired figure stood, performing for his adoring fans.
Was that Park?
A small stage was set up beside him with drums, a couple of guitars, and microphones, but no band played. Around him, an ecstatic crowd throbbed and churned, flashes of skin gleaming in the dim light. Faces flickered into view, then disappeared again into the darkness.
For a moment, I felt dizzy, as though all this was just another vision—the flashing lights, the distorted sounds, the hazy people all around me. I found myself looking for Tyler in the crowd. He isn’t here, I told myself. But I searched the faces anyway, hoping for a glimpse of him, an image from another time. Had he spent these parties dancing like a wild man? Manning the back door? Flirting with girls in dark corners?
That’s when I saw it: a tiny white envelope, passed from one person to another, tucked into a pocket. Something handed back in exchange. Drugs, for sure. I couldn’t tell what kind—my experience was limited to smoking pot once at summer arts camp. But all of a sudden, I wanted that envelope, whatever it was. Wanted to lose myself in the party, to turn up the volume on the lights, the music, the crowd. Wanted to be someone else—anyone else—and not the person I had been when I walked through the door. And the sinking thought occurred to me: Tyler might have come to these parties with something similar in mind.
The music seemed too loud inside my head, and I started breathing way too fast. I reached instinctively for my scissors, but I had forgotten to tuck them into the pocket of my jeans. All I could find in my pockets were the marbles. I clutched them as panic threatened, blurring the edges of my vision. I need to cut something, I thought.
At that moment, Nathan walked up behind me, leaning over my shoulder to speak right in my ear. “That’s Park,” he murmured, pointing out the DJ.
I was so wound up that when he touched me, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
He took my shoulders and turned me around to face him. I looked down, afraid he’d see the panic written across my face. He tilted his head down until he finally caught my eye.
“Hey, what is it? What happened?” I could hear the concern in his voice even over the music.
I shook my head, unable to answer, and he pulled me into a hug. Beneath his zippered hoodie, he wore a plain white T-shirt that smelled like tea and fabric softener. His chin fit perfectly on top of my head, and I rested my cheek against the warm plane of his chest.
“I miss him too,” Nathan said. “It’s not the same without him.”
I wanted to pack my bags and move into that hug. I wanted to build a little den there and hibernate until winter was over. My fingers trailed up under his jacket, across the muscles of his back, and curled into fists by his shoulder blades. I hadn’t been held like this in . . . I couldn’t remember how long—and the heat and comfort of it was shocking. I felt something crack open inside me, and I was suddenly scared that whatever that was, it might have been the only thing holding me together.
I pulled away. Nathan studied my face, his eyes searching and intense.
“I’m fine.” I steadied myself, trying to make that true. “Let’s go.”
We collected Eric, who was dancing at the edge of a small crowd in Classics, and headed downstairs. Somehow, in the five minutes we’d been there, Eric had acquired a pair of eyeglasses made of glow sticks, which made him look like a rave Harry Potter.
We made our way through the crowd. The closer we got to the DJ station, the better I could see Park, who wore a white baseball cap and a screen-printed T-shirt that had faded to illegibility.
“Wait, what’s the plan?” I asked, as Nathan raised his hand to get Park’s attention.
“We don’t know enough to have a plan,” Nathan said. “First we talk to him. Evaluate the situation. Then we make a plan.”
Before I could answer, a guy stepped between us and Park. He was barely taller than me, with a short afro and a grin almost as large as the headphones he wore. He uncovered one ear and greeted Nathan.
“Hey, Sinatra! What up?” He went to hug Nathan at the same time Nathan tried to shake his hand, and they bumped chests awkwardly.
“What was that, bruh?” Nathan said, laughing. “We hugging now?” He turned to me, one hand gripping the guy’s shoulder. “This here is Cedric Williams.”
I smiled. “One of the underground masterminds, I hear.”
Cedric grinned. “Ooh, so formal.” He smacked Nathan’s chest. “You hear that? I’m a mastermind. What’s that make you?”
“Shit, man, next to you?” Nathan said, still laughing. “Nothing at all.”
Cedric gave me a quick once-over and a wink. “Nathan brung the bait!”
“Okay, back up
,” Nathan said, slinging a possessive arm around my neck. “Listen, I need Park.” He spoke louder as the music crested. “Tell him Red sent me.”
Cedric’s eyebrows went up, and he nodded. “Sure thing.” He walked around the DJ table to yell something in Park’s ear. As Cedric spoke, Park glanced over at us, but his face showed no emotion. He slipped his own headphones down to his neck, and Cedric took his place at the tables. Park came around and gestured for us to follow him. He took us to a corner where the music wasn’t quite so loud.
“Red sent you?” Park said. Colored lights flashed, leaving his face alternately bright and shadowed. “Fucked up, what happened to him.”
“Yeah,” Nathan agreed. “Fucked up.”
“Who’re these two?” Park indicated us.
“Eric Bowling. Punk guitarist.” Eric stuck out his hand.
Park didn’t shake it. “Sure thing, bama.” He turned to me. “And you?”
“I’m Meg—” Nathan shook his head slightly, and I stopped myself. “Just Meg. Meg White.” I paused awkwardly. “I’m with his band,” I finished, pointing to Eric.
“Come on. These two fakin’,” Park said. “They stink of the five seven one.”
Nathan shook his head. “Naw, man, they’re cool.”
Park rolled his eyes. “Okay, Slim, what you want?” He pulled off his cap with one hand and ruffled his dark hair with the other. On his left arm, a silver-and-gold wristwatch caught the light.
My eyes locked onto the watch. Was that it? The one Tyler had stolen from Kyle?
“Red said you helped each other out sometimes. He brought you stuff?”
“Maybe,” Park acknowledged. “Sometimes.”
A single diamond glinted on the face of the watch. I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. I couldn’t stop wondering what memories it might hold.
“How long you guys . . .” Nathan waved a hand back and forth. “When’d he start selling to you?”
Park’s face went instantly suspicious. “You messin’ with me? You some kind of narc?”
Nathan looked offended. “I wouldn’t do you like that. I heard what happened to Kyle.”
Park twisted the watch on his wrist and eyed Nathan for a moment. “How ’bout this? You want in with me, you do me a favor.”
Nathan shifted his weight, not dropping his eyes from Park’s. “Favor?”
Park gestured to the stage that was set up behind him. “I had a band tonight. They came, they set up, they got smacked. Left me hanging. What say you play something for me?”
“Play?” Nathan choked out. “Like a song? Oh, hell no . . .”
“Why not?” Park said. “If you’re being straight with me? If they are who they say they are?” He pointed at Eric. “Punk guitarist.” And at me. “Girl in band.” He gave Nathan a taunting smile. “That’s my deal, Sinatra. Play first, talk later.”
Nathan slowly turned toward Eric, fixing him with a look of distilled death.
Eric smiled at Park. “Of course. No problem at all.”
The three of us made our way over to the tiny stage as Park headed back to talk to Cedric. “We can totally pull this off,” Eric said, slinging a guitar around his neck.
“Are you high?” I asked. “Have you been licking glow sticks?”
“Nathan, can you sing?” Eric asked him.
“Sure, I guess . . .” Nathan trailed off as Eric walked toward him with the bass guitar. He held both hands out in front of him. “I cannot, however, play bass.”
“You don’t have to play it,” Eric said. “You just have to look good holding it.” Nathan took the bass with a glare that promised severe punishment at a later date. He shrugged out of his jacket and hoodie and slung the bass across his chest. Eric turned to me. “That leaves you on drums, Megan.”
I laughed a little wildly. “Okay, I play a little guitar. A little. But I have never in my life played the drums.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Eric said. “Playing the drums well is a skill that takes years to learn and a certain degree of innate talent. Playing the drums badly?” He shrugged. “Even a monkey can do that.”
“Not me.” I shook my head. “I. Can. Not.”
“Then you have to sing.”
I plodded over to the drum set and picked up the sticks. “Where do I start?”
“I’ll stand next to you and go bum badda-bum badda-bum and you keep time.”
I gestured in confusion at the array of drums in front of me.
“Just hit the middle one.” Eric pointed to it.
This was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard in my life. And yet I tried out a few badda-bums. “What if I can’t hear you?”
“We’ll figure it out.” Eric turned to Nathan. “Okay, we just have to fake our way through one song. What do you feel comfortable singing?”
“Nothing.” Nathan said, fear lighting his eyes.
“But who’s your favorite singer?” Eric pressed. “I mean, one where you know all their lyrics without having to think about them.”
Nathan rattled off a list of names.
Eric shook his head. “Seriously? I’ve never heard of any of those.” For the first time, he looked a bit panicked. “That guy called you Sinatra. Do you know any Sinatra?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Nathan said. “But only the Capitol years. I can’t stand the later stuff.”
Eric paced a little. “Okay. Okay. The Chairman of the Board. We can make this work. . . .” He thought for a minute. “‘Fly Me to the Moon’?”
“Yeah, I know that one.”
“Okay. Follow my lead. And be ready to sing fast.”
The music from the DJ station faded out, and Park gestured to us to get going. Faces in the crowd turned toward us. Park leaned back against his tables, arms crossed, a curious light in his eyes.
As Eric started toward the microphone, Nathan stopped him with a hand on his arm. “This might be a good time to ask if you can actually play the guitar.”
A slow grin spread across Eric’s face. “Oh, yes. Yes I can.” He stepped up to the mic, then covered it with one hand and turned back to us. “Wait. We need a band name.”
“Exquisite Corpse,” I threw out.
Seconds later, Eric was greeting the crowd. Nathan gripped the neck of the bass so hard, I thought the strings would cut through his skin. As I heard the first notes from Eric’s guitar, I felt a giddy, unexpected joy shoot through my chest, and I wanted to laugh out loud. Then Eric walked over and stepped on my foot. Hard. Oh, yeah, I thought. I have a job to do here. I started to beat out the rhythm he indicated, feeling like a two-year-old banging pots and pans.
Nathan leaned into the microphone and began to sing “Fly Me to the Moon.” He had undersold his singing voice, which was deep and resonant. My heart beat faster as he made his way through the first verse in a slow, leisurely way.
Then Eric peeled out a few fast, driving notes on the guitar. He stepped on my foot faster and faster, and I sped up in response. Nathan turned and stared at Eric in disbelief, but he quickly launched into the next verse at this new pace. It sounded fun and unexpected and . . . cool. Nathan had the voice, but it was Eric who was making it all work, surprisingly completely in his element. It was one of those moments that stretched out and seemed to defy time, as I watched my friends do this amazing thing that I had no idea they were capable of.
Three Things from the unanticipated bookstore concert: Eric’s hair moving against his forehead as his fingers flew, Nathan’s shirt stretching against his shoulder blades under the strap of his unplayed bass, colored lights flashing against my eyelids when I closed my eyes.
It almost felt like Tyler was there with us, playing along.
Nathan finished the last verse, and I lifted the drumsticks as Eric gave one final lick on the guitar and held up an arm in triumph.
The crowd was, well, underwhelmed. I heard some halfhearted applause. Most of them didn’t seem sure what to do. Park looked satisfied, though. He gave us a thumbs-up and ju
mped back on the mic. He started a song that was better for dancing, and the crowd came alive again. As the guys set down their instruments, I grabbed them both by the shoulders. “That was freaking awesome.” They grinned back at me. We climbed down from the stage, but not before I peeled a sticker off one of the guitar cases and tucked it into my purse. Raw materials, for later.
Cedric bounced over. “I saw that! Not bad, bruh.” He nudged up next to me, bumping my hip with his. “Hey, Meg, right? You have to come to the DC underground next month.”
I grinned at him. “That sounds great.” I gestured to his headphones. “Is music, like, your thing?”
“Naw, not really.” His eyes glowed. “I’m more into politics, myself.”
Park walked over and clapped a hand on Nathan’s shoulder. The watch glinted in the light, calling to me. “Okay, Sinatra,” Park said. “Let’s talk.”
At that moment, over the loud dance music, I heard the squeal and pop of a megaphone turning on. “Everyone stay where you are,” a voice called out.
The cops had arrived.
I could have run. I probably should have run. But instead, as I watched the party disintegrate around me, I grabbed hold of Park’s arm and closed my hand around the watch.
CHAPTER 11
THE WATCH BURNED LIKE A BRAND, BUT I HELD ON as the pain streaked up my arm to settle behind my eyes. The flashing party lights smeared and blurred, dimming to a soft, warm glow. I found myself in a darkened room, where the only light came from a glass display case filled with watches. The case stood as tall as my shoulder, and inside it, each watch rested on its own plush stand. Some of them gently spun and rotated. For a moment, I thought I was in a jewelry store, but as my eyes adjusted, I could make out a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a flat-screen TV. Someone’s bedroom.
And Tyler was there, alone. Through the viewfinder of a small handheld video camera, he studied the watches, slowly panning across the collection. He spoke softly to himself, like he was practicing a voice-over to lay in later.
“Time is money,” he said. “Or so the saying goes. And some people don’t just keep time, they hoard it.” He broke off. “No, not hoard. Stockpile. That’s better. They stockpile more time and money than any one person could ever use. And they’ll keep right on—”
The Hidden Memory of Objects Page 13
