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He stares. “Is that… supposed to be an imitation of me?”
“Depends. Were you flirting with Violet?” I won’t give him the satisfaction of my assumption that Violet was flirting with him first. Maybe she was trying to count his freckles too.
“She was deep in some kind of Nirvana reverie. I didn’t want to completely lose her to it.”
“You’ve never listened to Nirvana, have you?”
“Not a single song. While we’re waiting”—McNair jerks his head toward the listening booths in the back—“I’ve always kind of wanted to listen to something back there.”
“You really think we can agree on something to listen to?” I ask, though I’ve been gazing longingly at the listening booths since we walked in.
He taps his chin. “What if we each pick one album, and the other person has to listen to one song in its entirety before passing judgment?”
I can’t deny it sounds fun. “Fine, but make it quick.”
KIRBY
oh DID YOU NOW??
you teamed up with the guy you’re definitely not obsessed with?
MARA
Be nice.
But actually:
I roll my own eyes, though I’m relieved our friendship hasn’t been strained past the point of conversations like this.
I think you’re a little obsessed with him.
Obsessed with winning, yes. And he happens to be the only person who can help me get there.
I make it back to the listening booth a moment before McNair, and my heart leaps into my throat as I hide my phone, though of course he can’t see our group chat. He’s clutching an album so close to his chest, he might as well be hugging it. On the small table are a record player and twin pairs of headphones, with two chairs tucked in. McNair snaps the curtain shut, closing us inside the tiny space.
“You can go first,” I say as we pull out the chairs and reach for the headphones.
I used to imagine coming here with someone I liked, spending hours browsing records, bumping knees as we listened to them in a booth like this one. It’s where the perfect high school boyfriend and I would have hung out. I’d lie awake at night, marking a mental map of Seattle for me and this mystery guy, and listening to records together was one of the most romantic things I could imagine. I dreamed up entire playlists for us. The Cure’s “Close to Me,” with those breathy pauses and suggestive lyrics, was the sexiest song I’d ever heard. The universe must find it hilarious that the first time I’m in here, it’s with McNair.
McNair’s song is upbeat, bouncy, with high-pitched male vocals. Fifteen seconds in, he pulls the headphones off one ear and asks, “What do you think?” He’s bouncing his leg up and down, impatient for my response.
“It’s… fun,” I admit, but I don’t want him to get an ego about choosing something not-terrible, so I add: “It’s almost in your face about how fun it is.”
“Didn’t realize you were so offended by fun.” He holds out the album cover, which features the five band members dressed in bright colors and playing Twister.
“Free Puppies?” I say. “That’s seriously the name of the band?”
“No. It’s Free Puppies! Exclamation point!” He taps the pin on his backpack. “You can’t talk about Free Puppies! without an exclamation point. They’re local, and I’ve seen them a few times. They’re starting to get national airplay, but I don’t think they’ll sell out.”
“Your favorite band is called Free Puppies!?” I give the exclamation mark as much emphasis as I can, and he shakes his head at me.
“One day you’ll go to a Free Puppies! show and see the magic for yourself.”
It’s gotten too warm in my cardigan, probably because it’s still sunny outside. Or maybe the thermostat in here is set too high. Regardless, I take it off, accidentally whacking him with an empty sleeve in the process.
“Sorry,” I say as I drape it across the back of the chair.
“Kind of cramped in here,” he says with an apologetic shrug, as though it’s his fault.
