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“You’re in luck!” Violet’s voice. McNair pulls back the curtain, revealing Violet waving a black album with a negative photo graphic on the front. “We had a copy in a stack of donated records waiting to be processed.”
“Thank you,” I say as McNair accepts the record from her.
“No problem.” She sort of lingers for a while, bouncing on her toes, and for a horrifying moment I wonder if she really was flirting. Then she blurts: “Track three. ‘About a Girl.’ That was the first sign that maybe Nirvana was going to be more than grunge. Even if you’re not buying it, you gotta listen to it on vinyl. That’s the way it was always meant to be heard.”
“Will do,” Neil says, a
nd Violet gives us one more smile before closing the curtain.
McNair turns over the album.
“Did she write her number on the back?” I ask. “I hope she’s ready for a lot of texts with proper punctuation and capitalization.”
“Artoo. I was checking the track listing. And I think she just really loves Nirvana.”
He lays the record on the table, and we each snap a photo.
“I guess we’re good, then,” I say, but he frowns.
“We still have to listen to your song.”
“Not Nirvana?”
He shakes his head. “I might get kicked out of Seattle for saying this, but I’ve never been a big fan.”
I present my record of choice: The Smiths’ Louder Than Bombs. “Is It Really So Strange?” is the first track, and Neil is annoyingly silent the entire three minutes it’s playing.
“It’s catchy, but… it seems melancholy, too,” he says.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“There’s too much bad shit in the world to listen to depressing music all the time.” He taps the FP album. “Hence, Free Puppies!”
When we fling back the curtain to leave, it’s almost too perfect: Madison Winters, she of the seven shape-shifting foxes, is browsing records with a couple other Westview kids. She doesn’t see me until after I’ve sneaked up behind her, swiping the blue bandanna from her arm.
“That was stealthy,” her friend Pranav Acharya says to me, holding out his hand for a high five. “I respect that.”
“Wow, where’s your loyalty?” Madison asks, mock-offended, and she’s so good-natured about the whole thing that I feel a little bad about making fun of her shape-shifting foxes. I mean, she has a brand at least.
McNair and I linger in front of the store while I pull out my phone to log the kill. Strangely, this has been fun. Maybe I romanticized coming here with a boyfriend, but it wasn’t actually that bad with McNair.
“You killed someone!” McNair is practically giddy. He says this in such a jovial way, his eyes bright behind his glasses—like he’s proud, which I guess makes sense since we’re technically on the same team. For now.
Instead of my messaging app, a helpful blue bubble pops up:
Installing software update 1 of 312…
Sure, now’s a great time to do that.
“One second. My phone decided to install an update.”
Installing software update 2 of 312…
Suddenly, the screen goes black. I hold down the power button—nothing.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Now it won’t turn on.”
“Let me see it.”
