“I need The Beatles,” my dad said, walking behind him to shelves of records that took up an entire wall in the ramshackle old house we’d grown up in in Queens. “I’m too sad.”
Music, for my parents, was themed to different stages and emotions of their everyday lives. They were anarchist punks to their core but swore that Motown inspired the muse when songwriting. And The Beatles were imperative during tragedy.
My mother’s face was pinched with worry. “Oh, this is breaking my heart, Fi. Why didn’t Pop tell us?”
From behind her, I could hear “Don’t Let Me Down,” and it was true that it provided some tiny comfort. “You know how he is,” I explained. “Private, embarrassed. Money is hard to talk about for a lot of folks.”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about and everything to be furious about,” my dad chanted from behind mom’s shoulder. “Of course, this city cares more about profit over people and will destroy every last bit of culture until we’re nothing but robotic cogs in their money machine.”
“It’s a disgrace,” Mom said. “And we cannot stand for it.”
“That’s why I’m calling.” I leaned in closer, waited for both parents to appear on screen. “I met with Pop yesterday, along with Max.”
“Max is home?” they shouted in unison.
“Only for two weeks,” I warned—more for myself than for them. “He asked for my legal advice on the letter Pop got, so this morning I sent it off to two colleagues who work in tenant and housing law to make sure his rights aren’t being violated.”
That sent their eyebrows shooting up in approval. I knew how my parents felt about who I worked for—that Cooper Peterson Stackhouse was every bit the boutique law firm serving wealthy clients they saw, and mocked, in TV shows and movies. But they were annoyingly quick to forget all the many ways lawyers helped to fight for the rights my parents often marched and protested for.
“That’s so nice of you, Fi,” my dad said. “I had no idea you had those contacts.”
“We’re not all evil over here.” My tone was light, but it was nice to hear my parents express even a vague respect for my chosen profession.
“Yes, well, but many lawyers are, though,” my mom said soberly.
I bit my tongue and pushed past my irritation. “Anyway. Max and I are planning a benefit show in twelve days to raise the money Pop needs so he’s not evicted. Can The Hand Grenades be one of the headliners? And can you get your fans to buy tickets?”
My dad threw his hands in the air. “Fiona Lennox, you make me so fucking proud.”
“Love this idea, and of course we’ll be there with our fucking bells on,” Mom added. “What a way to fight the system. Bring the people together and solve this problem ourselves.”
I propped my chin in my hands and smiled. This was the whiplash of being around my ridiculous parents. Confused and slightly dismissive but then cheerfully excited and proud of me. It was how they’d always been, and I knew, in my heart, they had no malicious intent. They loved Roxy and me so much you could see their parental dedication from space.
But I was never sure if bringing my feelings up to them would make them actually change or only hurt them, and more often than not, I let things slide. Even as it started to hurt me.
“I thought you two would like the idea,” I said. “We’ll get big posters made. Save The Red Room. If we sell out, and I convince Edward’s hotel to sponsor us, we’ve got a really good chance of raising what he needs.”
“Who needs The Beatles. It’s time to dance,” my dad said, popping up to change out the record. Which allowed my mom to stare right at me and say, “Max Devlin is probably very cute now, I imagine.”
I rolled my eyes. “And that’s my cue to go. That very cute boy is on his way here, and we’ve got logistics and details to figure out.”
She nodded. “Thank god for you. If we had to do something like this, it would fail miserably.”
“That’s definitely true.” I peeked at the clock on my wall. “Okay, I really do have to go though. Thank you for headlining. I knew I could count on you guys to help.”
“And whatever else help you need,” my mom said. “Say the word. We’ll be there.”
I hung up, not expecting to feel so emotionally connected to The Red Room again. My skills for planning and organization could actually help the wild, chaotic world my family operated in.
Maybe after this—maybe if I succeeded—they’d learn that there was value in all the ways that I was different.
I didn’t have a record player in the office, but I did have a tiny speaker I kept beneath my desk for late nights working when music kept me company. I turned it on, connected it to my phone, and pressed play on The Clash’s London Calling album.
Then I double-checked my appearance in the mirror on my wall: pencil skirt (immaculate), silk top (perfect), pearl necklace (exquisite). My hair was up, my lipstick was a bold red, and my heels were sharp as blades.
I was prepared for battle. And the foe I was looking to vanquish was my pointless, tiny, basically insignificant crush on Max.
My friend, Max. Who never stayed the night and never fell in love and never wanted to build a life with another person. Crush or not, I had my contract on my side. I had my goals, my timeline, and a specific set of outcomes. These had always been the things that gave me strength, gave me purpose.
This breathless, unruly attraction to Max was the opposite of that in every conceivable way.
Unrolling a large paper calendar, I taped it up to the wall in my office not covered with my framed degrees and awards. Then I grabbed a stack of sticky notes and some pens and began carefully adding lists of tasks we needed to accomplish in the next twelve days. I smiled to myself as I danced to my favorite songs and embraced the pure, simplistic joy of a blank piece of paper brimming over with organized items to check off a list.
Slowly, the days ahead filled with sticky notes on which I’d written neat reminders: tickets go on sale, confirm list of bands, are food vendors available? We needed to book promo and schedule marketing and have posters created.
And beneath the orderly rainbow squares beat the very real heart of the issue: we needed to figure out if Pop would be able to sustain paying his rent moving forward, since being sued if this happened again would only spell disaster and probably lead to his eviction.
The knock at my door had me turning in expectation. I already knew to lock my knees. Max was perfectly framed in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the side. He was all casual, confident sexuality—from his scuffed boots to the holes in his jeans and his tight, white t-shirt. That scruff on his jaw was almost a short beard.
And the look he pierced me with was raw hunger.
I arched one eyebrow. “You’re five minutes late for our meeting.”
His mouth curved into a half-grin. “Won’t happen again. Does it help my case that I believe you’re playing the best Clash album of all time?”
I hesitated. Because I agreed and because this album was one of those crucial works of art that truly changed me from the first time I heard it. Courtesy of my parents, of course. I couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, but my parents had thrown a random dance party with this album on in the background. Roxy had been off flirting with a handful of boys. But I’d sat next to the record player, arms wrapped around my knees, and let Joe Strummer’s voice ignite my soul.