“Am I into music?” He scoffs at the question as we head down an aisle marked ROCK J–N. “Was Hemingway the greatest writer of the twentieth century? Yes, I’m into music. Mostly local bands, some that made it big and some that haven’t yet. Death Cab, Modest Mouse, Fleet Foxes, Tacocat, Car Seat Headrest…”
“Did you see Fleet Foxes at Bumbershoot a few years ago?” I ask, ignoring the Hemingway comment. Just for that, I’ll pick an extra steamy book for him to read when I win.
His eyes light up. “Yes! Such a great show.”
And though we’ve been at the same school for four years, there’s something strange about this: McNair and I having been at the same concert, clapping for the same band in a sea of sweaty Seattle hipsters.
He finds the N section first, flips through it as I open my group chat with Kirby and Mara. It’s not impossible Savannah’s recruited more people since Hilltop Bowl, and even if we’re on shaky ground, I don’t want to be scared of my own friends.
I’m sure the answer is no, but you guys didn’t by any chance team up with savannah bell to kill mcnair and me, did you?
MARA
We definitely did not.
KIRBY
WTF???
overheard her organizing an army at the safe zone
KIRBY
I repeat: WTF???
yeah
so I may have kind of joined forces with mcnair
I slip my phone into my pocket, not quite ready for their responses yet.
“They don’t have it,” McNair says, and I nudge him out of the way to take a look for myself.
“Can I help you find anything?” asks a woman with a Doo Woop lanyard around her neck. She’s probably midtwenties, with a platinum-blond pixie cut, wearing long overalls and combat boots. Her name tag reads VIOLET.
“We’re looking for Nirvana’s first album,” I say, and because I looked it up earlier: “I think it’s Bleach?”
“It is indeed!” Violet chirps. “Old-school Nirvana. I love it. You’re actually not the first people who’ve asked about it today. Are you playing some kind of game?”
“Sort of like a scavenger hunt,” McNair says.
“Hmm, I know we have it. It should be right here.” We shift out of the way so she can take a look at the N section.
Whoever came here before us—what if they hid it? There are thousands of records in here. They could have slipped it in anywhere.
McNair must come to the same conclusion, because he says, “Would you guys have a copy of it anywhere else?”
“We have Nevermind—overrated, in my opinion—In Utero, and MTV Unplugged in New York. Now, that’s a good album.” She pulls it out, strokes it fondly. “Best live album I’ve ever heard.”
Violet’s gaze lingers on McNair, and at first I assume it’s because he has something on his face. I let myself stare for a moment too, but there’s nothing there. I—I think she might be flirting with him.
I am so embarrassed for her.
“Definitely,” McNair agrees. Is he flirting back?
Violet beams at him. “Unfortunately, I don’t see Bleach here. Someone might have misplaced it, or taken it back to a listening booth.”
“Or bought it,” I put in. There are other record stores in Seattle, but we’d lose time getting there, and they may not have the album either.
“Let me take a look in the back, okay?” Violet slides MTV Unplugged back into the N section. “It’s always possible someone brought in a copy to sell.”
“Thank you so much.” McNair’s politeness is at an eleven. When Violet clomps away in her boots, I lift my eyebrows at him. “What?” he asks.
“ ‘Definitely. Best live album ever recorded in the history of mankind.’ ”
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.”