I slide into a booth at ten on the dot and wait for him to show up. I scan the books I got at the library yesterday, looking at the places I bookmarked. There’s a chance Dad could get off with a fine, but I don’t know how to guarantee that. I’m not a lawyer.
Dad falls into the booth across from me with a huff, a smile on his face.
“Oli, boy,” he says, immediately picking up the cup of coffee I had the waiter bring for me. He gulps it, his eyes wandering around the café over the top, until he finally drops it back onto its saucer with a clatter. He wipes a thumb under his bottom lip and then his eyes go to the table between us. “Wow. Lots of books you got there. We startin’ a book club?”
I stare at him for a long time, unease starting to tingle up the back of my neck. “What’s going on?”
He tries to look casual as he slumps down in his seat and looks at me, but I can see the way his fingers tremble, the way he can’t quite get his eyes to focus. “Whadda you mean?”
“Are you drunk?” I demand.
His eyes focus then, going wide. He doesn’t have to answer. Of course, he’s drunk. He probably started drinking as soon as he got off work, before the sun even came up.
“Oli,” he says when I start piling the books back into my bag.
“Why can’t you take anything seriously?” I ask loudly. People are starting to look in our direction, including our waiter, who’s subtly glancing our way while wrapping silverware. “You’re going to court in less than a week. You might be in big fucking trouble. And it’s like it doesn’t even faze you.” I rip the zipper on my backpack closed and slide out of the booth, almost stumbling in my anger.
“Oli, just calm down.”
I can’t help but laugh. I’m hysterical at my own idiocy, thinking I could count on him, even once, even when it’s his own shit at stake. “Calm down?” I’m looking out the front window when I say it, seeing people walk by in the early morning sunlight. What it must be like to be on the other side of that window, to not have this to deal with all the time.
“Oli, come on. Sit back down. I’ll sober up. I promise.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him reach for the cup of coffee before remembering that he already drained it.
I turn back to the table and smack my hand on the tabletop. My father jumps. In that moment, he doesn’t look like a father to me. He looks like a child being reprimanded, and maybe that’s exactly what he is. “If you don’t give a shit, that’s fine. You can rot in jail for all I care.”
Hurt flashes in his eyes.
Good.
I turn again to leave, and this time his hand comes up, clutching at my jacket, and I yank my arm away from him before swinging my bag over my shoulder and walking out of the café.
Spirits isn’t far, only a few doors down, and as soon as I open the door, there she is: Amy, standing in the gospel section, restocking a shelf. She turns and smiles at me, the low morning sunlight slanting across her face, and I can tell by the unfocused look in her eye, by her practiced smile, that she thinks I’m a customer. And then her eyes focus and her smile gets bigger, and for a second, I can almost forget that I left my dad behind at Charlie’s, my dad who’ll be standing in front of a judge in less than a week, to deal with his own shit.
“Hey,” she says, turning to face me as the door falls closed behind me. “I thought you weren’t coming in until later.”
I shrug—I’m not about to tell her the truth—and before she can ask me any questions, I reach into my bag and pull out the stack of CDs. I suddenly wish I could go back to being nervous about this moment instead of just pissed off. Why does my dad have to ruin everything good in my life? “These are for you,” I say.
“My musical education,” she says with humor in her voice. “You’re old school. Good thing my hand-me-down computer has a disk drive.”
Amy comes into the office while I clock in, but instead of retrieving anything from her purse, she holds out her hand to me. “Give me your phone.”
I look at her for a second and then reach into my pocket and hand her my cell. She takes it, clicks around for a little bit, and then hands it back to me. “I created a playlist for you on Spotify. Easier that way. No ancient technology required.”
I look at the playlist and snort. “Coldplay? This is my musical education?”
She crosses her arms, and even though she tries to look stern, there’s a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. “When was the last time you listened to this one?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve heard ‘Yellow’ nine hundred times, just like everyone else.”
She sighs, like I’m such a burden, and drops her arms at her sides. The whole movement makes me smile. Her eyes dip for a split second. “Listen to the words. Soak it in. Trust me. Things change over time. The way you appreciate things changes.”
I’m not smiling anymore, and neither is she.
AMY
I LOAD THE CDs onto my iPod, the iPod that my cousin, Carmen, handed down to me almost five years ago that barely holds a charge. I listen to the first CD on Sunday morning. Oliver gave me six, six, and as I lie in bed, I think some music might be nice. I have plenty of homework to do, but the sun is just barely peeking in through my blinds, and I want to be lazy. I want to listen to these albums so that I can argue with Oliver about the ones I don’t like. I stretch and smile to myself. I like arguing with Oliver, I like that little crease of disbelief he gets between his eyebrows when I tell him I don’t like something he does, or that I haven’t heard of a band he loves.
But really, I’m ready for new music. I’m not giving in to Oliver’s ridiculous argument that I don’t know enough about music just because I don’t regularly listen to anything released before my first birthday, but I’m always interested in bands I don’t know, so I’m down with this whole experiment.
I put my biggest headphones on, the ones that fold completely over my ears. They make me feel swallowed whole by my music, and I love that feeling more than anything else. I press play, and I laugh when the music starts in my ears. It’s not that the music is bad. But the electric, poppy notes of the first song on the CD aren’t what I was expecting. I glance at the case. Parklife by Blur. I set the case on my stomach, resting my hands on the bed on either side of me, and close my eyes.
This is my favorite way to take in music, new or old or something I’ve listened to so many times I know every word. Music is meant to be heard without distractions. As much as I love listening to an album while I do the laundry or while I drive through town or while I do homework, this is my ideal way of soaking in music: uninterrupted, undistracted, unblemished by reality. And I do soak it in.
OLIVER
MY MOTHER GLANCES over at me when my phone buzzes on the pew between us. I pick it up quick in case it buzzes again. Since we’re always late, we’re in the back row, so I don’t think anyone will notice if I check a text message. It’s from a number I don’t know, and it says simply Brit pop is rather smashing, but you’ll have to do better than that.
I grunt out a sound, more like disbelief than actual laughter, but either way, it’s loud enough for the people in the pew in front of me to stiffen and glance back at me. Mom smacks me on the leg and narrows her eyes at my phone.