clutches my hips as I speed through yellow lights.
Zooming down Franklin Road, we pass by Vanderbilt University and the Frist Art Museum. I honk and wave at the NashTrash Tour’s Big Pink Bus as I drive down tree-lined stretches of road, passing by Music Row and heading for the waterfront.
At Second Avenue, I pull over and park. Jesse takes off his helmet and sits on the Harley, panting for several seconds. “Good God, woman. Never again!”
“You’re just jealous I’m a better driver.”
He leads me to a Chinese restaurant, and I’m about to ask if he’s craving dim sum when I see a small sign with an arrow pointing down to a place called the Underground.
Is he taking me into the sewer? When we reach the bottom of the mossy, crumbling stone steps, he pushes open a door, and I gasp. A used record store. It’s totally hidden away. How has it stayed in business?
I feel like I’ve stepped into a time machine. Band posters and magazine articles coat the walls, and tables filled with used CDs, DVDs, magazines, records, VHS tapes, video games, and cassettes stretch the length of the room. Cardboard cutouts line the aisles: Eddie Vedder, Mariah Carey, John Lennon, Cher, Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin, Jim Morrison.
Jesse nods at the guy running the cash register. The boy salutes Jesse, then goes back to plucking away at his bass. The place is empty except for a few customers who are digging through stacks of magazines and DVDs. I wonder if they’re looking for something in particular or just browsing, because I could spend my whole life looking through everything that’s here.
Jesse wanders over to the classical section as I beeline for the rock. In a relaxed silence, he and I dig through milk crates and boxes full of cracked CD cases and old records coated with dust. I discover a Queen Christmas album that I might buy.
“Got it,” Jesse says, slapping a CD against his palm.
He’d been fishing around in a milk crate for a couple of minutes. With his gaze fixed firmly on mine, he grabs my hand and leads me to a rope ladder in the corner. It goes up to what looks like a loft.
“That’s the listening room,” he says. “You can take records and CDs up there if you want to relax and listen to music. I write there when I need to get out of the studio.”
“This is your special place?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
We climb up into a cozy crawlspace with a low ceiling. I scoot across the floor and rest on an elbow. The loft is dark, only lit by black lights and a glimmer of sunlight streaming through a peephole. It smells like patchouli and incense. Patterned pillows and velvet cushions are everywhere.
“Do you like it?” Jesse asks, taking off his hat.
“I might have to steal your secret spot. I would love to hole up in here with my guitar.”
He puts the CD in the stereo while I take a look at the case: The 50 Most Essential Pieces of Classical Music . The first song is Adagio in G Minor.
I relax onto a purple quilted cushion and listen to the violin as Jesse writes in his notebook. It’s insane to think he could be composing the next Grammy-winning song of the year right next to me. I’m glad he’s getting a chance to write, since this is what he likes to do on his day off. He’s taught me so much today, I want to do something for him.
I swipe my cell screen and check the details for the Belle Carol Riverboat online, then find a text from Dave: Saw pics of you on Access Hollywood!!!!!!
There are pictures of me online? Dr. Salter is going to kill me. I won’t just get a detention; I’ll be in detention until I graduate. I scroll through the rest of my messages. My sister sent no fewer than twenty texts reminding me to get Jesse’s autograph for her.
I hold my breath when I read a text from Hannah, asking if we can talk. I don’t know what there is to say. She just stood there while the guys kicked me out of The Fringe. Not to mention that she’s with Nate now. Granted, she didn’t know I had
Zooming down Franklin Road, we pass by Vanderbilt University and the Frist Art Museum. I honk and wave at the NashTrash Tour’s Big Pink Bus as I drive down tree-lined stretches of road, passing by Music Row and heading for the waterfront.
At Second Avenue, I pull over and park. Jesse takes off his helmet and sits on the Harley, panting for several seconds. “Good God, woman. Never again!”
“You’re just jealous I’m a better driver.”
He leads me to a Chinese restaurant, and I’m about to ask if he’s craving dim sum when I see a small sign with an arrow pointing down to a place called the Underground.
Is he taking me into the sewer? When we reach the bottom of the mossy, crumbling stone steps, he pushes open a door, and I gasp. A used record store. It’s totally hidden away. How has it stayed in business?
I feel like I’ve stepped into a time machine. Band posters and magazine articles coat the walls, and tables filled with used CDs, DVDs, magazines, records, VHS tapes, video games, and cassettes stretch the length of the room. Cardboard cutouts line the aisles: Eddie Vedder, Mariah Carey, John Lennon, Cher, Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin, Jim Morrison.
Jesse nods at the guy running the cash register. The boy salutes Jesse, then goes back to plucking away at his bass. The place is empty except for a few customers who are digging through stacks of magazines and DVDs. I wonder if they’re looking for something in particular or just browsing, because I could spend my whole life looking through everything that’s here.
Jesse wanders over to the classical section as I beeline for the rock. In a relaxed silence, he and I dig through milk crates and boxes full of cracked CD cases and old records coated with dust. I discover a Queen Christmas album that I might buy.
“Got it,” Jesse says, slapping a CD against his palm.
He’d been fishing around in a milk crate for a couple of minutes. With his gaze fixed firmly on mine, he grabs my hand and leads me to a rope ladder in the corner. It goes up to what looks like a loft.
“That’s the listening room,” he says. “You can take records and CDs up there if you want to relax and listen to music. I write there when I need to get out of the studio.”
“This is your special place?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
We climb up into a cozy crawlspace with a low ceiling. I scoot across the floor and rest on an elbow. The loft is dark, only lit by black lights and a glimmer of sunlight streaming through a peephole. It smells like patchouli and incense. Patterned pillows and velvet cushions are everywhere.
“Do you like it?” Jesse asks, taking off his hat.
“I might have to steal your secret spot. I would love to hole up in here with my guitar.”
He puts the CD in the stereo while I take a look at the case: The 50 Most Essential Pieces of Classical Music . The first song is Adagio in G Minor.
I relax onto a purple quilted cushion and listen to the violin as Jesse writes in his notebook. It’s insane to think he could be composing the next Grammy-winning song of the year right next to me. I’m glad he’s getting a chance to write, since this is what he likes to do on his day off. He’s taught me so much today, I want to do something for him.
I swipe my cell screen and check the details for the Belle Carol Riverboat online, then find a text from Dave: Saw pics of you on Access Hollywood!!!!!!
There are pictures of me online? Dr. Salter is going to kill me. I won’t just get a detention; I’ll be in detention until I graduate. I scroll through the rest of my messages. My sister sent no fewer than twenty texts reminding me to get Jesse’s autograph for her.
I hold my breath when I read a text from Hannah, asking if we can talk. I don’t know what there is to say. She just stood there while the guys kicked me out of The Fringe. Not to mention that she’s with Nate now. Granted, she didn’t know I had
Similar Books
