“Oh, it just places the arm for you. Supposed to be a safer way to cue up your music, but I’ve got a pretty steady hand. Minimal scratching. See?”
I giggled. “Uh, yeah. Totally.”
Dylan grinned. “Vinyl is played from the outside in. If you want to hear the songs in order of the playlist.”
“Huh?”
“You’ll see the arm move towards the center as the record plays,” he explained. “CDs are played from the inside out.”
“Oh.” I listened to a bit of popping and crackling before the first track started.
“Anything in particular you wanna hear?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve listened to the whole CD already,” I said.
“What songs did you like best?”
“Um, I really like ‘Stem/Long Stem’,” I replied. I felt silly saying the title out loud. I didn’t think it belonged in my mouth.
“‘Stem/Long Stem’ it is,” Dylan said and stopped the player. I watched as he waited for the turntable to come to a complete stop before lifting the arm off the vinyl. He flipped the record, turned the player on once more, and placed the needle on the second band from the outer edge. A bit more crackling and popping before the song started.
We listened in silence for a time, and I tried my hardest to hear the subtle variations with the vinyl version, but I confess that the only difference seemed to be intermittent hissing sounds overlaying the music.
“I don’t get it,” I confessed. “It just sounds dirty to me.”
“You’re killing me, Cadence,” Dylan said. “This is music in its purist form.”
I smiled sheepishly. “Do DJs have bands? I mean, how are they incorporating all these different instruments?”
“Jesus. Christ.”
“What?” I asked indignantly. “How the hell should I know?”
“DJs use samples.”
“Okay?”
Dylan shook his head. “A sample could be anything. A clip from a news broadcast. I clip from a song, a speech, a movie. Sound effects. Anything, really. And the DJ blends them all together to make a coherent song—a new sample, of sorts.”
“But they’re not really creating anything new,” I argued.
Dylan gasped and stopped the record player.
“Are you kidding me?” he asked. “Then you’d have to say that about every musician. No one made up the notes on a piano or sounds on a guitar. But each musician manipulates those existing notes to create something fresh and new. Something original. Sampling is no different.”
“Okay, I get what you’re saying.”
Dylan turned the player back on. “Why do you like this song? I mean, really good choice. Just wondering.”
I scratched my head and shrugged, staring at the opposite wall. I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell him. He might think I was trying too hard to be deep or complex. But the truth is that I liked this song the second I heard it because it was me, right on the edge of goodness, right on the edge of choice—that space between moving towards something positive or falling into the abyss. I chose to fall. One time. Just once. And now everything had changed, and I couldn’t stand the darkness.
“Cadence?”
I continued staring, thinking about that moment I agreed to snort cocaine for the first time. The only time. And just one line. It burned my nose, but then it was like a sparkling crackle, much like the popping of the vinyl. I stood up after I inhaled the white line, but my body kept rising, rising higher. I remember lifting my arms, convinced angels were grasping my hands and stretching me. I was flying and being stretched at the same time.
“Cadence? You all right?”
I jerked my head in Dylan’s direction. “Thanks for letting me listen. I’ve gotta go.”
“Well, wait. Lemme give you back your record.”
“Huh?”
“Mark bought it for you,” Dylan said, placing the vinyl gently in its sleeve.
“What? I thought he just set it aside,” I replied, taking the record. What on earth would I do with it? I didn’t have a record player.
“No, he bought it.”
I was flattered and angry. Mr. Connelly had no business buying a record for me! It was embarrassing, and I could only imagine what Dylan was thinking. I glimpsed his face and thought I caught a half-grin.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“What are you talking about?” he replied. And then he added quietly, “Hey, no judgment.”
“I can’t take this,” I said, shoving the album in his hands.
He pushed back. “Paid for. Take it up with your math teacher.”
I huffed and turned on my heel. I’d take it up with my math teacher. You better believe I would.
“What are you doing?” I hissed in Mr. Connelly’s face.
I drove to school early and went straight to Room 212. I didn’t knock on the door either. I just barged right in and let fly.
“What do you mean?” He dropped his pencil on the desk and looked up at me.
“That record! You bought me a record!”
“What’s the big deal? You told me you like DJ Shadow.”
“You planned it!” I said. “You had that record waiting for me!”
“Yeah, I called Dylan to set it aside for you. I’m confused. Why are you upset?” Mr. Connelly asked.
I was infuriated. He knew precisely why I was upset. I was perfectly content to harbor a secret crush on my teacher—one I knew would go absolutely nowhere. It was one thing to fantasize about an inappropriate relationship. It was quite another thing to actually pursue it. And he was pursuing me. It took forever, but my seventeen-year-old brain finally figured it out! It started on the first day of school. The handkerchief. That motherfucking handkerchief!
I. Was. Scared.
“Stop playing with me!” I shouted.
“Lower your voice,” Mr. Connelly demanded, then walked over to the door and shut it. He turned to face me. “No one’s playing with you, Cadence. I called the store and asked Dylan to set aside the album for you.”
“Why did you buy it for me?”
“Because I knew you’d like it.”
“Why did you buy me the album, Mr. Connelly?”
“Because . . . because everyone should own at least one record.”