“A., calm yourself,” E. scolded.
“It wasn’t OUR fault,” Margo spat. “He was trying to kill us, remember? How about a ‘congratulations on not ending up dead’?”
“Of course,” E. said. “We are all very happy about that.” He paused again, looking from Margo to Alvin as if just now noticing how tired they looked, how pronounced the circles under their eyes had become, how pale their skin was. “We are being incredibly insensitive; you both need rest. We’ll continue this discussion in the morning.”
He and A. left the room presently.
Alvin paced a tight circle on the rug while Margo sat heavily on the bed, arms crossed.
After a minute, and with a smile on his face, Alvin said, “‘Congratulations on not ending up dead’? You do know that isn’t really an overachievement for us, right?”
“Well, they don’t know that,” Margo snapped. “Stupid society with their stupid names. Whoever heard of a woman called A.?”
“It’s for privacy. They don’t trust us yet, obviously.”
“Well, I don’t trust them either,” Margo said.
And even though the Everlife Society might be their best shot at finding their parents, Alvin wasn’t sure he trusted them either.
—from Alvin Hatter and the Everlife Society
11
“Where are we going this time?” Em asked. We were in my kitchen, dividing a pot of coffee between two Thermoses.
“Back to the shore,” I said, dumping cream in each thermos and stirring them with a long spoon.
“I haven’t seen the ocean this much since . . . I don’t know. I’m not complaining.”
“Have you heard of a music store called Magic Grooves?”
“Magic Grooves!” Abe exclaimed, walking into the kitchen, his eyes still puffy with sleep. “Love that place.”
“You’ve been there?”
“I used to go with Aunt Helen. Is there no more coffee?”
“I’ll make some more,” I said, getting the grinder back down from the cabinet.
“I like music stores,” Em said.
“Oh, this is the greatest. Are you guys going? Can I go? They still sell vinyl and cassettes. Like, cassettes. When was the last time you saw a tape?”
“Aw, someone made a mixtape for me once. It was sweet but, like, bittersweet. I had no way to play it, and I had to tell him I was a lesbian,” Em said.
“Joshy Fredericks?” I asked.
“Joshy Fredericks,” she replied. “I wonder how he’s doing.”
“He went to juvie for attempting to shoplift a five-thousand-dollar necklace from a mall jewelry store,” Abe said, his mouth full of toast.
“Hey, that’s my breakfast!” I said.
“You drank all the coffee.”
“I’m making more,” I said, scooping whole beans into the grinder, fitting the cap in place, and turning it on.
“What even makes toast so good?” Em mused, leaning back against the counter. She held a piece in her hand and turned it over. “It’s just bread. Hot bread.”
“Hot Bread would be an excellent name for a band,” Abe pointed out.
“A five-thousand-dollar necklace. I don’t buy it. Mall jewelry stores don’t stock shit like that,” Em said.
I dumped the ground coffee beans into the French press and poured boiling water from the electric kettle over them. “Some of them do. The nicer ones.”
“Let me get dressed. I can come, right? Or is this a girl thing? Whatever, I’m coming.”
Abe went back upstairs, and Em and I ate toast standing up, not bothering with butter or jam, even though I’d put both on the counter already.
“So how was New York?” Em asked, trying not to sound that interested but pretty much failing.
“Do you mean ‘how was Sam?’”
“Oh, did he . . . I totally forgot. Did he go with you?”
“You’re funny. Yes, he went with me, and we had a really good time.”
“Like . . . a really good time?”
“If you’re asking whether we made out at the top of the Freedom Tower, the answer is no.”
“Bummer. That would have been romantic.”
“Nobody in the world likes making out as much as you do, I swear.”
“Well, it’s nice. It’s not my fault you’ve taken a vow of celibacy or whatever.”
“I haven’t taken a vow of anything. There’s just nobody at our school I can see myself making out with at the top of a tower. Or anywhere.”
“That’s fair. We do have some slim pickings.”
“I always figured I’d get to college and have more options.”
“But now you see a light at the end of the tunnel . . . And the light’s name is Sam. . . .”
“I didn’t say that either.”
“Okay, whatever. But you had fun?”
“I had a lot of fun, yeah. He’s easy to be around. It’s like you, in guy form, with less snarky comments.”
“Huh. And he lives in Mystic, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And we’re going to a record store in Groton?”
“Yeah.”
“Which is right next to Mystic . . .”
“You want to meet him?”
“Of course I want to meet him! I have to check out the guy who’s stolen your stone-cold heart.”
“He hasn’t stolen my . . . Okay. I’ll see if he’s around,” I said, pulling out my phone. I sent him a short text, and he wrote back right away: Definitely! Text me when you get here.
“What did he say?” Em asked.
“He said, ‘Is your drunk friend going to be there?’”
“He did not.”
“He did not. He said okay. I guess we’re hanging out.”
“Wow. And you went to New York with him. Wow. This is huge. You’re, like, getting married.”
I handed Em another piece of toast because she couldn’t talk with food in her mouth.
When Abe was dressed, we took the Thermoses of coffee and the remaining toast and got in my car. We drove with the windows down and the music up, and Abe and Em had a long conversation about the merits of vinyl versus digital and whether there was a point at all to preserving history like that and only when I got off the exit for Groton did I ask Abe if he knew where the store was. He directed me the rest of the way, and we took side streets to get to a little shack-like structure on a little street in the middle of nowhere. The small parking lot was crowded with cars and a faded sign on the building said Magic Grooves.
“This place looks interesting,” Em said.
“It looks like Championship Vinyl,” I said.
“Excellent reference. This place is famous,” Abe declared, getting out of the car. “People come from all around to get their albums here. They even do concerts in the back, record release parties. It’s the real deal.”
I texted Sam before I got out of the car:
We’re in Groton. Magic Grooves.
The inside of the store was dark and dusty and kind of perfect, exactly the sort of place I could imagine spending hours sorting through old musty records. I mean—I would have preferred if they were books. But still.