I waited until the three of them had gone around the side of the building, and then I pulled the next letter from Aunt Helen out of my purse.
Lottie, The first concert I ever went to was when I was in high school. The concert was in Boston; the band was Chicago. I went with your father; we snuck out of the house and drove the whole way and then drove back with our ears ringing (this is before they really knew about sound damage; sick now to think that ringing sound was irreparable damage to our eardrums, but you live and you learn and then you get earplugs). The concert itself was memorable, I think, only because it was our first. Because the venue was so massive and swallowed up more people than I had ever before imagined fitting into one place. Because we had done something incredibly devious, my brother and I, by sneaking out of the house, by driving all that way by ourselves, by parking in a parking spot that might possibly have been a tow-away zone (it ended up being fine, but we contemplated the possibility of hitchhiking home that night). The concert itself, the actual music and the words delivered to us, I honestly can’t recall. I just remember the overwhelmingness of it all: it was one of those massive moments in my life that you know you are going to remember forever, but not for any of the obvious reasons.
And then, afterward, your father stood up and patted his jeans pocket to check for his keys and realized they weren’t there. So in a very funny turn of events we got down on our hands and knees to search for them while the rest of the audience filed out. And then eventually the lights came on and finally the band themselves came out onto the stage and asked us if we needed help. And so imagine us, just kids, with the members of Chicago searching around the seats for the keys to a car that might not even be there, might be impounded or stolen or just vanished into the night. But it WAS there, and we found the keys, and everything ended up being just fine. Better than fine, obviously, because your father and I talked about that night many times over the course of our lives and almost constantly in the weeks that followed (it helped to remember it when we were both grounded for two months afterward).
It’s memories and nights like that one that I keep coming back to, over and over again. I think that is normal, to try to insert yourself back into old spaces, to try to trick your body into believing you’re actually there again. Except it never quite works the way I want it to—but almost. Some nights when I put the right music on and open the windows and light a candle or two—some nights I can imagine I am in high school again or living in your father’s garage or running after an immortal boy. Sometimes I can imagine I am anywhere or anyone I want to be.
It’s been a great comfort, these past few months: music. I want to share that with you, Lottie. Listen to music. I mean listen. Really, really listen. And see where it brings you.
My favorite song is called “Time in a Bottle.” Jim Croce. If you haven’t left Magic Grooves yet, go ahead and buy yourself a copy.
Love, H.
“Time in a Bottle”? I didn’t think I’d ever heard it.
I folded up her letter carefully and put it back into my purse. I walked around the side of the building and found the others by the car.
“Give me a second, okay? I think there’s something I want to get,” I said and headed back into Magic Grooves.
Leonard’s girlfriend had brought him lunch, and they were eating it behind the counter. I found the record quickly—You Don’t Mess Around with Jim—and brought it to the front.
“Your aunt played us this song in class,” Leonard said, turning the album over in his hand. Then, when he saw my wallet, “No, no, no, no—this one is on me. Consider it an overdue book fee.”
“Really? Thanks! Hey—do you know anywhere I could get a record player?”
“Sure thing! I know a great spot,” he said, and wrote out a few directions on the back of a napkin. “Come back soon.”
I took the napkin from him and thanked him again. Outside, Sam and Em and Abe were leaning against the car and looking through their purchases.
“Come on,” I said, hopping in the driver’s seat. “We have another stop to make.”
It was a rainy and gloomy sort of day: Margo’s favorite kind. She took the long way home from school, not bothering with an umbrella, letting herself get absolutely drenched.
You’re going to catch your death of a cold! her mother would have said, if she had seen her daughter’s present condition.
But the joke would have been on her. Margo couldn’t catch colds anymore.
Not that they’d actually told their parents of their new immortal status. No, it was still a secret that Alvin and Margo shared. That was why Alvin had been able to stay home from school that day; “I don’t feel good” was still an excuse that held water with their parents.
But Margo didn’t mind being alone.
She had her headphones, her music.
She had the wonderfully chilly rain.
And she had—all of a sudden—the distinct sense that she was being followed.
—from Alvin Hatter and the Overcoat Man
12
Sam left his bike in the Magic Grooves parking lot and helped me decipher Leonard’s directions as Abe and Em carried on a loud, heated conversation in the backseat about what would have happened if John Bonham hadn’t died all those years ago.
“The entire trajectory of music history would have been changed,” Abe said.
“You cannot possibly maintain such a high level of substance abuse and still remain productive,” Em argued. “They would have broken up anyway. Maybe they would have released one more album, but . . .”
“Even one more album and the entire trajectory of music history would have been changed!” Abe said.
“You just keep saying the same thing over and over,” Em pointed out.
“It’s a pretty good thing. I’m sticking with it for now.”
After just a few minutes of driving, Sam motioned me over to the side of the road and I parked. We must have gone closer to the ocean; I could hear the crashing of waves even though I couldn’t see the shore. It took me a minute to see the little store, which was nestled against a thin wooded area. A sign out front said Thrift Sto. The last two letters were faded and unreadable. It was one of the tiniest buildings I’d ever seen, and it was completely surrounded by things for sale: picnic tables and washing machines and doghouses and tool chests and road signs and water-damaged dollhouses. We filed out of the car, and I picked my way between a plastic rocking horse and an oversized garden gnome and slipped through the front doors.
The building was almost certainly bigger on the inside.
“TARDIS,” Abe whispered, nudging me excitedly in the side. The building stretched on for an impossible amount of space, and it was filled with more junk than I’d ever seen in one place.
“What’s a TARDIS?” Em asked.
“The Police Box,” I said.
“Oh. Good reference.”
She and Abe drifted away, and Sam asked me what I was looking for.
“A record player.”
“Another letter?”