Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(40)
“Do you have money?” Lena asked, pushing up the street. She was always in a hurry.
“Yes,” Jenny said, racing to catch up.
“Super!”
Lena took Jenny to a record store with grainy fluorescent lighting and rows of plywood bins filled with alphabetized albums. Lena leafed through the music as if she were an archaeologist unearthing buried treasure: “Ohhhh! Look at this—this is super rare!” “The B-side is better than the A-side.” “Do you know Nina Hagen? Nina Hagen is SUPER!”
Lena banged her head and growled out a chorus in English. An older man in thick glasses stopped his own search to stare at her. Lena curtsied for him. He shook his head and moved on. “Probably listens only to jazz,” Lena whispered to Jenny. “Only on Sundays and never puts the volume above two.”
Lena stacked records in Jenny’s arms, bands with names like X-Ray Spex, Buzzcocks, the Stooges. By the time the cashier rang up her total, Jenny had spent a good chunk of her sweet sixteen money from her grandparents, which was supposed to be saved for college.
“You’re going to thank me for this later!” Lena yelled up at the open bus window. Jenny had boarded with her new record collection. “Never mind the bollocks, here’s DALLAS!”
Back in their apartment, Jenny heard her mother’s voice drifting out of the kitchen like stale perfume: “Helga, let’s serve the crab dip tonight and maybe the melon balls…”
Jenny tucked the new albums away in her closet. She pulled the record player out from under her bed and plugged it in, wiping away the layer of dust on the turntable. She slipped the Sex Pistols’ Never Mind the Bollocks over the spindle and dropped the needle into the groove, keeping the volume low. She lay on her bed looking through her just-developed Kreuzberg photos. The record growled and hissed, every lyric a rebellion: “I am an Anti-Christ! And I am an anarchist!” Her parents would be appalled, which made it that much more satisfying. She had secret music and secret friends and a secret life that was all hers.
On her desk was an airmail letter from her friend Heather. Eager for news from home, Jenny tore it open. The letter was written in purple ink. Some of the i’s were dotted with little flowers.
Dear Pippi Longstocking,
Clearly Heather did not know the difference between Sweden and Germany.
How is Berlin? Have you fallen in love with any foxy German boys yet? You have to take pictures of the good ones and send them to meeeee!!!! Things here are mostly boring with a capital “B.” Went to the North Park mall with Tina and we tossed our pennies in the fountain and made a wish. I’d tell ya but then it wouldn’t come true! (Hint: It might involve a certain senior with perfectly feathered hair.) What else? My mom is being a total freakazoid about the PSAT. Like I’m so sure my whole life hinges on getting a good score on some stupid test. On Saturday, we went to the movies and saw Friday the 13th. So bitchin’! I will never swim in a lake again, I can promise you that! There was a pool party at Marcy Morrison’s Saturday. Gossip alert! Bobby Benson made out with Kirsten Miller!!!!! Barf-a-rama!!! Like, I could never be drunk enough to take that boy’s tongue on my tongue. EWWWW!!!!
The letter was so utterly Heather-trivial. It made Jenny a little homesick.
Gossip alert #2! Somebody said they saw Richard Beverly walking around with another boy. They looked pretty cozy, if you know what I mean. They were in Oak Lawn, wink-wink!
Richard and Jenny had met on the first day of tenth grade in Mrs. Feldenhammer’s drama class. “The Hammer” had been teaching at their high school for fifty years and was “three cats beyond eccentric,” as Richard used to whisper. She called everyone her “sweet babies!” and liked to recite Shakespeare while dragging some poor unsuspecting sophomore around the room by the arm. Day two, it had been Jenny’s turn. As The Hammer recited Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy with Jenny’s arm clutched to her bosom, Jenny and Richard locked eyes. Richard pretended to attach wires to his chest and blow himself up to demonstrate her predicament. Jenny had laughed out loud and then had needed to pretend that she was so moved by The Hammer’s recitation that she’d had a strange response. It was the only good acting she did that semester. After that, she and Richard had become scene partners and best friends.
Richard had transferred from Chicago and was more sophisticated than most of their other classmates. He watched classic films and read books on Hitchcock. “One day, I’m going to Hollywood to become a director,” he’d told her over Dr Peppers and a shared bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos that stained their fingers a chemical orange. “You can be in all of my movies.”
“Do I have to say anything?”
“No. In fact, it’s probably best if you don’t.”
“Unsex me here!” Jenny emoted, falling into his arms. They stared at each other for a moment. If it had been a movie, Richard would have kissed her. Jenny would’ve swooned. None of that happened.
“I take it back,” Richard said, waving a Dorito under Jenny’s nose, which she ate with a giggle. “Where’s your damn Oscar?”
They’d gotten close to being honest with each other only one time. At the end of sophomore year, to celebrate Richard getting his driver’s license, they’d gone to see The Children’s Hour at the artsy movie theater in Oak Lawn, which everyone knew was the secret gay neighborhood in Dallas.