Page 100 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
I’m so focused on Ian that the clapping startles me. Nadine slides her arm into mine.
“Along with receiving the most entries ever,” says Mr. Barton, “we have an exciting bit of history. This year, for the first time ever, our winner comes from the sixth grade.”
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
“Yeah, folks,” says Mr. Barton. “That’s never happened.”
Up on the stage, realization spreads across Ian’s face. Just before he hears his name, his eyes find mine, and he smiles. He looks happier than he’s looked in a long, long time.
It’s comforting to be somewhere that hasn’t changed in…well, ever, I think.
Buildings get torn down and new ones appear. Jobs take you thousands of miles from the only place you’ve ever lived. People get sick and die. Planes fall from the sky. But a cluttered record shop in Baltimore remains a time capsule.
Brynn and I came to Charm City Rocks a few times over the years. We’d usually pop in either before or after seeing a movie a few blocks away in Harbor East. We’d flip through records, going deep into off-beat categories we knew nothing about, like ska and punk.
“Do you think we should get a record player?” she asked me the last time we were here.
“And, what, become vinyl people?” I asked.
She was hugging a New Kids on the Block record to her chest. “Why not?” she said. “We can be whoever we want.”
“Maybe someday,” I said, because we had all the time in the world.
I came down here a few minutes ago after saying goodbye to Regina and Win because I wasn’t ready to go home. We hugged, wished each other happy holidays. They told me again how good I looked. Win and I will start working in L.A. at the end of February. We’ll beback and forth as much as we need to be at first to deal with things like putting out fires here and staffing up out there. By March, though, the plan is for us to be there permanently. There’s nothing here for me anyway.
I haven’t seen Brynn since I dreamed her up after electrocuting myself and bashing my head in. If she were here now holding another boy band album, I wonder how she’d feel about all that. Would she be jealous that I’m going to the place she wanted to go—the place she died exploring? Would she be sad for me that Grace wants nothing to do with me? I guess I’ll never know. With regard to Grace, though, I tried.
There are some other customers milling about with coffees: a couple of loners like me, some college-age kids, too. I wander by a selection of turntables for sale. I know nothing about record players, but they look cool.
My phone finally vibrates, and I nearly drop it as I wrestle the thing out of my back pocket. It’s Ian, and he’s sent me a photo. When I tap the thumbnail, I see him and Bella standing together against a brick wall. Ian is holding his painting and a big blue ribbon.
Henry I wonnnn! Thank you for helping me!
“Hey, man. Are you okay?”
I look up from my phone. A bald guy who works here is holding a stack of records and looking at me, worried.
“What?”
“You’re crying,” he says.
I laugh, because I am. “Oh,” I say. “No. Yeah. I’m good.”
Love Actually
Christmas Eve
You’d think all this snow—nine inches and counting since Monday—would keep my family away, but no. Minus a few random cousins, everyone’s here, and my mom and dad’s house is packed.
My sister and Nick made it to Baltimore about an hour ago after suffering down I-95 all day. Nick said he stopped counting the cars off the road after seeing the twentieth, and now he’s drinking spiked eggnog like his insides are on fire. Ruth, who’s as warm as a space heater in a red sweater, is on the couch beside me, and I’m so happy she’s here. We’ve never lived in the same city as adults, so I’m used to not seeing her for long stretches, but whenever we’re together I default to missing her desperately in retrospect.
“Why are you hugging me so much, you groper?” she asks, and I tell her to shut up because admitting that I need my sister right now would be embarrassing.
Our mom’s Bose CD changer whirls and we wait.
“Who’s it gonna be, you think?” Ruth asks. “Jesus or Bublé?”
I guess Jesus, she guesses Bublé, but we’re both wrong: It’s Elvis.
