Page 38 of Fade into You
I’m perched on my stool near the cash register, being the record store gargoyle I am, as Dwayne changes out the LP. He waves the large square cardboard sleeve in my direction; I can make out what looks like an old class photo in sepia tones on the front, a banner emblazoned with the band name: the Butchies. He smiles, drops the needle. Fuzzy guitar burns out through the sound system, chord progressions and light drum sink in, then a deep female voice sings over it, leaning into a buzzy thrumming chord hit, the work speeding up, harmonizing with a lighter girlvoice. As always with Dwayne’s selections, the lyrics speak to me as they sing about high school girls falling in love.
Dwayne sits back down on his stool by the register, his long ponytail of locs waving back and forth with the movement. He looks proud of himself. “Got the new album soon as it released, Jessa, thought you might love it.”
I let out a comic groan. “Dwayne, you just want my moneyyyyy.”
He hands me the album, I look through the track list. He helped me find the Butchies last year. They’re a queercore girl band with two members of Team Dresch (also kick-ass feminist punk rockers), who kicked it off with an incredible solo album,Are We Not Femme?, and are back with a new release that’s sounding just as good.
“I just want you to feel represented, Jessa, no nasty capitalist approach here.” He smiles, and I smack his arm playfully.
“Dude, you own a record store, there is definitely some capitalist agenda here.”
“It’s called paying my bills,” he says, and pauses the conversation to ring up a purchase. Jane’s Addiction and Ween, not a bad combo.
“So, Jessa, how’s school?” He loves reminding me I’m still just short of adulthood.
“Blows.”
“Of course it does,” he says, and hands me a pricing gun and a stack of jewel cases. “But humor me, tell me one good thing about school.”
“Bird.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself. I swearsomeone else said that. Shocked, I wait for him to respond.
“There’s a bird at school?” He adjusts one of his snakebite piercings.
“It’s a girl, her name is Bird, and she’s helping me deal with the Kayla/Dade issue.”
“Ooh, a girl… Is she pretty?” Dwayne has a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s always encouraged me to be me, once I stopped just buying music from him and starting talking music and life. He’s kinda like a big brother in a lot of ways. We see each other at shows and he’s always a good guy to have around, he has great insight on the bands playing, plus he’s like six feet, fulla slim muscle, and can look like an absolute shit kicker if he needs to—so I feel safe around him, especially in gnarly crowds like the ill-fated ICP show we hit last July.
“Yeah, but she’s straight, far as I know. She’s kinda straightlaced—straightedge adjacent. Anyway, she’s Kayla’s friend, and we’re gonna break them up so life can finally get back to normal.”
“Isn’t that kinda shitty?” He’s still got a smile, but behind it is something else. Like he’s seeing me be stupid but isn’t ready to tell me I’m being stupid.
“They’re shitty foreach other. Dade has all but stopped hanging out with me. He’s like a walking sex-bot. It’s a good plan.”
“If you say… Tell me more about this Bird.” He grabs a PBR out of a mini-fridge and cracks it. Benefit of being the owner—he can drink on the job. I reach out my hand and he puts a Clearly Canadian in it. He never shares his beer, probably one of the reasons I trust him more than the other music-scene guys, who arealways offering me shots. I think they just want to get me drunk and into bed with another girl. Perverts.
I crack my clearly nonalcoholic refreshment. “Um, well, she’s in my class.”
“So not robbing the cradle, that’s good. She like music?”
“Actually, yeah,” I say, thinking of her Janis Ian CD, my burned copy already wearing itself out in my Discman. “She’s into like, older stuff, but good older stuff. She introduced me to this artist from the seventies, Janis Ian. She’s a Bob Dylan fan too.”
“Can’t hate her for that,” he says.
I start thinking about her, wondering if she really is straight… or straightedge. I can’t really hate her for anything. Even being related by parental marriage to the horrific Olivia Fucking Rubens, who single-handedly coined the term “jessbian” for school-wide use. Who discovered the proper trajectory for a tossed tot to land ketchup in my hair. Who told the world I was queer long before I understood it myself. OliviaFuckingRubens: my archnemesis. That’s not Bird’s fault, but I almost blamed her for it the other night.
Actually, Bird and I are more than good. Once we got past the first uncomfortable stage of frenemy and got on board with the plan, I think I’ve started to like her kindness, the genuinely sweet way she sees and interacts with the world, how her soft-spoken humor can crack me up without making me feel bad. Damn, I am so screwed.
I actually like her.
“Earth to J!” Dwayne is smiling big, and I realize I’ve gone off into a daydream. “Thinking about Birds?”
I elbow him and then blush full-on, seriously face-sweat blush, as I realize the two NIN girls are walking to the register and they’re the girls from our journalism class who like to give Bird the stink eye. Paige and Bri, I think… Last thing I need is them tattling on me to anyone and word getting out I like Bird. The last time I had a crush made public (thanks again, Olivia Fucking Rubens), I got so iced out by the girls at school, they all ended up changing for gym in the bathroom stalls and I had to make friends with boys instead. Enter Dade.
“Look, it’s a temporary alliance, nothing more,” I tell Dwayne.
“Well, Jessa, if she’s making school tolerable, maybe you might wanna consider the friendship and forget the breakup. Just my advice.” He raises his hands up as if to fend off an attack. I stick a pricing label on his arm and he retreats toward the register.
The girls are, of course, buying the NIN disc as well as a copy of—blergh—theTitanicsoundtrack. Major gross-out.
