Friday Might Work

Shira had been inside the fair for four minutes when she realized, with some irritation, that she was having a good time.

This was unacceptable.

The building had once been a furniture warehouse and still looked faintly prepared to resume that function at any moment. High windows ran along one brick wall. Steel beams crossed the ceiling. Folding tables had been arranged in long rows beneath hanging signs marked VINYL, AUDIO, CAMERAS, GAMES, and, for reasons no one had explained, MISC. FORMAT.

The air smelled like coffee, old cardboard, warm electronics, and the particular dusty sweetness of record sleeves that had spent several decades in basements.

From somewhere near the entrance, a stereo was playing New Order.

From somewhere else, somebody was testing a cassette deck with what sounded like Steely Dan.

A third booth was playing ska at a volume that suggested a personal grievance.

Shira adjusted the strap of her bag and kept walking.

“This is amazing,” Sumi said.

Shira looked at her.

“You've been here three minutes.”

“I know.”

Sumi was standing in front of a table containing portable radios, alarm clocks, a translucent purple telephone, and several appliances whose purposes had apparently been forgotten by history.

She picked up a squat orange object with a cord.

“What is this?”

Freya glanced over.

“Fondue pot.”

Sumi stared at it.

“You can have a machine just for fondue?”

“You can have a machine for almost anything.”

“That seems dangerous.”

Shira kept moving.

“You own an appliance that turns vegetables into noodles.”

“That is different.”

“It is exactly the same.”

“It has blades.”

“That makes it worse.”

Freya had already stopped at another table.

Shira saw the change in her posture.

“No.”

Freya looked up.

“What?”

“You found numbers.”

“There are prices.”

“You found a system.”

Freya held up a yellow Sony Walkman with a cracked belt clip.

“This sold for ninety dollars.”

“So?”

“In 1998 it was thirty-nine.”

Shira looked at her.

“You're calculating inflation on a Walkman.”

“I'm establishing whether this is irrational.”

“It's a record fair.”

“Exactly.”

Sumi had moved on to a cream-colored hand mixer with chrome beaters.

“This is beautiful.”

“It is a mixer,” Shira said.

“They don't make them like this anymore.”

“They make mixers.”

“Not like this.”

Freya turned the Walkman over.

“Depending on condition, some of these have appreciated faster than cash.”

Shira stared at both of them.

“This is why I don't bring you places.”

“You brought us here,” Sumi said.

Shira stopped.

That was true.

She disliked the way truth occasionally behaved.

Six weeks earlier, she had seen the advertisement taped to the window of a record store downtown.

MID-ATLANTIC VINTAGE MEDIA FAIR

VINYL · CASSETTE · CD · HI-FI · RETRO ELECTRONICS · CAMERAS · GAMES

She had taken a picture of it.

Then deleted the picture.

Then gone back and taken another picture because the first had been crooked.

That evening, she had mentioned the fair to Sumi and Freya in what she considered an appropriately casual manner.

Sumi had immediately said yes.

Freya had asked whether there would be vendors specializing in refurbished electronics.

Shira had said she did not know.

Freya had attended anyway.

Now Shira had two hours before the afternoon crowd and one objective.

A first pressing was unrealistic.

A reasonably priced copy was not.

She had been looking for The Art of Drowning on vinyl for almost a year.

Not online.

Online did not count.

Online was searching a database.

This was hunting.

She moved toward the record tables.

Behind her, Sumi called, “If I buy the mixer, will you carry it?”

“No.”

“What if it's heavy?”

“Especially no.”

Freya said something about comparable listings.

Shira walked faster.

---

The first dealer had AFI.

Unfortunately, he knew it.

The record was sealed in a plastic sleeve behind the table with a handwritten price card that made Shira briefly reconsider property crime.

She stared at it.

The dealer looked up from his phone.

“That's an original.”

“I can see that.”

“Hard to find.”

“I can also see that.”

He named the price aloud, perhaps in case she had suffered temporary blindness.

Shira put the record down.

“Thank you.”

“You won't see another one today.”

“I'll try to survive.”

She moved on.

The next table had two copies of Sing the Sorrow, one Decemberunderground, and a badly warped Black Sails in the Sunset.

She checked all four anyway.

Then she drifted through another aisle.

There were crates of seven-inch singles, boxes of CDs arranged alphabetically, old VHS tapes, reel-to-reel machines, blank cassettes still wrapped in plastic, turntables with wooden plinths, receivers with silver faces and enormous tuning dials.

A man in a denim vest was explaining to someone why a particular pressing of a Fleetwood Mac album sounded better because of the lacquer.

Shira understood approximately forty percent of this and believed seventy percent.

She paused at a table of portable audio players.

MiniDisc.

Discman.

Walkman.

A blue iPod Mini with a dead screen.

A first-generation iPod behind glass.

She leaned closer.

It was beautiful in the same way old industrial objects sometimes were beautiful: not because anyone had tried particularly hard, but because the thing had been designed before every surface needed to beg for attention.

Then she saw the open iPod.

It was three tables down.

Silver back.

White face.

Fifth generation, probably.

The front panel had been removed and set on a folded cloth.

A man was bent over the exposed internals with a plastic spudger in one hand.

Shira stopped.

He was perhaps thirty.

Dark brown hair that had been cut recently enough to behave but not recently enough to look deliberate. Gray T-shirt. Black jeans. No vintage-store costume. No ironic mustache. No visible attempt to resemble a person who repaired old electronics.

The booth itself belonged to a local audio shop, judging by the banner hanging behind him.

NORTHLINE AUDIO & REPAIR

Receivers, cassette decks, headphones, and several portable players occupied the table.

An older man at the other end was talking to a customer about amplifier capacitors.

The younger man lifted the old hard drive from the iPod.

Shira took one step closer.

A small adapter board sat beside him.

CompactFlash-sized.

No.

SD.

She stood there.

He kept working.

She could leave.

That would be normal.

She had no reason to speak to him.

She was not having a problem with her own iPod.

Nothing required intervention.

He reached for the adapter.

Shira heard herself say:

“Flash conversion?”

He looked up.

“Yeah.”

His expression changed slightly, not with surprise exactly, but recognition.

“Dual microSD.”

Shira stepped closer.

“How much storage?”

“Two-fifty-six right now. It'll take more, but I don't trust the battery enough to make that useful.”

He lifted the battery gently with the spudger.

“Original?”

“Original.”

“That should be illegal.”

He smiled.

“I'm replacing it.”

“Good.”

He looked at her bag.

“You have one?”

Shira hesitated.

Then opened the front pocket and took out her iPod.

Silver Classic.

Scratched back.

Click wheel polished smooth around the edges.

He looked at it for perhaps half a second longer than politeness required.

“That's actually yours.”

Shira looked at him.

“What does that mean?”

“Most people who bring one over here bought it last week.”

She looked down at the iPod.

“I've had it since high school.”

“Original drive?”

“Yes.”

He winced.

“That should also be illegal.”

“It still works.”

“For now.”

“You're very negative.”

“You approached a repair table.”

“That isn't an answer.”

He smiled again.

Shira disliked that she had noticed.

He held out a hand slightly.

“Can I?”

She gave him the iPod.

He turned it over carefully.

No performative reverence.

No comment about how retro it was.

He pressed the center button.

The screen came alive.

He scrolled once.

“Battery's holding?”

“About four hours.”

“That's impressive.”

“It used to be more.”

“Everything used to be more.”

Shira looked at him.

“That sounded like something I would say.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't be.”

He handed the iPod back.

“If the drive starts clicking, stop using it.”

“It already clicks sometimes.”

His eyebrows rose.

“That was the part where you were supposed to say no.”

“I don't lie to technicians.”

“Good policy.”

“I don't know if you're a technician.”

He pointed toward the banner.

“Eli.”

Shira looked at the banner.

Then at him.

“Is that your job title?”

“No.”

“Then we're still missing information.”

He laughed.

Not loudly.

That helped.

“I help here on weekends sometimes. Friend owns the shop.”

He nodded toward the older man.

“Mostly I do electronics repair for a theater.”

Shira looked at the open iPod again.

“And this?”

“Because I like these.”

That answer pleased her more than it should have.

Not:

Because people pay me.

Not:

They're coming back.

Just because.

Eli replaced the battery, tucked the cable into place, then paused.

“What do you keep on yours?”

“Music.”

“I was worried it might be spreadsheets.”

“Freya probably has spreadsheets on an iPod somewhere.”

“Freya?”

“My friend.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Yes.”

He nodded solemnly.

“Okay.”

Shira almost smiled.

He fitted the flash adapter into the frame.

“What kind of music?”

She looked down the aisle.

Sumi was nowhere visible.

Freya was also gone.

Good.

“Mostly AFI.”

Eli looked up.

“Which era?”

Shira looked back at him.

There were questions that revealed nothing.

There were questions that revealed competence.

This was the second kind.

“Mostly The Art of Drowning through Decemberunderground.”

He nodded.

“Reasonable.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Reasonable?”

“You want me to object?”

“You sounded like you were grading it.”

“I wasn't.”

“You said reasonable.”

“I meant good.”

“That is not what reasonable means.”

“Fair.”

He pressed the connector into place.

“Favorite?”

Shira considered.

“The Art of Drowning.”

He looked up again.

“Over Sing the Sorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You said interesting.”

“It is interesting.”

“That's worse.”

He laughed.

“I think Sing the Sorrow is their best record.”

“That's the obvious answer.”

“Obvious answers can still be right.”

Shira folded her arms.

“I didn't say it wasn't good.”

“You're defending yourself before I've attacked you.”

“You were about to.”

“I was installing an SD card.”

“You were doing both.”

He stopped working for a moment.

“Okay. Why The Art of Drowning?”

Shira had an answer.

Unfortunately, she had several.

She looked at the iPod on the table.

“It still sounds like they're becoming something.”

Eli waited.

That was irritating too.

Most people filled silence.

He didn't.

Shira continued.

“Sing the Sorrow knows exactly what it is.”

“That sounds like praise.”

“It is.”

“Mostly?”

She looked at him.

“Yes.”

He smiled slightly.

“And The Art of Drowning doesn't?”

“Not in the same way.”

She tried to decide whether she wanted to explain this to a stranger.

Apparently she did.

“You can hear pieces of what they were before, but they're moving away from it. It doesn't feel completely resolved yet.”

“That's why you like it?”

“Partly.”

“Because it's unresolved.”

“I didn't say unresolved was always better.”

“You implied it.”

“I implied you were predictable.”

“That too.”

Shira noticed she was leaning against the table.

She straightened.

Eli picked up the iPod's front panel.

“I like transitional records.”

“Then why are you arguing with me?”

“Because Sing the Sorrow is better.”

“That isn't an argument.”

“It's concise.”

“It's wrong.”

“Still concise.”

Shira laughed.

It happened quickly enough that she could pretend it hadn't.

Eli did not point it out.

That helped more than it should have.

He snapped the front panel loosely into place to test the fit.

“What about Thursday?”

Shira paused.

“What about them?”

“Do you listen to them?”

“Yes.”

“That's a suspicious answer.”

“I listen to lots of things.”

“Which means no.”

“It means I know Full Collapse.”

“That's something.”

“And War All the Time.”

“Better.”

“You're grading me again.”

“I thought we'd established that.”

“No. You denied it.”

“Right.”

He turned the iPod over and pressed the center button.

The screen came alive.

“Thursday's probably closer to my actual center of gravity.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It can be.”

“Do you own any cheerful records?”

“A few.”

“Name one.”

He thought.

Shira waited.

“This is taking too long.”

“I'm trying to define cheerful.”

“That is exactly the problem.”

“Okay. The Get Up Kids.”

She stared at him.

“That was your answer?”

“They're cheerful relative to Thursday.”

“Burial is cheerful relative to Thursday.”

“That's unfair.”

“It isn't.”

He laughed again.

Someone approached the booth carrying a cassette deck.

Eli glanced toward the older man, who was already occupied.

“Give me one second.”

Shira nodded.

He took the deck, answered a question about a broken eject mechanism, and pointed the customer toward a form on the end of the table.

Shira looked around.

She could leave now.

The conversation had reached a natural interruption.

She had records to find.

There was no reason to remain standing there.

She stayed.

Eli returned.

“Sorry.”

“You're working.”

“Technically.”

“Dangerous word.”

“You know, there's a place downtown that does listening nights.”

Shira looked at him.

“Why?”

“For listening.”

“I understand the noun.”

He smiled.

“Independent record store. Mercer Street.”

“I know it.”

“They stay open late every few Fridays and pick a theme. Next week is early-2000s emo and post-hardcore.”

“That sounds hostile.”

“It mostly is.”

“Do people argue?”

“Constantly.”

“About music?”

“Mostly.”

“That makes it slightly better.”

“They're doing Full Collapse, Relationship of Command, some Saves the Day, probably Jimmy Eat World.”

“No AFI?”

“I think Sing the Sorrow is on the list.”

Shira frowned.

“Of course it is.”

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“You're angry that people like a record you like.”

“I am not angry.”

“You called it the obvious answer.”

“Because it is.”

“Which doesn't make it wrong.”

“You've already used that defense.”

“It's still valid.”

Shira was about to answer when a voice appeared directly beside her.

“OH.”

Shira closed her eyes.

She knew that vowel.

She turned.

Sumi stood three feet away holding a cream-colored hand mixer in one hand and a paper cup of coffee in the other.

Her eyes moved from Shira to Eli.

Then to the open iPod.

Then back to Shira.

Her expression became radiant.

Shira felt something inside her die.

“Sumi.”

“You found an iPod person.”

“He was already here.”

“I know.”

“That sentence did not require enthusiasm.”

Sumi stepped closer.

“Hi.”

Eli looked at Shira.

Then at Sumi.

“Hi.”

“I'm Sumi.”

“Eli.”

“I know.”

Shira looked at her.

“How?”

Sumi pointed at the repair form.

His name was printed at the bottom.

“Oh.”

She smiled brightly.

“That would have been creepy otherwise.”

“Yes,” Shira said.

Sumi set the mixer carefully on the edge of the table.

“Do you fix these too?”

Eli looked at it.

“No.”

“Do you know anyone who does?”

“No.”

“Would you like to?”

“Sumi.”

“What?”

“Stop recruiting him.”

“For appliance repair?”

“For anything.”

Sumi looked at Shira.

Then at Eli.

Then back at Shira.

Shira watched understanding arrive.

It was visible.

That was the problem.

Sumi's smile changed.

Only slightly.

Shira hated her immediately.

Eli looked down at the iPod and adjusted the case.

Sumi said, with unbearable casualness:

“So what music were you talking about?”

“No music.”

Eli glanced up.

“AFI.”

Shira stared at him.

He looked genuinely confused.

Sumi's face brightened.

“You like AFI?”

“He knows AFI.”

“That counts.”

“It does not.”

Eli said, “I thought it counted.”

“Don't encourage her.”

Sumi took a sip of coffee.

“Shira loves AFI.”

Shira looked at her.

“Sumi.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“I literally just said something true.”

“That has never stopped you before.”

Sumi smiled.

Shira became aware that Eli was watching her.

Not staring.

Not judging.

Simply present.

Five minutes ago, that had been fine.

Now every movement of her hands seemed to require authorization.

She put them in her pockets.

Sumi looked toward the iPod.

“Is that yours?”

“No.”

“Are you fixing it?”

“Yes.”

“For fun?”

“Partly.”

Sumi nodded.

“That makes sense.”

Shira frowned.

“It does?”

“Sure. You cook for fun.”

“I don't repair electronics.”

“Exactly.”

“That does not explain anything.”

Sumi looked delighted with herself.

Then she glanced over Shira's shoulder.

“Oh, Freya's coming.”

Shira turned.

Freya was indeed coming.

She carried nothing.

This was worse.

Freya only approached empty-handed when she had decided to concentrate.

Shira looked back at Eli.

“I apologize in advance.”

“For what?”

“You'll know.”

Freya reached the booth.

Her eyes took in the open iPod, the repair tools, Eli, Sumi's mixer, and Shira.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Eli said.

“Freya.”

“Eli.”

She looked at the banner behind him.

“Do you work for Northline?”

Shira closed her eyes.

And there it was.

“Sometimes,” Eli said. “My friend owns it.”

Freya looked toward the older man at the other end of the booth.

“The repair shop or the booth?”

“Both.”

“How long have they been open?”

Shira opened her eyes.

“Freya.”

“What?”

“You have been here eight seconds.”

“I’m making conversation.”

“No, you're assembling a file.”

Eli looked between them.

Sumi took another sip of coffee.

Freya ignored both of them.

“Do you mostly repair audio equipment?”

“Mostly.”

“Vintage only?”

“No. Whatever comes in.”

“What’s the oldest thing you've worked on?”

Eli thought.

“Tube amplifier from the fifties.”

Freya nodded.

“And newest?”

“Bluetooth speaker from last Tuesday.”

“Which was harder?”

“The Bluetooth speaker.”

Freya looked pleased.

“Why?”

“Everything was glued together.”

“That seems inefficient.”

“It was extremely efficient if the goal was making sure nobody repaired it.”

Freya nodded again.

Shira hated that this answer had earned points.

Sumi leaned toward her.

“She likes him.”

Shira stared at her.

“Please stop speaking.”

Freya looked at the open iPod.

“You do these often?”

“Enough.”

“What's the margin?”

Shira turned toward her.

“No.”

Freya frowned.

“I mean on the repair.”

“I know what you mean.”

Eli laughed softly.

“Depends on the parts.”

“Do you source the batteries yourselves?”

“Mostly.”

“Domestic supplier?”

“Freya.”

“What?”

“This is not a vendor audit.”

“I was curious.”

“You are never curious. You are assessing.”

“That is a form of curiosity.”

“It is not.”

Sumi looked at Eli.

“She does this.”

“I gathered.”

“She once made a spreadsheet to decide where we should get brunch.”

“There were twelve options.”

“There were six.”

“There were twelve menu configurations.”

“That does not help.”

Freya looked at the mixer.

“Did you buy that?”

Sumi brightened.

“Yes.”

“You don't know if it works.”

“It probably works.”

“That isn't a test result.”

“It feels trustworthy.”

“The cord is frayed.”

Sumi looked down.

“Oh.”

Eli leaned slightly across the table.

“Don't plug that in.”

Sumi looked at him.

“Why?”

“The insulation is splitting near the base.”

She rotated the mixer.

“Oh.”

“You can replace the cord.”

“Can you?”

“Yes.”

Sumi smiled.

Shira saw it happen.

“No.”

Sumi looked at her.

“What?”

“You're not asking him to repair your mixer.”

“I wasn't.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to ask if he knew what kind of cord.”

“That is how it begins.”

Eli said, “It's probably eighteen-gauge appliance cord.”

Sumi looked delighted.

Shira pointed at him.

“You are also part of the problem now.”

“Sorry.”

“You don't sound sorry.”

“I'm medium sorry.”

Sumi gasped.

Shira turned toward her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was not nothing.”

“I just think you two have similar—”

“No.”

“I didn't finish.”

“You were going to.”

“I could have been talking about heights.”

“You weren't.”

“Hair.”

“No.”

“General respiratory function.”

“Sumi.”

Sumi bit the inside of her cheek.

Freya looked at Eli.

“Do you have a website?”

Shira made a sound.

It was not a word.

Freya turned.

“What?”

“Why do you need his website?”

“I don't need it.”

“You asked for it.”

“I was curious about the shop.”

“The shop is on the banner.”

“That is a name, not a website.”

“Use a search engine.”

“I prefer primary sources.”

Shira stared at her.

Eli said, “Northlineaudio.com.”

Freya nodded.

“Thanks.”

Shira turned slowly toward him.

“You did not have to answer that.”

“I know.”

“She's going to look.”

“I assumed.”

Freya had already taken out her phone.

Sumi watched her.

“Are you actually looking?”

“No.”

“You are typing.”

“I remembered something.”

“What?”

“The website.”

“That was three seconds ago.”

“I have good recall.”

Shira looked at Eli.

“I need you to understand that I am not responsible for either of them.”

“I wasn't going to hold you liable.”

“Good.”

Freya looked up from her phone.

“The reviews are excellent.”

Shira closed her eyes again.

Sumi started laughing.

“This isn't funny.”

“It is a little.”

“She's conducting due diligence.”

Freya put the phone away.

“I checked a business.”

“You checked his business.”

“It isn't his business.”

“That somehow makes it worse.”

“I wanted to know whether the shop was legitimate.”

Eli leaned against the table.

“Did we pass?”

Freya looked at him.

“Yes.”

Shira's eyes opened.

“Do not encourage her.”

“I was curious.”

“That word has lost all legal meaning today.”

Sumi touched Shira's arm.

“You're very tense.”

“I wonder why.”

“You were having fun before.”

Shira looked at her.

Sumi realized this was not useful.

“I mean—”

“Don't.”

“Okay.”

For a few seconds, nobody spoke.

The fair moved around them.

A record dropped somewhere nearby with a flat cardboard slap.

Someone tested a pair of speakers with a burst of guitar.

The PA system crackled overhead.

Vendors are reminded that the loading dock will close at five-thirty. Five-thirty.

Eli looked toward Shira.

“So.”

Shira waited.

He nodded toward her iPod.

“If the drive's already clicking, I'd back it up sooner rather than later.”

“I have backups.”

“Good.”

“Three.”

“That's aggressive.”

“Two are local.”

“That explains nothing.”

“One is off-site.”

Freya turned toward her.

“You have an off-site music backup?”

Shira looked at her.

“You don't?”

Freya paused.

“No.”

Sumi put a hand to her chest.

“This is the happiest day of my life.”

“Why?”

“Because Shira finally out-Freya'd Freya.”

“That is not a thing.”

“It just happened.”

Freya looked faintly offended.

“It's good practice.”

Shira nodded.

“Thank you.”

Freya recovered.

“You should still replace the drive.”

Shira turned away.

“I preferred you when you were investigating Eli.”

Sumi made another small sound.

Shira pointed at her without looking.

“No.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You are thinking loudly.”

Eli smiled.

Shira hated the entire room.

She also became aware, with increasing horror, that the conversation with him was no longer the same.

Before Sumi and Freya arrived, she had simply been talking.

Now every sentence seemed to pass through a second room first.

A room containing Sumi's face.

Freya's questions.

The knowledge that both of them had noticed.

She could feel herself monitoring things she had not been monitoring ten minutes earlier.

How long she looked at Eli.

Whether she smiled.

Where her hands were.

Whether she sounded too interested.

Whether not sounding interested would sound more interested.

She put one hand on her bag.

This was getting ridiculous.

Eli looked toward the aisle.

“Oh, right.”

Shira looked at him.

“That listening night I mentioned.”

Her stomach tightened.

“Yeah.”

“It starts at seven, I think. I'll check.”

He reached for his phone.

Sumi said:

“Shira should go.”

Silence.

It lasted perhaps one second.

It did not need longer.

Shira looked at Sumi.

Sumi's expression changed immediately.

Not because she had said something absurd.

Because she had said something true.

Freya looked at Shira.

Eli looked at Shira.

Everyone was now looking at Shira.

The whole fair seemed to become extraordinarily well lit.

Sumi lowered her coffee.

“I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

Shira's voice sounded flat.

Too flat.

She could hear it.

That made it worse.

Eli put his phone down.

“No pressure. It's just a thing they do.”

“I know.”

“You don't have to—”

“I know.”

Shira looked toward the record aisles.

“I was looking for something.”

Sumi said, softly:

“Shira.”

“I'll be back.”

She did not know if that was true.

She walked away.

---

The first record Shira picked up was by Kenny Loggins.

She stared at it.

Then put it back.

This was not a promising sign.

She moved to the next crate.

L.

M.

N.

She had entered somewhere in the middle of the alphabet and was now pretending this had been intentional.

Behind her, the fair continued behaving normally.

People talked.

Records slid against one another.

Somebody laughed.

Someone negotiated loudly over a synthesizer.

Nothing had happened.

This was important.

Nothing had happened.

Sumi had said she should go to an event.

Freya had asked irritating questions.

Eli had stood there.

That was all.

No one had humiliated her.

No one had rejected her.

No one had announced anything.

She pulled out a New Order record.

Already owned it.

Put it back.

The problem was that Sumi had noticed.

That was stupid.

Of course Sumi had noticed.

Sumi noticed when strangers changed shampoos.

Freya had noticed too.

Also stupid.

Freya noticed changes in walking pace.

Neither of these facts mattered.

Shira moved to the next crate.

A handwritten divider read:

PUNK / EMO / HARDCORE

Better.

She began flipping.

Against Me!

Alkaline Trio.

At the Drive-In.

Bad Religion.

Brand New.

She skipped faster.

Her heart was still beating too hard.

This was absurd.

She had been having a conversation.

People did that constantly.

Sometimes voluntarily.

She had even done it before.

She stopped.

That was not exactly the problem.

The problem was that the conversation had been easy.

Too easy.

She had not needed Sumi to drag words out of her.

She had not spent half the time deciding whether she sounded strange.

Eli had asked questions she actually wanted to answer.

He had disagreed with her without turning the disagreement into a contest.

He had left silences alone.

He knew what she meant by a clicking hard drive.

He knew AFI well enough to have the wrong favorite album.

Shira pulled out a Descendents record.

Put it back.

She felt angry.

That was preferable.

Sumi had ruined it.

Freya had made it worse.

The whole interaction had become visible when it had not needed to be visible.

Shira had been perfectly capable of handling it until they arrived.

She reached the F section.

Nothing.

Then the A section.

She slowed.

AFI.

Two records.

Decemberunderground.

And behind it:

The Art of Drowning.

Shira stopped.

She pulled it free.

Not an original.

Later pressing.

Black vinyl.

Good condition.

Price written on a small white sticker in the corner.

Reasonable.

Actually reasonable.

She turned it over.

The sleeve had a small crease near the bottom edge.

Nothing serious.

She had been looking for this exact kind of copy for months.

Not collectible enough to feel ridiculous.

Not damaged enough to annoy her.

She should have been pleased.

She was pleased.

Technically.

Shira held the record against her chest.

There.

Objective completed.

She had come for this.

She could buy it.

Find Sumi and Freya.

Go home.

Put it on.

Turn off her phone.

Allow the day to become ordinary again.

Nothing required anything else.

The thought produced an unexpected ache.

Shira looked down at the cover.

“Stupid.”

A man beside her glanced over.

She looked at him.

“Not you.”

He nodded and moved away.

Good.

She walked toward the cashier.

Halfway there, she stopped.

What would happen if she left?

Nothing.

That was the attraction.

She would go home.

Sumi would apologize too many times.

Freya would probably apologize once and then provide an itemized explanation.

Shira would tell them both it was fine.

Eventually it would be fine.

Eli would remain a stranger she had spoken to at a fair.

Possibly a stranger she might see again someday.

Probably not.

She would remember the conversation for an unreasonable amount of time.

She knew this already.

She would replay it while walking.

While showering.

While trying to sleep.

She would remember the exact moment Sumi arrived and construct six alternate responses.

Three weeks from now, she would suddenly think of something she should have said about Sing the Sorrow and become angry in a grocery store.

This future was vivid enough to be irritating.

Shira looked back toward the repair aisle.

Then immediately looked away.

No.

She was not going back.

That would be humiliating.

Why?

She did not have an answer.

Because he would know she wanted to continue talking.

There.

That was the answer.

Shira hated it.

She held the record tighter.

She could tolerate other people knowing almost anything about her more easily than she could tolerate them knowing she wanted something.

Wanting created leverage.

Wanting created disappointment.

Wanting made you visible before anything had even happened.

She stared at the floor.

A woman pushed a cart past her containing six boxes of records and a lamp.

Shira stepped aside.

The lamp had no shade.

She watched it disappear into the crowd.

“This is ridiculous,” she whispered.

Nobody disagreed.

---

Back at Northline Audio, Sumi had not moved.

Eli had returned to the iPod.

Freya stood beside Sumi with her arms folded.

For once, neither of them was speaking.

Eli pressed the click wheel.

The screen lit.

“Okay,” he said. “That's alive.”

Sumi nodded.

She had no idea what he meant.

Eli looked toward the aisle where Shira had disappeared.

“Did I say something?”

“No,” Sumi said immediately.

Then:

“No.”

Freya looked at her.

Sumi stared at the floor.

“You didn't.”

Eli nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

He did not ask anything else.

That somehow made Sumi feel worse.

Freya said quietly:

“She gets overwhelmed.”

Sumi looked at her.

“I know.”

“She'll come back.”

Sumi looked toward the records.

Maybe.

Freya continued.

“She didn't seem upset with him.”

“That isn't the point.”

Freya frowned.

“What is the point?”

Sumi looked at her.

“She was fine before we got here.”

Freya stopped.

Sumi gestured toward the booth.

“She was talking.”

“Yes.”

“She was talking a lot.”

“Yes.”

“To someone she doesn't know.”

“I noticed.”

“You timed it.”

“I did not time it.”

“You checked your watch three times.”

“I check my watch constantly.”

Sumi stared at her.

Freya sighed.

“Seven minutes.”

“Freya.”

“I estimated.”

Sumi covered her face.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“We ruined it.”

Freya's expression tightened.

“We did not ruin anything.”

“We absolutely did.”

“I asked him about his work.”

“You investigated him.”

“I checked the business.”

“You checked the business while standing in front of him.”

“It has a four-point-eight rating.”

“That is not helping.”

Freya lowered her voice.

“I wanted to make sure he wasn't strange.”

Sumi stared at her.

“Shira is strange.”

Freya looked offended on Shira's behalf.

“That is not relevant.”

“It might be exactly relevant.”

“I mean unsafe.”

“He was fixing an iPod.”

“People who fix iPods can commit crimes.”

“Freya.”

“That is statistically true.”

“Stop.”

Freya stopped.

Sumi looked toward the aisle again.

“I made it worse.”

“You said she should go to an event.”

“Exactly.”

“You thought she would enjoy it.”

“I did.”

“That seems reasonable.”

Sumi shook her head.

“No.”

Freya waited.

Sumi tried to explain something she understood mostly as a feeling.

“She was deciding.”

“Deciding what?”

“I don't know.”

“That is not an answer.”

“I know.”

Sumi looked at Eli.

He was pretending not to listen.

This was polite.

She lowered her voice even more.

“She hadn't decided whether she liked him.”

Freya glanced at him.

“I think she did.”

Sumi looked at her.

Freya paused.

“That was the problem.”

“Yes.”

For a moment, both of them stood very still.

Then Freya exhaled.

“I made a plan.”

Sumi nodded.

“You always make plans.”

“I made one for her.”

“Yes.”

Freya looked toward the records.

“That was not my intention.”

“I know.”

“I was checking whether he seemed trustworthy.”

“I know.”

“That is different from planning.”

Sumi said nothing.

Freya rubbed one thumb against the edge of her watch.

“Is it?”

Sumi smiled a little.

“No.”

Freya looked unhappy.

“That was rhetorical.”

“I know.”

They found Shira six minutes later.

She was standing in line to buy the AFI record.

Sumi saw the cover first.

“You found it.”

Shira looked at her.

“Yes.”

“That's good.”

“Yes.”

Freya stood beside Sumi.

Neither spoke.

Shira looked between them.

“What?”

Sumi held up both hands.

“Nothing.”

“You came over here to say nothing.”

“Yes.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“It was emotionally motivated.”

Shira looked exhausted.

Freya said:

“We're sorry.”

Shira looked at her.

Sumi nodded quickly.

“I made it weird.”

“It was already weird.”

“I know.”

Sumi winced.

“No. I mean—”

She stopped.

Shira waited.

Sumi tried again.

“It was good weird.”

Shira stared at her.

“And then I made it bad weird.”

A pause.

“That is one of the worst apologies I've ever heard.”

“I know.”

“It might also be accurate.”

Sumi nodded.

“I know.”

Shira looked at Freya.

Freya straightened slightly.

“I was trying to make sure he wasn't suspicious.”

Shira closed her eyes.

“Freya.”

“I know.”

“No, I don't think you do.”

Freya was quiet.

Shira opened her eyes.

“You asked for his website.”

“Yes.”

“You checked the reviews.”

“Yes.”

“You asked about margins.”

“That was unrelated.”

“It was absolutely related.”

“It was business-related.”

“You conducted an audit on a man I had been talking to for ten minutes.”

“I did not conduct an audit.”

“You were one question away from asking for references.”

Freya looked away.

Sumi coughed into her hand.

Shira pointed at her.

“You are not allowed to laugh.”

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

“A little.”

Freya looked back at Shira.

“I made a plan before asking if you wanted one.”

Shira stopped.

The line moved forward.

None of them did.

The woman behind Shira cleared her throat.

Shira stepped forward automatically.

Freya followed.

Sumi followed Freya.

Shira turned.

“You're both coming through the line now?”

“We can leave,” Sumi said.

“No. It's fine.”

Sumi looked relieved.

Shira immediately regretted saying it.

Freya continued:

“I did it with Sumi.”

“Yes.”

“And I did it again.”

“Yes.”

“I thought this was different.”

“It wasn't.”

Freya nodded.

Then, after a moment:

“I was opening a boyfriend.”

Sumi made a strangled sound.

Shira looked at Freya.

Freya's face remained completely serious.

“What?”

“You cannot use my line against me.”

“I am acknowledging the criticism.”

“That is not how acknowledgment works.”

“It seemed efficient.”

Sumi leaned against a display rack.

“I can't breathe.”

Shira looked at her.

“Good.”

Freya almost smiled.

Then she stopped herself.

“I'm sorry.”

Shira looked down at the record in her hands.

“I know.”

Sumi touched the edge of the sleeve.

“I am too.”

“I know.”

“We're not going to do anything.”

Shira looked up.

“That would be new.”

“I mean it.”

Freya nodded.

“We're going to the camera section.”

Sumi looked at her.

“We are?”

“Yes.”

“I don't need a camera.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then why—”

Freya looked at her.

Sumi understood.

“Oh.”

Shira watched them.

“You're leaving me alone.”

“Yes,” Freya said.

“That seems suspicious.”

“It is intentional.”

“That is also suspicious.”

Sumi stepped closer.

“Do you want us to stay?”

Shira opened her mouth.

Stopped.

That was an actual question.

Not:

Should we help?

Not:

Do you want to go back?

Not:

What are you going to do?

Just:

Do you want us to stay?

Shira looked toward the repair aisle.

Then at the record.

Then at her friends.

“No.”

Sumi nodded immediately.

“Okay.”

Freya did too.

“Okay.”

They left.

No advice.

No meaningful looks.

No whispered strategy.

Sumi only turned once.

Freya physically rotated her shoulders forward.

Shira saw this and almost smiled.

Then she reached the register.

The cashier scanned the record.

“Nice find.”

Shira looked at the price on the screen.

“Yes.”

“You been looking for this one?”

“For a while.”

“Good day, then.”

Shira looked back toward the repair aisle.

“Possibly.”

She paid.

The cashier handed her the bag.

Shira took it.

Now she could leave.

She stepped away from the register and moved toward the end of the aisle.

The exit was visible from here.

A pair of double doors beneath a red sign.

Beyond them, afternoon light.

Simple.

She could find Sumi and Freya.

Sumi would be holding something electrically unsafe.

Freya would have developed a position on the collectible camera market.

They would go home.

Shira would put on the record.

The day would become a story about finding The Art of Drowning for thirty-eight dollars.

That was a perfectly good story.

She walked toward the doors.

At the intersection between two aisles, she stopped.

On the end of a record-store display was a flyer.

Black-and-white photocopy.

MERCER STREET RECORDS

AFTER HOURS LISTENING NIGHT

EARLY 2000s EMO / POST-HARDCORE

FRIDAY · 7 PM

Beneath that, in smaller type:

FULL ALBUMS. LOUD OPINIONS. NO REQUESTS AFTER 10.

Shira stared at it.

This was ridiculous.

She already knew where the event was.

She knew the day.

She knew the time.

She did not need Eli to send her anything.

That had been the entire premise.

A convenient reason to exchange numbers.

She knew that too.

Shira took one of the flyers anyway.

She folded it once and put it in the record bag.

Then she stood there.

Nothing happened.

This was becoming irritating.

She looked toward the exit.

Then back toward the repair aisle.

She remembered Eli saying:

Which era?

The easy way he had waited for her answers.

The fact that he had laughed without immediately trying to turn the laugh into evidence against her.

The way he had disagreed about Sing the Sorrow without becoming exhausting.

She remembered leaving.

Shira closed her eyes.

Three weeks from now, she would think of this while buying toothpaste.

She knew herself.

She hated herself.

“Fine.”

A woman browsing beside her looked over.

Shira opened her eyes.

“Still not you.”

The woman nodded slowly.

Shira turned around.

---

Northline Audio was busier now.

Two customers stood at the far end of the booth. The older man was testing a receiver with headphones.

Eli was packing small tools into a black case.

Shira slowed.

There was still time to leave.

This was useful information.

She kept walking.

Eli looked up.

For a moment, his expression was simply recognition.

Then something warmer appeared.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

“Hey.”

Shira stopped at the table.

“Hi.”

He glanced at the bag in her hand.

“Find it?”

She looked down.

“Yes.”

“What?”

She pulled the record out just far enough for him to see the cover.

Eli smiled.

“There you go.”

“It isn't an original.”

“You wanted an original?”

“I wanted one that wasn't eighty dollars.”

“That seems healthier.”

“The original was two hundred.”

He winced.

“That seems less healthy.”

“I considered stealing it.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I considered it.”

“I heard you.”

Shira slid the record back into the bag.

For several seconds neither of them spoke.

The silence was not as easy as before.

That was disappointing.

Also predictable.

Now Shira knew she had returned.

Eli knew she had returned.

The fact existed between them.

She looked at the open iPod.

“Does it work?”

“Yeah.”

He picked it up and showed her the screen.

“Two-fifty-six gigs. New battery.”

“How much battery?”

“Supposedly twenty hours.”

“Supposedly.”

“I didn't manufacture it.”

“Convenient.”

“Extremely.”

He set the iPod down.

Shira looked at the repair mat.

Then at a row of cassette players.

Then at Eli.

He did not ask why she had left.

Good.

This was almost worse.

She could feel herself wanting him to ask and not wanting him to ask at exactly the same time.

Eli closed the tool case.

Then he said:

“I hope I didn't say something weird.”

Shira looked at him.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“My friends are invasive.”

He nodded.

“I noticed a little.”

“They mean well.”

“I figured.”

“Freya thinks risk assessment is affection.”

“That explains the website audit.”

Shira looked away.

“She checked the reviews.”

“She told me.”

“Of course she did.”

“She seemed pleased.”

“That is not reassuring.”

Eli smiled.

“And Sumi?”

“Sumi thinks privacy is something that happens to other people.”

“Also seemed nice.”

“She is.”

Shira paused.

“Very nice.”

“That sounded painful.”

“It was.”

He laughed.

The conversation loosened by half an inch.

Enough.

Shira looked at the record again.

“I found the listening-night flyer.”

“Oh.”

“It's next Friday.”

“Yeah.”

“At seven.”

“I think so.”

“It says seven.”

“Then definitely seven.”

“And they really play full albums?”

“Usually.”

“Do people actually listen?”

“Some.”

“That sounds inefficient.”

“Freya?”

Shira looked at him.

“That was insulting.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it wasn't.”

He leaned against the table.

“They usually pick four or five records and let people vote on what gets played all the way through.”

“That is dangerous.”

“Very.”

“What won last time?”

“The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me.”

Shira frowned.

“Predictable.”

“There it is again.”

“It was.”

“I didn't say it wasn't.”

“Good.”

“They played Deja Entendu after.”

“That is worse.”

“You don't like Brand New?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You have a lot of opinions about things you like.”

Shira considered.

“Yes.”

“That seems exhausting.”

“It is.”

Eli nodded.

“I respect it.”

Shira looked at him.

He seemed serious.

That was inconvenient.

At the far end of the booth, someone asked Eli's friend whether a cassette deck had Dolby C.

The friend answered.

The PA system crackled overhead again.

The fair will close in twenty minutes. Vendors may begin packing non-display inventory at five-fifteen.

Eli glanced toward the clock mounted on one of the warehouse columns.

“I should probably start putting some of this away.”

Shira nodded.

“Yeah.”

The moment arrived cleanly.

She hated clean endings.

Eli picked up a box of spare batteries.

“It was nice talking to you.”

Shira looked at him.

“You too.”

“Maybe I'll see you at one of these again.”

“Maybe.”

There.

Perfect.

Nothing embarrassing.

Nothing promised.

No explanation required.

Eli turned toward the storage crate behind the table.

Shira stood still.

He picked up the first tray of tools.

She could leave.

Her body understood this.

Her feet did not move.

Eli set the tray down inside the crate.

Shira heard herself say:

“Wait.”

He turned.

“Yeah?”

Her heart immediately began behaving as though the warehouse had depressurized.

She looked at the banner.

Then at the iPod.

Then finally at him.

“What was that record store called?”

“Mercer Street.”

“I know.”

Eli waited.

Shira hated him slightly for this.

“I mean.”

She adjusted the record bag against her leg.

“The listening thing.”

“Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Seven.”

“I know.”

A small smile appeared on his face.

Shira narrowed her eyes.

“Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I wasn't.”

“You were thinking.”

“That seems difficult to prove.”

Shira looked away.

Then back.

“Could you send me the details?”

There.

Done.

No one died.

Eli's expression did not change much.

That helped.

“Sure.”

He took out his phone.

“What number?”

Shira told him.

He entered it.

Her phone buzzed inside her bag.

“That's me.”

Shira took out her phone.

Monochrome screen.

New message.

Unknown Number: Test.

She looked at him.

“Very informative.”

“I wanted to establish functionality.”

“Freya would approve.”

“I regret it already.”

Shira saved the contact.

Eli

She looked at the name for half a second.

Then locked the phone.

Eli put his phone away.

“And you can text me about things other than the listening night.”

Shira looked at him.

“Why would I do that?”

“I don't know.”

“That seems poorly planned.”

“It is.”

A beat.

“Maybe flash storage.”

“I hadn't planned to.”

“Okay.”

Another beat.

“Battery replacement?”

“No.”

“AFI?”

Shira looked at him.

“Possibly.”

“Good.”

He picked up the tool tray again.

This time Shira stepped back.

“I should find my friends.”

“Probably.”

“They may have bought something dangerous.”

“That mixer already qualifies.”

“I know.”

Eli nodded toward the record bag.

“Good find.”

Shira glanced down.

“Yes.”

Then she looked at him.

“Bye.”

“Bye, Shira.”

She walked away.

She did not turn around.

This was mostly because she knew she would want to.

---

Sumi and Freya were in the camera section.

Technically.

Sumi was holding a Polaroid camera.

Freya was reading the price tag on a Canon lens.

Neither woman appeared to have absorbed any information about photography.

Shira approached.

Sumi saw her first.

Her entire face changed.

Then, visibly, with heroic effort, she suppressed it.

“Hi.”

Shira stopped beside them.

“Hi.”

Freya looked at her.

“Did you buy the record?”

“Yes.”

“Good price?”

“Thirty-eight.”

Freya nodded.

“That seems reasonable.”

Shira looked at her.

“You've been here too long.”

Freya put the lens down.

They started toward the exit.

Nobody asked anything.

Shira waited.

Still nothing.

Sumi examined the Polaroid as they walked.

“This one is really cute.”

“You're holding it upside down,” Shira said.

Sumi rotated it.

“Oh.”

Freya glanced at Shira.

Then away.

Five more steps.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Sumi inhaled.

Shira looked at her.

Sumi closed her mouth.

They continued.

Shira almost admired the effort.

They reached the miscellaneous-format aisle.

Sumi made it another seven seconds.

“Did you talk to him?”

“Yes.”

Sumi nodded.

“Okay.”

That was all.

Shira looked at her suspiciously.

Sumi stared straight ahead.

Freya said:

“Was the conversation satisfactory?”

Shira turned.

“Freya.”

“Sorry.”

Sumi made a strangled sound.

Freya looked offended.

“I apologized immediately.”

“You asked for a performance evaluation,” Shira said.

“I did not.”

“You asked if it was satisfactory.”

“That is not a performance evaluation.”

“That is literally the word used on performance evaluations.”

Freya thought about this.

“Fair.”

They reached the doors.

Sumi still carried the mixer.

Shira looked at it.

“You bought that.”

“Yes.”

“After he told you not to plug it in.”

“I can replace the cord.”

“You cannot.”

“I can learn.”

Freya said, “I found a tutorial.”

Shira stared at her.

“You two spent your apology period researching electrical repair.”

“We gave you privacy,” Freya said.

“That was not the question.”

“It was adjacent.”

Sumi bumped lightly against Shira's shoulder.

Shira looked at her.

Sumi said nothing.

She only shifted the mixer into one hand and reached for Shira's with the other.

Shira let her take it.

They walked through the doors.

The afternoon sunlight was offensive.

Shira squinted.

Freya put on her sunglasses.

Sumi swung their joined hands once.

Shira did not object.

---

That evening, Shira put The Art of Drowning on the turntable.

The first side played while she made tea.

Her apartment was dark except for two lamps.

Her iPod sat on the table beside her phone.

The record sleeve leaned against the wall.

Shira sat on the sofa and opened her contacts.

Eli

She stared at the name.

Then edited it.

iPod Repair

She saved it.

Looked at it.

“No.”

She changed it back.

Eli

Better.

This was stupid.

She locked the phone.

The record continued.

Her phone buzzed.

Shira looked at it.

A message.

Eli: Forgot to tell you. Don't replace that battery yourself unless you enjoy tiny adhesive strips and regret.

Shira read it.

Then again.

She typed:

I enjoy regret. It's the adhesive strips I object to.

She stared at the message.

Too much?

No.

Maybe.

She sent it before she could decide.

Three dots appeared.

Shira set the phone facedown.

The dots did not cease to exist because she could no longer see them.

She picked it up again.

Eli: Then you're extremely qualified.

Shira smiled.

A second message appeared.

Eli: Also found the listening-night post. Sending it before I forget.

An image followed.

The same flyer Shira had folded into her record bag.

She looked toward the bag on the floor.

She could tell him she already had it.

That would be accurate.

Instead she typed:

Thanks.

She waited.

Then:

Friday might work.

She stared at those three words.

They looked alarmingly sincere.

Her thumb hovered over delete.

The record turned quietly beneath the needle.

Shira sent the message.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then:

Eli: Cool. I'll probably be there.

Probably.

Good.

No pressure.

No plan.

No declarations.

Friday existed.

That was enough.

Shira locked the phone and set it beside the iPod.

The song changed.

She leaned back against the sofa.

After a moment, her phone lit again.

SUMI: DID YOU GET HIS NUMBER

Shira stared at the ceiling.

Another message arrived.

SUMI: I waited FOUR HOURS to ask

Then:

FREYA: It was three hours and twelve minutes.

Shira closed her eyes.

Her phone buzzed again.

SUMI: THAT IS BASICALLY FOUR

Shira picked it up.

She considered several responses.

Finally:

SHIRA: The ban has been reinstated.

Sumi replied immediately.

SUMI: WORTH IT

Freya added:

FREYA: What are the terms?

Shira put the phone facedown.

She smiled anyway.

---

Shira, Sumi, and Freya — Story 3

← Previous: Sumi Opens a Restaurant for One Night

Series index and reading order