Meant to Be (17 page)

He squints his bright blue eyes at me. “Well, then it’s a good thing I showed up,” he says as he turns toward the door. “I’ll get my coat. Be back in a flash.”

I think about making a run for it but instead pull my door shut, tug
on it twice to make sure it locked, and wait in the hallway. In seconds he’s trotting down the hall, his rusty, messy hair bouncing across his face.

“I thought you didn’t believe in love,” I say as he leads the way to the elevator.

“I don’t,” he replies over his shoulder.

“Then why are you coming along?”

“Because I think this guy could be a fun adventure for you, Book Licker. You need to loosen up, and having a little foreign fling might just be the ticket. Maybe it’ll cure you of your ridiculous fairy tale.”

I sigh, but let it slide. I
like
my fairy tale, thankyouverymuch.

Cue-2-Cue looks like it came right out of the last century. Every inch of wall space is taken up with dust-laden CDs. Long tables dip under the weight of milk crates stuffed full of records. These tables make up the narrow aisles of the shop, and there’s a row of wooden windowed listening booths, like a row of old phone booths, along the far wall. It smells like dust and must and that special cocktail of vintage-BO.

There are a few customers in the shop. Three of them are girls. One of the two guys in the shop is the middle-aged clerk, bearded and clad in an old moth-eaten blazer. The other is a boy of about thirteen, who’s glued to a display of Rush’s entire catalog.

“I don’t think he’s here,” I whisper to Jason.

“Why are you whispering?” he whispers back. “This isn’t a library.”

“Whatever,” I say a little louder, clearing my throat. “I don’t think he’s here.”

“Are you sure?
He
looks like a likely candidate,” Jason says, and he gestures to the kid flipping through Rush albums. “And he looks like your speed, too! Beginner level.”

“Hey, I have been on plenty dates before, you know,” I retort. Okay, three dates—but Jason doesn’t need to know that. I’m not a
total
loser.

“Oh really? And who are these lucky bachelors? Members of the
robotics club? Mathletes?” Jason crosses his arms and leans against a rack of concert T-shirts, like he’s daring me to prove him wrong.

“Kevin Heineman. And some other people you probably wouldn’t know.”
Because they don’t exist
, I mentally add.

Jason feigns nearly falling over. “Kevin Heineman? Are you kidding? I totally saw that guy eat his own boogers.”

“Oh, when was that, first grade?”

“Last year,” he replies, laughing. “C’mon, Lady Marmalade, let’s go check the listening booths in the back.”

I follow him down the aisle and off to the left, toward the row of four narrow wooden booths, which are plastered with torn and fading posters. A handwritten sign stuck to the front of each booth reads
Only one guest per booth!
The first two are empty. The third contains a girl clutching a Tori Amos album and scowling.

“Nasty breakup,” Jason says, winking at me, before moving on to the last booth. His eyes grow wide. “Well, I think we might have something here.”

My heart leaps into my throat, and I move slowly into the view of the window. Chris? I don’t see anyone at first, but when I glance at Jason, he’s pointing toward the floor. I look down to see a pair of teenagers in school uniforms sharing a pair of headphones and furiously making out. The girl catches me staring and gives me a dirty look before giving me the finger and returning to her business.

“Nice, Jason,” I say. I try to arrange my face into the same dirty look Miss Makeout gave me.

“What?” he asks, giving me that innocent look he seems to have perfected.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, turning to head toward the door, feeling deflated. Yet another blown opportunity to see Chris.

“What, we walk
all
the way over here, and now you want to ditch
out after a few minutes just because your mystery lover isn’t here?” Jason pulls open the door to the first booth in the row, gesturing for me to go in.

“I am
not
going in there with you,” I say. The booth is barely big enough for two people, and I can’t help flashing back to what Sarah Finder said about Jason’s desire to join the mile-high club.

Jason rolls his eyes. “I promise to play nice. Come on. We’re here. We might as well enjoy it.” He spins around toward the nearest bin of records. Dramatically wiggling his fingers, he closes his eyes, drops his hand into the records, flips for a moment, then pulls out a colorful album cover at random. He glances at the cover, then hugs it tightly to his chest, his arms crossed over the back so I can’t see.

“This is perfect,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “It’s time for a love lesson, Book Licker. There’s no time like the present.”

He opens the door to the booth and practically shoves me into it. Jason steps in behind me and pulls the door shut before I can protest—or make an escape. A table in the corner holds a teetering stack of lumpy stereo equipment. There’re a tape deck, a CD player, two big speakers, and resting on top of the stack, a turntable. Jason nudges me with his shoulder a few times to get me out of the way, then executes a little hula maneuver that turns out to be a hip check. We do a little circular shuffle, practically nose to nose, until he’s the one by the stereo and I’m pressed up against the door. He keeps bumping into me as he works to keep the album cover hidden from view.

“Uh, Julia, you saw the sign,” he says, tilting his head toward the window of the booth. “Only one person per booth. Soooooo you better duck, okay?”

“Are you kidding?” I glare at him.

“Do you want to get in trouble for breaking the rules?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. Darn it. He knows me too well.

I lower myself to the floor and pull my knees into my chest. Jason turns his back to me and places the record on the turntable. He presses a couple of buttons on the stereo, then lifts the needle.

“Okay.” He holds the needle dramatically over the spinning record. “This song is the essence—the quintessence!—of music about love.”

“Quintessence?”

He ignores me. “It’s pretty much guaranteed to get you kissed, and I have it on good authority that Ryan made it to third base with Evie while listening to this song.”

I stifle a gasp. Ew. So ew. I didn’t know Evie and Ryan hooked up. It’s amazing that either one of them could be pried away from a mirror long enough to fool around.

Jason drops the needle, then joins me on the floor. He leans against the back wall, his knees against my knees, facing me.

A full band starts up, led by what sounds like six electric guitars and a synthesizer. It’s loud, but it’s also slow and dramatic. I look at Jason, who’s staring back at me so hard that I have to drop my gaze to my knees. The song is soft, the tension building. I hear some crowd noise, so I can tell it’s a live version. I glance back up and Jason’s eyes are still trained on me. My heart starts thudding in time to the rhythm. I hug my knees closer, my hands starting to sweat. This
is
a good song.…

Then the singer comes in; it’s a man’s voice. “Love on the rocks, ain’t no surprise. Just pour me a drink, and I’ll tell you some lies.…”

What?

I look at Jason for explanation, but he’s starting to crack up. “Your face!” he says between chuckles. “You were so into it!”

“What
is
this?”

“C’mon. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize the Diamond!” He pulls the album cover out from under his butt. He shows me a picture of Neil Diamond, decked out in the tightest pair of jeans I’ve ever seen on a man
and an American flag—printed silk shirt, unbuttoned low enough to show
way
too much Diamond for my taste.

I don’t even know what to say. I stare at him openmouthed. “You’re sick,” I finally manage to say. “
This
is your epic love song?”

Jason laughs. “Jeez, Julia, didn’t we already have this conversation? Love is a fantasy. And
not
in a good way!”

I feel of flash of anger, but just as quickly it passes, and I’m sad for him again. Maybe Jason can tell that I feel sorry for him. He jumps up so fast the record skips. There’s a little scratching, and then there’s applause as a horn section kicks up. Jason’s face immediately lights up, his grin so wide that all his freckles look like they’re running together.

Neil’s voice comes in, in that sing-talking, soaring way it does when he’s performing live.

“ ‘Sweet Caroline’!” Jason says between lyrics. “C’mon. It’s just like home! Sing with me!”

“You are not serious,” I reply, still crouched on the ground. He reaches down, grabs my elbow, and in one swift move hauls me right to my feet.

“Hey, lady, you’re from Boston,” he says as we’re practically nose to nose again. “You can’t dis Neil, or half of Fenway is gonna jump you.” He picks up the needle, moves it over a bit, and drops it in just the right spot for the opening notes of “Sweet Caroline.” He spins the Sox cap around, pulling it down low over his eyes so I can see the logo, and air-guitars along with the chorus. He looks ridiculous, and I can’t help laughing.

“You know the words!” he says. “Sing!”

After another moment’s hesitation, I do. I burst out the lyrics just like my dad taught me, adding the “So good! So good! So good!” as if I were at Fenway Park. When the chorus ends, there’s a light tap at the window, and I turn to see the shop clerk motioning us frantically out of the booth. My hand flies to my mouth.

“Oh my God, he can hear us!
And
we’re not supposed to be in here together.” I point to the little sign.

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Of course he can hear us. Why do you think they have the headphones? The booths aren’t soundproof.”

“So embarrassing!” I cry, leaning back against the side of the booth. “Come on, we’re going to get in trouble.”

“Don’t stress it. You were showing some hometown love.” He bumps the door of the booth open with his hip, then gestures for me to shimmy out first. When I get back into the aisle, I lean against a crate of soul records and Jason squeezes next to me. “Besides, now I know we can be friends,” he adds.

I look away so Jason won’t see how much the idea pleases me. It feels nice to think I might have a friend on this trip after all, and it beats pretending to be friends with Sarah or Evie. “Why’s that?”

“Because you’re clearly a Sox fan.” He swivels his Sox hat to the side and grins.

“Hate to disappoint, but I haven’t been to a game in years.” I shrug.

“What?” Jason explodes, staring at me like I’ve confessed to having a tail.

“I used to go with my dad,” I reply. The words fly out of my mouth before I can think about what I’m saying. “He was a
huge
fan. But after he died, I didn’t want to make my mom take me. I thought it would make her too sad.”

Instantly, I wish I could take the words back. I never talk about my dad. There’s a moment of awkward silence, the kind that makes you realize you’ve unintentionally sucked the wind out of a conversation. I stare at the ground, pretending to be fascinated by an old hair elastic that has found its way into the corner. I try to think of something to say to lighten the mood again, but my brain feels like it’s covered in chalk.

Instead, Jason speaks up. “But things work out, you know. Even if it doesn’t feel okay for a long time, or even if it feels like things will never
be okay again, everything works out in the end.” I look up, surprised by the softness of his voice. Now he looks like he feels sorry for
me
. My neck gets warm, and I’m glad I’m wearing my hair down so he can’t see the splotches that I know are forming. I take a breath, and my body sways toward him a little. In the small space, it brings me awfully close, and I worry he can feel the pounding of my heart. I want to say something, but I don’t know what, so we end up staring at each other for way too long.

Then he pulls the wad of grape gum out of his mouth and sticks it to the side of a record crate.

“Oh, gross!” I cry out. Just like that, the intensity of the moment is over.

Jason laughs and turns to a cardboard display of the Rolling Stones. Mick Jagger’s mouth is wide open, mid-lyric. In one quick move, Jason grabs Mick and gives him a deep dip, his arms wrapped around his cardboard waist.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting me some satisfaction,” he replies.

“I don’t think that’s the lyric,” I say.

“Yeah, I’m getting that,” he says. “Mick won’t kiss back, rotten prude.” Jason throws the cutout at the floor and accidentally takes Keith Richards and Brian Jones down with it. Before I can even blink, the entire cardboard band goes flying, knocking over a stack of CDs near the register. Everyone’s eyes snap toward us at the sound of the clatter, including those of the shop clerk, who is putting price tags on a stack of vintage albums at the register.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say to no one in particular, and reach down to pick up some of the CDs. But before I can make any progress, Jason grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. Once again, an outing with Jason culminates in disaster and the pair of us sprinting down the street away from trouble.

And once again, my head is full of more questions than answers.