The Stars Will Shine (6 page)

I ease out of the parking lot.

The female voice of the GPS, robotic and detached and so much like my own, instructs me to turn left, and I follow without question.

I pull up to a small strip of shops and park in the nearly empty lot. Miles of Vinyls stands before me, its lettering above the entryway in a state of disarray, a couple of the letters hanging noticeably askew.

A cluster of bells dangling from the door handle jingles on my way in. No one stands behind the checkout counter, which is stacked with disorganized piles of vinyls so that a much larger area of counter space is unusable than usable. After a cursory glance around the store, I slide the top vinyl cover off the stack closest to me and read the front.

Deja Entendu
by Brand New.

“How…” I start aloud in awe, but I’m interrupted quite suddenly.

“I hope you aren’t planning to run with that.” I jump and immediately set the record back upon its pile. A young man emerges from one of the back aisles. It’s like a bookstore here, one of those antique ones with tall bookcases, all dark wood, but instead of books, the shelves are all stocked with vinyl records. “I’d really hate to lose that one.”

“But…So, you aren’t selling it then?”

The young man pushes his brown curly hair from his eyes and gives me an easy grin. “Oh no,” he says, shaking his head, which causes his curls to sway and bounce a little. “These are selling for, like, $600 on Ebay. Just got it myself today to add to my own collection.” My eyes go wide. “Not for $600 though,” he clarifies. “I got lucky. It’s my favorite album of theirs.”

“Mine, too,” I say, unsure why I’m even sharing this. Maybe I miss talking about things with someone who will get it—someone who will understand why something means so much to me because it means just as much to them.

“They might be doing a repress of it,” he tells me.

“Really?”

“That’s what I heard.” His eyes flick to the record. “Do you want me to put it on right now?” Without waiting for an answer, he lifts the case, and, with a wink at me, slides the record from it. He flips it as he carries it around the checkout counter. “I’m Trevyn by the way.” He disappears for a second as he ducks behind the counter, and before I can give him my name, the music starts and I am swept away in it.

It is desperate. And it is beautiful.

“Tautou,” I say, naming the song as I close my eyes. I take it in—the start of the drum, the rise and fall of the guitar riff, the raw passion with which Jesse Lacey sings about a burning desire.

I should hate this song for all it reminds me of. Because I was there once. But instead of wanting to feel a boy’s touch in the throes of passion, I desired his love. I desired the emotional intimacy and the affirmation that I was his and his alone and all he would ever want. And, in the end, that childish wish left me devoid of so much.

“You know that an album is great when the first song delivers a punch that can bring you to your knees,” Trevyn says, his voice cutting through my thoughts. I open my eyes. He’s looking at me like we share a connection now. I swallow, still standing by the door, and glance away from him. He turns the music down a little. “You can come in further, you know. What’s your name?”

“Delilah,” I answer.

“Well, Delilah, welcome to Miles of Vinyls, my personal heaven.”

“You own this place?”

Trevyn crosses his arms and nods. “Started it two years ago when I graduated college with a double major in Mechanical Engineering and Biochemistry.”

My jaw drops. “You’re kidding.” He’s some sort of genius then.

He shakes his head, his smile growing wider, and then he starts to laugh. “You can imagine what my parents think of that.”

“I take it they aren’t too happy with your occupational choice?”

“Nah, but they’re slowly getting over it. They love me.” He shrugs. “And they’re starting to admit to themselves that they’re still proud of me.”

“You’ve got good parents then,” I say softly without thinking, and then rush to change the subject. “So, have you hired any other workers?” I drift towards the first aisle, drawn in by the high shelves overflowing with vinyls.

Trevyn’s eyes twinkle. He places his hands flat on the record stacks on the counter and leans forward so he can maintain sight of me as I move farther down the aisle. “Why? You looking?”

“For the summer at least,” I answer. My hand wanders up to pull out a record. “Maybe the school year, too.” I look at the cover.

Every Kingdom
by Ben Howard.

“You’re hired,” Trevyn says, clapping his hands together twice.

The records slips slightly in my hands. “But—”

“Look,” Trevyn says, joining me in the aisle now, “I could really use the help actually. C’mon, you see this place—the messiness and disorganization.” He grimaces and gives a slow nod. “That’s how I am—messy and disorganized. You could help me whip this place into shape. Maybe get a database of all the records going as well. I just haven’t gotten around to it myself.” His face seems brighter now, and there’s a flush of eager excitement in his cheeks. “You free for the rest of today?” he asks.

“I—I think,” I say, slowly sliding the Ben Howard record back into its place on the shelf. “Well, until about 6:00 p.m.” When I’m supposed to meet up with Dylan again, that is.

“C’mon, then,” Trevyn says. “I’ll show you where you can get started.”

“Today? You want me to start today?”

“Well, yeah, silly. That’s why I asked if you were free. C’mon, now.” He takes off down the aisle and waves for me to follow. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

We spend the rest of the day with the sign on the front door flipped to Closed. Trevyn assured me he hardly receives customers on Sundays anyway, and I made a mental note to change that for him. We clear bookshelves, unpack boxes, and begin organizing artists first by genre, then in alphabetical order, and finally by album release date. We knock heads a couple times in the process of bending over and standing up, and each time, Trevyn feels obligated to drawl, “Noggin, dude!” from
Finding Nemo
and from thenceforth calls me Squirt.

By the time 6:00 p.m. comes around, we’ve listened to
Deja Entendu
three times through, organized and set out about an eighth of the collection, and have the beginnings of a database in the works for keeping track of inventory.

When I reluctantly admit it’s about time I leave—Dylan will kill me if I’m late—Trevyn says, “I had a lot of fun today.”

“Me too.” Out the window, I see a few wispy clouds have swept in to break the pure blue.

“So you think you’d be willing to continue this endeavor with me?”

I smile a little and quietly nod. Trevyn stretches his easy smile and winks in his friendly way, and in this second I find myself drawn to him in the way I used to be my big brother, before everything in my life changed. There’s a strange tension in my throat, like I might cry. But for the first time in a long time, it’s not because I’m sad or angry, but because I’m happy. And I almost forgot what that can feel like.

For a second, I think of Simon. What is he doing now? Probably tubing down the Salt River with his friends. Probably shooting guns out in the desert. Probably blasting Nirvana and Pearl Jam in his garage as he works on his Corvette.
Pay us with a smile. A Delilah smile.
Maybe if he were here now, he would tell me I’m no longer indebted to him. Maybe this happiness I feel here with Trevyn and his library of music—maybe it would be enough for him.

“See you tomorrow, Squirt,” Trevyn says, ruffling my hair.

“Eight o’clock?” I ask. He’s already told me three times, but I can’t find the will to leave yet. I survey the shop again as I spin in a slow circle.

“You’re stalling,” he points out.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t want to go home.”

“It’s not my home actually.”

“Ah.” He asks nothing more about it. Maybe he understands how I am—that I’ll talk when I want to talk, that I can’t be forced to do so.

“Well, see you tomorrow,” I say.

“Yeah, Squirt.”

And finally, I make myself leave.

When I pull through the iron gates, with Dylan in the passenger seat, and park by the fountain in the courtyard, the front door to the house opens. Aunt Miranda’s figure is shadowed, but I can make out crossed arms, a tapping foot, and a scowl carved into her face.

“How does she know?” I ask, turning to Dylan, who sinks a little lower in his seat.

He clears his throat but doesn’t answer.

“Well?” I snap.

He taps the window with his knuckles. “She may or may not have gotten a call from Samuel Laker.”

“And who is that?” I’m growing annoyed with having to drag this out of him, but I need to know what part of this Aunt Miranda will be blaming on me.

“He owns a winery about ten miles west from here. My friend and I—we may have stolen a few bottles of his prized Cabernet Sauvignon—”

“You mean you
did
steal some bottles. Jesus, stop being a wuss and take ownership for your screw-ups. At least I can do that.” I get out of the car and slam the door behind me. Dylan comes out a moment later and shuts his door much more softly. Aunt Miranda stomps toward us.

“I just got a call from Samuel Laker,” she shouts, but she chokes a little as if she can’t quite bring herself to believe it.

“And?” I press.

She glares at me, and I roll my eyes.

“And I was told that you two stole three bottles of one of his most expensive wines!” she shrieks. “And smashed two of them on the floor when you ran off!”

I let out a laugh, and then another, and another until I’m doubled over, unable to catch my breath. When I stand again, she pierces me with eyes like an eagle’s. “Hold up,” I say, raising my palms, “I had absolutely nothing to do with this.”

Aunt Miranda scoffs and stomps back to the house. Dylan follows slowly and silently, his head bowed, but I just stand where I am in disbelief. She really doesn’t believe me.

Exactly like my good-for-nothing father.

I clench my jaw at the same time I do my fists, then I storm past Dylan, making sure to shove his arm with my shoulder as I pass.

“Grounded, the both of you. For a week!” Aunt Miranda declares before pressing her tongue hard into her cheek. The three of us are in the foyer, and I’m glaring to the right toward the kitchen. I see Uncle Jim in there, pacing, indifferent to the commotion out here, his work cell phone to his ear. I see a flash of blonde hair in my periphery and catch Leah peeking around the corner from the living room, her eyes prominent with curiosity and sympathy.

I head up the stairs without argument, since Dylan is clearly not going to help me out here. Arguing would be no use; I’ve been down this road a million times before. And that’s what Aunt Miranda doesn’t seem to understand, despite Dad’s likely warnings—that grounding me with words does absolutely nothing. She’d have to chain me up and swallow the key to keep me from doing whatever the hell I want.

“In this house, Delilah,” she continues, “being grounded means no leaving the house without permission.”

“Isn’t that what being grounded means everywhere?” I bite back as I continue up the stairs.

She doesn’t respond. I hear Dylan start up the stairs in my wake.

But then, “Dylan,” Aunt Miranda says softly, “I know it wasn’t your fault.”

I slow for a second then slam my hand once into the railing and move on, blood thumping in my ears and drowning out his response.

Chapter Four

I’m sneaking out.

This shouldn’t even be something I have to sneak out for. I’m going to a job, of all the delinquent things I could be doing. But after the events of yesterday, I have this inkling that Aunt Miranda won’t believe me. She’d probably follow me to make sure I’m telling the truth, and I sure as hell don’t want her crossing the line that divides my new utopia from the rest of this sucky world, her included.

There’s a plausible escape route I’ve spotted from my bedroom window, which looks out over the backyard, and if Aunt Miranda or Uncle Jim doesn’t happen to wander into the kitchen and peer out the glass sliding doors in the next few minutes, I doubt either will catch me. Most of the backyard is surrounded by tall hedges, like the front, but there is one section that is just wall. A stone-tiled rectangular area extends from the base of the wall, and at its center sits a fire pit. Fortunately for me, there is also a stone bench in a semi-circle around the fire pit and close enough to the wall that I can use it to help boost myself over.

I open my bedroom door as quietly as I can and listen for the voices downstairs. The garage door opens or closes. Probably Uncle Jim leaving for work for the day. Then I hear Leah, her voice high and panicked as she calls for Aunt Miranda. My heart beats a little faster as I wonder what has her so distraught. A small part of me wants to comfort her, but it’s not my place. Dylan made that perfectly clear.

Besides, now is my chance. With Aunt Miranda preoccupied with Leah, I can make my escape, unseen. I step out onto the roof and close the window quietly behind me. The air is cool and a little humid with the light early morning fog. I place my footing gingerly, careful not to slip as I make my way to the edge of the roof above the patio, away from the kitchen’s glass sliding doors. As close to the house’s exterior wall as possible, I lower myself until I’m hanging from the roof by my fingertips, my feet about a meter off the ground. With surprising grace, I drop and stick the landing.