Home > Bright Side (Bright Side #1)(10)

Bright Side (Bright Side #1)(10)
Author: Kim Holden

Behind the counter I notice that everything has its place. It’s organized, obsessively orderly. Shelly works like a tornado. She’s all over the room working on four arrangements simultaneously. I watch and listen, trying to pitch in where I can. Mostly, I fake it.

We work in silence for an hour, which is hurting my ears. “Don’t you have a radio or something?” I ask.

She points to the shelf on the other side of the room without looking at me.

I feel like I should ask, because I don’t know if she just gave me permission or not, “Do you mind if I turn it on? This place could use some background noise. The silence is deafening.”

She shakes her head.

I march over and turn it on because I need music when I work. Hell, I need music all the time, but especially when I work. Music grounds me. It’s pure emotion and I need that extension.

I fiddle with the tuner for a minute until I find a station. Shelly perks up at the sound. “This is a good song. They just started playing it last week. The guitar is fierce. Have you heard it?”

I nod my head as I return to our work station. I know the song and she’s right about the guitar. I heard this song for the first time four or five months ago when this album was released, but I don’t want to come off as some sort of know-it-all ass**le, so I don’t let on. “Yeah. It’s good. Is this a local station?”

Shelly grunts out her response bitterly. “Yeah, this is the college station. It’s all we have. All the other local stations are shit.”

I elbow Shelly in the side. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those music snobs, Shelly?”

She raises an eyebrow like she knows she’s been caught. “Guilty. I love music and it’s so hard to find the good stuff.” Her face softens a little. “I sound like a damn junkie, don’t I?”

I know how she feels. Gus and I scour the internet all the time in search of the newest musical diversion, like a couple of addicts looking for their next fix. We’ve shared our music collection for years, and it’s beyond extensive. My iPod is maxed out and the rest fills the hard drive on my laptop. “Maybe you just haven’t found the right dealer. I’ll bring in my iPod some time. Do you have a dock or a speaker I can hook up to?” I love connecting with people about music, especially when I can turn someone on to new music they haven’t heard before. Discovering something new is like magic. Music is out there to be heard and I am of the opinion that as many people as possible should hear it. All of it. Because music is powerful. It connects people.

She hesitates, then nods. “Okay, yeah I have a dock I can bring in. What do you listen to?”

“Oh, I’m all over the board. I listen to just about everything, though I can’t bring myself to get on board with country. It sounds artificial. I don’t know how to explain it, but it makes my teeth hurt it’s so sweet. And it’s kind of depressing, even the happy stuff.” She nods in agreement. “Generally I tend to gravitate toward lesser-known bands. I like to see the little guys make it, you know. And I have to support California bands. It’s like this guilty, loyalty thing. Good thing they can bring it.”

Her eyes widen infinitesimally like she’s just figured out some sort of puzzle. “Of course. You’re from California. I’ve been trying to figure it out all afternoon. I figured somewhere sunny since you’re so tan, but I thought the ‘surf or die’ T-shirt was too obvious. So are you a poser or do you really surf?”

I laugh at the blunt accusation. “I surf, sure.”

“Really?” She doubts me.

“Yeah.”

She nods. “That shirt is pretty sick by the way. Where’d you get it?”

I shrug. “I made it.”

Again, the doubt. “Really?”

The scrutiny doesn’t bother me. “Yeah. I make all my shirts.”

“Huh,” is all she says, and although she looks mildly impressed, I have a feeling it would kill her to admit it. She doesn’t hide her emotions very well. They peek through the stern mask if you’re paying attention.

We continue listening to the college station and it’s actually pretty good. Almost all indie and alt rock, it makes me think of Gus. He would love this station. I half expect to hear a Rook song start blasting through the speakers.

Shelly slaps me on the back when we’re done. “You did all right for someone who has no idea what she’s doing.”

I frown. “Thanks … I think.” And then I smile so she knows I’m teasing.

Her eyes allude to a smile, but they never fully commit. “Whatever. Can you work afternoons on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and the occasional Saturday?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re hired.”

I’m doing cartwheels inside, but I’m outwardly calm. “Thanks.”

“I assume you’re a student, too, though I never asked. I’m a senior this year at Grant. Music major, classical piano.”

“No shit? Classical piano? Righteous, Shelly.” I know I sound a little surprised, but I am. She’s hard as nails and I never would’ve pegged her for classical piano. “I’m a few credits short of a sophomore, so yeah, I’m a freshman.” I cringe, thinking about my unusual path to college.

I graduated a year and a half ago with a full ride music scholarship to play violin here, but then life happened ... so I stayed in San Diego. I worked in the mailroom with Gus at his mom’s advertising firm part-time and took classes at the local community college. I was happy. Everything was looking up. And then three months ago, in June, another bomb dropped. This one turned my f**king world upside down. I needed to get out of San Diego. So even though the fall semester was quickly approaching, I applied to Grant again, minus the violin. I figured I didn’t have anything to lose. I sweat it until mid-July when the letter arrived announcing that not only did they accept me, but that they were awarding me an academic scholarship that pays my tuition and room and board. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I gave notice to Mr. Yamashita and moved out of his garage the last day of July and moved into Audrey Hawthorne’s spare bedroom where I stayed until I moved here a few days ago. Gus’s mom is like, one of my favorite people on the planet. I’ve known her my whole life. When I think of the word “mother” I think of Janice Sedgwick, but when I think of the word “mom” I think of Audrey. Gus still lives with her too. He’s such a mama’s boy.

   
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