Chapter 14 Jessa
JESSA
Pterodactyl Records is hopping today. Music freaks of all styles are dappled throughout the aisles, the click, click, click of jewel cases resounding as they file through the stacks, organized by genre.
I watch jealously as older, richer folks with grown-up jobs sift through the vinyl.
I can make out a couple of classmates chatting around the alternative section.
I’d say hi if I was the kind of person who would do that, but I’m not.
Instead I’m judging their less-than-alternative look and thinking neither of them like Nine Inch Nails; they like Trent Reznor’s abs.
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 girl voice.
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 swear someone 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 for each 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 are always 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.
Olivia Fucking Rubens: 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—the Titanic soundtrack. Major gross-out.
I’ve had classes with them on and off over the years. To my memory, they never gave me any crap, but I kind of lump all high school girls who don’t fuck with me for being queer into the silent supporter group. I try to slump more, hoping they don’t recognize me.
“Jessa, right?”
They recognized me.
“Oh yeah, what’s up?”
Dwayne looks delighted. I am in hell.
“She’s in our journalism class,” Paige tells Dwayne.
“She does love writing about music. Gonna have a Rolling Stone writer here one day,” he says, and puts a proud, protective arm around me. “Just hope she mentions my shop when she’s all big and famous.”
I could kill him.
“Yeah, I read some of your stuff in the Bulletin. I liked your take on Third Eye Blind’s new release,” Brianne responds. She actually said something without a grain of snark. To me. This is new.
“Thanks, dude, that’s cool of you to say,” I manage.
“Hey,” says Paige, “we’re headed to Six Roots to get some coffee. Wanna join?”
“Oh, uh…” I think this is the first time I’ve been invited anywhere by a high-school-age person who isn’t Dade.
“She’d love to!” Dwayne crows, shit-eating grin reappearing on his face. I am definitely gonna steal all his limited-edition LPs and make them mine for this.
“Yeah, uh, I guess,” I say, and knock Dwayne with the pricing gun a few more times for good measure. His arm is now on sale for the low, low price of $5.99.
“It’ll be good for you,” he whispers, handing me my side bag. “Mingle with the locals, can’t hurt to learn a little high school culture.”
“You sound like my dad,” I snap back.
“Ouch!” he says, and playacts taking a bullet and dying. As cool as he can be, Dwayne is not without the ability to embarrass the shit outta me as if he really were my big brother.
“I’ll meet y’all at Six Roots,” I tell the girls. “I drove and it’s close to home, so…”
“Okay!” Paige says, cutting off my rambling nervous dialogue, and snags the now-paid-for Titanic CD. I appreciate Brianne looking at it much like a dead rat that didn’t jump ship from the Titanic before she grabs her industrial rock album.
As I head out, Dwayne mouths, Good luck! and I hear the strains of the Butchies singing me out.
“Her kiss was never yours…
You can’t make us break our hearts apart.”
Six Roots is quiet, guess everyone else has better plans this afternoon, or is still recuperating from last weekend’s homecoming.
It’s just me, Paige, Bri, and a gaggle of ravers grabbing their caffeine fix before they drop X and dance until dripping-sweat gross.
I heard that shit can eat through your skull or make you vomit for hours, so I choose to avoid that particular experimentation.
“So, have you picked a format for your zine yet?” Paige asks as she sips from an overfull mug of something creamy.
“Kind of, a blend of music and poetry.”
“Of course there’s poetry,” she says, and rolls her eyes. I bristle a bit. I’d have to be blind to miss the weird tension between them and Bird, but I usually don’t touch girl arguments with a ten-foot pole.