Chapter 1 – Bea
I don’t have time to stop home this morning, so I pull up to the record store in the same ratty band t-shirt and shorts that I was wearing on Sunday the previous day.
Fortunately, I know that I have a button-up plaid in the back that I can just tie around my waist to advance the outfit somehow.
“Still sneaking around, I see?” Micky says after watching me pull my unkempt hair into a messy bun on top of my head.
“Yeah.” Of course, I recognize her voice, but the chain clanking that always manages to come from her person also gives her away before I even turn around.
“I find it very odd.” She props herself up on the counter.
“What?” I then go to open the store, and she follows. Apparently, she brought some new posters, and she stapled some to the already-covered wall.
“That you two still have to be a secret.”
“It’s just for his girls. He’s told some of his friends. And you obviously know.”
“I get that . . . about his girls, I mean. But it’s been a few months now, no?”
I think back. “I suppose, yeah.”
“So? When is it long enough to finally tell them? Also, you haven’t told your parents yet, right?”
I avoid her question by standing back and admiring the new additions. One of them is of a strange green goblin surrounded by normal-looking human beings.
She’s brought in some weird artwork before, but this is certainly in her top five—behind Gwar and Steam Powered Giraffes. Both of which are bands that use costumes and heavy makeup as part of their personas and performances.
“Now, what is this? I can’t even pronounce the name.”
“Nekrogoblikon,” she explains like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Nekro—okay. And that little guy is part of the group?” I ask while pointing at the creature.
“That’s John Goblikon.”
“Naturally.” I laugh.
“He’s kind of like their mascot.”
“I see.”
She is my best friend in the whole world, but our music tastes have always been very different. While she gravitates toward the more obscure and unusual, I prefer traditional, cultural, and classical stuff. Like throat singing, Mozart, and good old-fashioned rock. That makes me sound pretentious, but I promise I’m not. Micky and I are both the notoriously weird hippie and “emo” girls in town. We’re both outcasts in our own right, are rough around the edges, and always have chipped nail polish.
“Good morning, ladies,” my mother says after walking through the back door.
“Morning,” we respond in tandem.
We’re still admiring Micky’s most recent poster, and my mom is quick to join us.”
“What on earth?”
“Don’t ask,” I say under my breath.
“Got it.”
I turn to face her. “So, what’s up?”
“I just came to pick up the most recent pay stubs.”
“Oh, okay. They’re in a labeled manila folder at the back.”
“Great. Thanks. You know, your dad and I were talking, and we are thinking about setting up an open mic night. To generate clientele and what not.”
“That’s a great idea!” Micky joins the conversation and places her hands on either side of my shoulders. “You’ll have to sign up, Bea.”
“No . . . no, I can’t.”
“But you have such a beautiful voice, Beatrice. When you were a little girl, we couldn’t get you to stop singing, and you’d even put on little shows for the family during Christmas and other holidays.”
“That was when I was a kid.” I’m uncomfortable with this topic, so I try to busy myself by reorganizing records that seem ajar.
“Sure, but we got you into voice lessons, so your voice must have only improved with the time that has passed.”
“I’ve caught her a few times here and there—especially on deep cleaning days,” Micky jumps in to say. “She’s incredible.”
“Okay, so what’s the problem?”
“I just don’t want to, okay?” I bark.
My mother and best friend exchange a look before seeming to agree to move on nonverbally.
“So, what night were you thinking?” Micky asks.
“Maybe Thursdays?”
“I think that’s a great idea. It’s just close enough to the weekend that people are starting to feel a little more relaxed and perhaps adventurous, but not Friday or Saturday—when they’d probably rather be in the pubs or something.”
“Exactly.”
I’ve moved on to stocking shelves but can still hear them talking.
But my mom approaches me from behind. “How have your insulin levels been lately?”
I put the box in my hands down and show her my pump. “Good.”
“Good to hear. That pump has really been a God send. Do you remember when we’d have to take time out of the day to give you multiple shots?”
“I do. That was the absolute worst.”
“Ugh. Talking about when you were little . . . you never understood why I was intentionally hurting you like that, and it broke my heart.”
“When was she diagnosed again?” Micky inquires while picking up some of the new stock I just placed on the ground.
“She was four.”
“Is that a common age—”
“According to the doctors, yes.”
“Wow.”
After that, my mom goes back and retrieves the folder she came for.
“Alright. Well, I got this. I trust you girls can take the place for the rest of the day?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, we’ll talk more about the open mic idea. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I’m opening the large blinds, but when Micky hears the car drive off, she comes over and says, “Now that she’s gone—there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you.”
“What’s that?” The light floods into the previously dim room, and it causes me to squint.
“Well, with us talking about your diabetes and active sex life . . .”
I truly have no idea where she’s going with this.
“How do you fuck with that pump thing? If I understand it correctly, it attaches to your body, and then you clip the actual pump part to your pants.”
“Of course, you’d wonder about that.” I laugh. “You can take it off for a little bit.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, for like less than an hour or so.”
“You and Marco can go for that long?” Her jaw is practically on the grungy and somewhat sticky floor beneath us.
“No! I’m just giving you an example.”
“Okay, I was going to say—damn!”
“But after that, you can just reattach it and let the bulky part just chill on the bed next to you.”
“Ah.” She nods. “That makes sense. I was just curious.”
I unlock the front door and lean on the counter while we wait for our first customers of the day.
“Enough about me. What’s going on with you? What was his name? Kyler or something like that?”
“Zephyr.”
“That’s right. The librarian from Rhinelander. You met at FusterCluck’s, right?”
“Yeah.”
“How are things going with him?”
She shrugs and starts fiddling with the skin around her fingers. “It’s casual.”
“Meaning?”
“He sees other people, and so do I. You know that I’m poly.”
“I do, but I thought you could still have serious partners in the mix.”
“You can. I just don’t want that. I hate exclusivity of any kind.”
At that moment, I realized that Marco and I had never talked about the exclusive nature, or lack thereof, of our relationship.
He’s told me he loves me, so surely that means I’m his girlfriend . . . right?