Hi! This is just an introduction - I plan on making the future chapters nice and beefy.
Anyways, thanks for reading. I hope it doesn't suck too badly. :)
It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm eating a bag of spicy cheetos. Breakfast of champions, right?
I'm working the morning shift at my family's store, Abadeer's Music Emporium. I know, I know, stupid name. My parents thought of it decades ago and I guess it just stuck. Sadly, the interior of the store is even more outdated than the name. We're in desperate need of a makeover but business is way too slow. I blame Spotify.
The store has three departments – one for musical instruments, one for CD's and vinyls, and another is a practice space/recording studio that we rent out to local bands. My brother, Marshall, is in charge of the instruments. He also charges 30 bucks a pop for music lessons. Honestly, that's not a bad deal. He's pretty much the best instructor I know. Okay, maybe second best.
I lean back in the worn leather chair and prop my feet up on the counter. I bring a cheese-encrusted finger to my mouth and glance around. I'm working the vinyl room this morning and it's absolutely dead. We've been open for an hour and a half and not a single fucking customer has walked through the door.
I wipe the remaining cheese residue on my jeans – come on, don't act like you've never done that – and pull out my phone. Tonight my band is playing our first PAID gig and I should probably be more prepared than I am. We've rehearsed a whole lot but we haven't exactly hammered out the other details. . . like, a set list for one. Wardrobe? I don't even know how I'm getting to this place let alone what I'm wearing tonight. I moan in frustration and sink further into the depths of the ancient desk chair. I'm too stressed to deal with this right now.
You know what always calms me down though? Funny animal videos. I scroll idly through a list of youtube search results, ignoring the fact that a bit of cheese dust has smeared on my screen.
Guilty puppy refuses to… seen it.
Hairless cat takes bath in... seen it.
Two hamsters sharing a… seen it.
Death-metal Cockatoo Screams into a Cup. This is new.
I press the play button and watch as a large white bird trots in furiously from the corner of the screen. Without warning, it picks up a small plastic cup in its talon and screams, admiring the acoustics of her little bird voice.
Oh my Glob, I can't breathe. This stupid bird… and its stupid little cup. I'm laughing so hard that I'm crying. I'm laughing so hard that my ribs start to hurt. I'm laughing so hard that I definitely didn't notice someone walk through the front door.
After watching the video a few more times, I finally manage to contain myself.
"Stupid, dumb, cute, cute bird…" I mutter under my breath as I wipe some moisture from the corners of my eyes.
That's when I look up from my phone, over the counter, and right at her. I feel my cheeks ignite and think I'd very much like to spontaneously combust right now. She's staring directly at me. She's giggling, no, she's full on laughing at me.
Why she's even in this store is beyond me. She's wearing a bright pink blazer with a tight, white pencil skirt and matching pink stilettos that I imagine are incredibly uncomfortable. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a neat bun and pink-rimmed glasses adorn her perfectly contoured face. If I wasn't so embarrassed, I'd probably admit that she's actually rather stunning… but right now, my foremost thought is that she looks like a fucking Barbie doll that's working on its law degree. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure that's the premise to a movie. Yeah. She looks like the chick from Legally Blonde and even though I kind of liked that movie, I don't appreciate random strangers encroaching upon my privacy and making me feel like a fool. Sure, that may sound a little dramatic – this is a store, after all – but she made me feel stupid and I may be a tiny bit butthurt.
I try to collect myself and wonder how this preppy stranger has caused my confidence to waver.
"You know, we don't sell Justin Beiber on vinyl here."
She doesn't say anything. She simply ignores my comment and makes her way towards the middle of the room, to the isle marked 'H through N.' I watch out the corner of my eye as she casually browses through albums. I can only imagine what she's looking for. Hanson? NSYNC? Hell, maybe she's looking for the Legally Blonde soundtrack, although I'm positive that doesn't even exist on vinyl. I lazily spin in the desk chair, a dumb grin plastered on my face, as I propose one lame band after another. I notice she's amassed a small pile of albums and I find myself eager to judge her assumedly shitty taste in music.
Growing up in a music store has sort of ruined me. To be honest, I'm pretty pretentious when it comes to music. I've tried to be open-minded but I can't help but loathe most of the garbage that plays on the radio. You can't consider yourself a musician if someone else is writing your songs and playing your instruments for you. That's not music - that's cheating. Why should jerks like Justin Beiber be making millions when guys like my brother, who plays fifteen friggin' instruments, have to drown themselves in loans just to stay afloat? But I digress…
I run a hand through my dark hair – so many split ends, damn I need a haircut – and observe Barbie, attorney-at-law, as she approaches the counter. She's got four or five albums stuffed under the crook of her arm.
It takes a good bit of effort to pull myself out of the chair. I notice there's a rather discernable imprint of my butt practically embossed into the seat. As the girl gets closer I become increasingly aware of how absolutely hideous I look today. There's a stark contrast between her crisp, clean blazer and my wrinkled and stained plaid shirt. I rub a palm against my jeans in a futile attempt to conceal the cheese stain I made not even ten minutes ago. I grunt in disappointment, making a mental note not to wear this outfit to the gig tonight.
She's at the counter now and I seize the opportunity to check her out up close. I can't explain it, but there's something quite bizarre about how perfect this chick is. I can't find a single hair out of place on her strawberry blonde head. I'm both fascinated and disturbed by her flawless peach complexion and the rows of pearly whites she revealed through a polite smile. Even the way she stands, tall and poised. She's got the posture of Michelle Obama.
"Hello?"
My trance is broken and I turn my attention to the stack of albums that's been placed neatly on the counter. Oh, that's right. I work here. Get it together, Marceline.
"Hi. Did you find everything alright?" I pull a small calculator out of a nearby drawer. Our register's broken so we handle thIngs old school.
"Yes, thank you. You have quite the menagerie here."
I anticipate the worst as I thumb through a few of her selections and I… wait. Elliott Smith, Led Zeppelin, Prince, Vampire Weekend. This isn't just good music, this is very good music from a variety of genres. My mouth hangs open unattractively as I ogle her merchandise.
"May I have the total please?" I notice a small smirk formed across her face. Something tells me she's used to throwing people off guard. I quickly add up her total.
"$19.50," I say, adding "You know, you've got a rad taste in music. I'm actually really impressed. I didn't expect someone so…"
Suddenly her eyebrows furrow and the corners of her lips turn like she's just sipped gross, expired milk.
"Someone so what?" she interrupts. Her once melodic voice sounds intensely bitter. I try to interject but she holds up her manicured hand and I am immediately silenced.
"You know what," her eyes search back and forth manically until they land upon my nametag, "Marceline," my name sounds acidic on her tongue. "Looks can be deceiving."
She gathers the albums gingerly in her arms, reaches into her purse and retrieves a crisp twenty dollar bill, slamming it on the counter. "Keep the change."
With that, she marches towards the door, her stilettos clicking against the linoleum with each fervent step.
Before my brain can even begin to process the events that just transpired, she turns back towards the counter.
"By the way," her smirk has returned "I kind of like Justin Beiber," and with that, she disappears.
I just stand there, staring at Jefferson's smug face peering up at me from the twenty dollar bill.
What the hell just happened and who was that girl?