AN: I've gone back and edited it for easier reading. The reason the paragraphs were bunched in the first place was because I was employing a particular writing style of my own creation. In this style, I never put the narrator's words in quotations, and sometimes it causes his words to blend into his thoughts. I understand how that makes it much more difficult to read. In light of this, I'm editing. I'll leave the experimental writing style for my own private use. Or maybe someday everyone will praise me for it, and I'll be the new E. E. Cummings.

The one thing Mercedes always told me was to live like I was dying. I laughed at her, "Been listening to Tim McGraw lately?"

She raised an eyebrow and gave me the queerest look she couldn't get rid of. "No, I was thinking about the truck you just got and how the brakes are starting to go."

"Thanks for the reminder," I replied.

She smiled, caressing my cheek, and opened the door to her place, dancing her way inside to a song playing only in her mind. Her body jiggled a bit as she sashayed, and I bit back a groan as I watched her. She had the most beautiful body. "Why should I change for other people?" She'd say. "People spend thousands of dollars to get curves like mine."

The first time she asked, I offered arguments of health, not realizing it was a rhetorical question. So she shut me up with a kiss then gave me a million reasons why women with curves were better. Since then, I could never think of a response and told her so. She was always blunt like that; raw to her very core. She worked ten blocks from her house at an old record store, and she'd ride her bike there occasionally when it rained. She was 19, and I loved her.

Last summer my family moved from Tennessee to Lima, Ohio. I was 17 and going into my senior year of high school. I hated it. I couldn't forgive my parents for uprooting me my senior year. I figured that I had at least four years to spend out of Tennessee when I went away for college, so why start them early?

"I need you to be a bit more optimistic, Sam," my dad said one day. "Stevie and Stacey look up to you, and when you react like this, it affects them." So I tried to look supportive of my parents in front of my younger siblings. I must admit that it was one of the harder things I'd done. I said goodbye to my boarding school friends and my sort-of girlfriend, Emma. Life as I knew it was over.

I spent the first two days locked in my new room before Mom decided she'd had enough. She opened my door enough for me to see it was her. "Get showered," she said. "We're going shopping."

I could tell by her tone that it wasn't a debate, and I also knew that we weren't headed to the mall. My mom was an avid collector of things and always dragged me or my younger siblings out to different flea markets and secondhand stores. She never had any intention of buying anything specific. "Shapes appeal to me," she'd say. "I just want something cool."

It was usually a photo, sometimes a lamp or a watering can. My mother had 12 photo albums full of "extended family members." Ever since I was little, I'd heard stories of Uncle Job who lives in Wichita and how his accident on the horse led him to buy a barber shop or Auntie May who ran off with "that ol' carpetbagger Samson." I figured out these weren't really our family members or real stories when I was eight, but I still entertained her whenever she'd talk about them.

I guess that's where my comic book obsession comes from. Most of the time I don't even mind going with Mom because I can look for vintage comics. I've found some that are worth thousands of dollars apiece because most people don't realize the value of them. I have a few non-comic vintage items, too, that are pretty special to me. Like Peggy, my blonde Gibson guitar. And I'm building a pretty good collection of albums.

By the time Mom coaxed me out of the house, she knew the location of every secondhand store in town. Mercedes was working at the record store next door to the second one Mom went to, and I moseyed over the moment I saw it. I noticed her almost immediately. She was humming along to Billie Holiday while organizing the records in the Jazz section. I moved to a section in the back marked VINTAGE and rummaged through a bin, trying to keep my eyes glued to what I was doing.

"Do you need help with anything?" Her voice was like wind chimes, and I turned to see that she'd advanced upon me without my knowledge. She was close enough for me to see she had a small nose ring perched atop her right nostril. "You like the Beatles?" She asked, gesturing towards the album at which I'd stopped. "You seem like a Beatles fan."

I raised a brow curiously. "They're pretty good, I guess."

She chewed on her bottom lip. "Nah. Rolling Stones, I bet."

"Yeah, I like them better."

"Sweet. Well we have a really rare copy of their first EP. It's pretty expensive, but you look like something like that's right up your alley," she said.

She walked off, and I stared after her a moment. Did she work here? Ohio people were crazy, I was learning. They were nice but insane, and those type of people are always loose cannons. It was at least better than Cleveland. Mom, according to her schedule, was lost in gem sweaters by this time, so that gave me only a few more minutes to hang out here before she came and we headed to another store. I sat down in the closest chair to rest my legs while Billie's smooth vocals blended into Mick Jagger's edgier ones. The girl came back and stood beside me. "My manager left a note not to sell it, but I thought it would be nice to hear it anyways," she said.

"Yeah. It's great. Thanks," I replied.

This time, I got a better look at Mercedes. She was a brown-skinned, compact, coke bottle beauty in a doctored black "LIVE FREE OR DIE" tee-shirt. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back and was brightened by brown highlights. She had an easygoing, pretty smile that contrasted with the steely attitude suggested by her gold-studded boots, which looked almost brand new. She wore curve hugging black jeans and even her nails were polished to a light reflecting shine. "Diva," I whispered.

"What was that?" She asked.

"Nothing. I like your hair," I replied quickly.

It wasn't a lie. I'd actually tried to grow out my hair once, but my mom, the calmest woman I'd known, threatened physical violence if I didn't cut it. I didn't believe her until she broke a broomstick against the wall.

"Thanks," she said, twirling a strand around her fingers. "I've been growing it out for about three years now."

I nodded and drummed a beat on the arm of the chair, waiting for her to leave.

"So were you looking for anything specific?" She asked.

"No. I'm just waiting on my mom now. She's at the thrift store next door." I shrugged.

"Oh," she said. "Well, I'll still be here if you need anything." She smiled and made her way to the cash register, this time whistling along to Mick Jagger.

Mom burst through the door a few minutes later, her arms laden with bags. Her eyes swept the room for a moment before resting on me. "Sam!" She called out, and I pushed myself out of the chair and walked to her before she could shuffle more than a few feet. "I found Aunt Rosaline," she whispered, and I nodded.

"What's in the rest of the bags?" I asked, prying a few out of her hands.

"Nothing," she replied sheepishly.

" Well this is a whole lot of nothing," I said, peering into one of them, into which I saw a flowered throw.

"Thanks for helping." Mom deadpanned and smiled at me in a way that let me know that I should stop harping about her purchases if I knew what was good for me. She scanned the store and her gaze rested at the vintage section in the back. "Did you see the vintage records?" She asked me.

"I checked them out."

"Find anything good?"

"Not today," I sighed.

"Well that's unfortunate. Maybe next time." She looked hopeful.

"Maybe. I wasn't really planning to return to this particular store any time soon," I replied.

Mom turned to leave, and I moved to follow. "Have a good rest of your afternoon and come back again," the girl at the counter called out with a smile.

"Thank you! We will," Mom replied. I smiled back, now really eager to leave.

I'd forgotten all about the record store until a few days later when Satisfaction popped up on Pandora, and an image of the brown-skinned beauty whistling along came to mind. I was Googling the Stones first EP when Mom came around to let me know dinner was ready. "What are you doing?" She asked.

"Oh. That girl from the record store the other day started playing the Rolling Stones first EP, and now it's stuck in my head," I replied.

"The first signs of a courtship?" She asked, hopeful.

"Not a chance. I'm thinking about the song, Mom, not the girl." I shook my head.

My mom was always hopeful when I met girls. She made it clear that she wanted lots of grandchildren as soon as possible. I swear that she was jealous of the parents on 16 and Pregnant. Dad, on the other hand, kept me well stocked with protection. He'd had a few secret talks with me on the importance of keeping a hat on my willy. I didn't even use it, though. Emma had been a bit crazy and a prude, but the rest of my friends back home were more than glad to take it off of my hands.

"Well, you should get out and start making more friends. I worry about you, Samuel," Mom said sadly.

"I'm trying out for the football team next week."

"Good. Sawyer loved football. He was the quarterback, you know?" She had a faraway look in her eyes then.

"I know, Mom. I'm just going to go and wash up, and I'll be down in a second," I replied.

She nodded and closed the door behind her. Sawyer was my older brother. He died when I was ten, and I don't think my mom ever fully recovered. For two months after his funeral, she called me Sawyer, and I answered for a while. When I finally stopped she sort of shut down. She stopped telling her stories for about three years as well. Gradually, though, she started telling them again with a fervor that has yet to subside. When Sawyer died, there were only five photo albums.

AN: The title of this chapter is called "Platforms or Nothing Gets Crossed Out" based on the songs by Ani DiFranco and Bright Eyes, respectively.