A/N: It's been over two years since I updated my other fic because I'm garbage, so instead of working on that, I've started a new fic. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Oops.
Title taken from "Five," by Young Man, which I highly recommend you go listen to. You can hear it on YouTube by adding /watch?v=wSQ4HV5njz8 to the end of the URL.
The songs for this chapter were "Landslide," by Fleetwood Mac, and "Put Me Down," by The Cranberries, which you can listen to on YouTube by adding /watch?v=K_PQ4fRQ5Kc or /watch?v=itrmuY_qF84 to the end of the URL, respectively.
I'll continue this at some point, I swear.
When Emma is eleven years old, she steals a Walkman and a music tape from a local record store.
When she later remembers the moment, she will think of the way her heart pounds in fear and excitement as she speed walks out the door, the weight of the stolen goods in her jacket pocket, the feel of the winter air on her skin once she makes her escape. She will remember all of this with startling clarity. But what she will remember most of all is when she listens to the tape for the first time.
It is Fleetwod Mac's White Album. Emma makes it through seven tracks out of a twisted sense of obligation to her purloined goods before boredom overtakes her, restlessness invading her being in that way it has and making her antsy to go off and find more trouble. But just as her finger reaches for the pause button on the player, the eighth track on the album fades in, and everything stops.
For 3 minutes and 19 seconds, Emma is someone else.
When the last chord echoes into nothingness and silence takes over, Emma abruptly comes back to herself from that faraway place with a great, gulping gasp. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears, magnified by the confines of the clunky headphones, and with a start, she realizes she is crying. She scrubs furiously at her cheeks and whips her head around, searching for ways in which the world must have changed over the course of the song, but there is nothing, and she realizes then that the music has not changed the world, only her.
This quiet moment of introspection is shattered by the rude interruption from track number nine and the simultaneous sound of her foster father arriving home from work, and there is no more time to dwell on songs that somehow sound like hope while Emma is busy scrambling to hide her stolen prizes.
It isn't until later that night as she stares at the ceiling, sleep eluding her, that Emma realizes that listening to the song was the first time the directionless energy she is so often filled with had ever settled to stillness.
A week later, Emma returns to the scene of the crime.
She shouldn't. She knows this, knows that the people who get caught are the ones who revisit their victims, but the song has been playing on repeat in her head during her lowest moments (which, realistically, is most of the time), and the record store has a magnetic draw that she can't ignore. This, coupled with the misguided belief in youth's invincibility, sees her pushing open the store's door once more, bell ringing to announce her arrival. The woman behind the counter glances at her briefly before going back to her inventory list, leaving Emma free to wander up and down the aisles as she rifles through the different tapes on display.
If she had been paying more attention, if she had been as vigilant as she normally is, as 11 years of foster care has made her, she would have heard the sound of heavy feet approaching her from behind. But she isn't paying attention, and the smell of cigarette smoke and the sound of soft music has lulled her into a false sense of security, so when a hand falls on her shoulder with a grip like iron, Emma isn't prepared at all.
"It's awful brave of you to come back here, girl. Awful brave, or maybe just awful stupid." The voice is deep and scratchy, the result of years of smoking, but it doesn't sound angry, and although Emma's initial reaction is to fight her way out of this person's grasp, the deviation from her expectation gives her pause.
Emma sets her face into a mask of mildly indignant indifference as she attempts to shake off the stranger's hand. "I don't know what you're talking about." She is silently proud of how little her voice quivers.
The hand spins her around to face its owner, and Emma finds herself looking up into the eyes of the woman from behind the counter. The woman's lips purse as if she is deciding how to proceed before turning down at the ends. "I know you stole the Walkman, girl."
The rush of adrenaline that Emma had managed to tamp down returns in full force, images of her foster father's angry face, her social worker's disappointment, her entire life being uprooted yet again running through her head.
Emma's jaw takes on that stubborn set, and her eyes burn with the effort of holding back her frustrated tears, and still she does not cry, anger overtaking her helplessness as it so often does and making her shake and shake and shake, trembling with the struggle of containing so much rage in such a small body. "Then why didn't you say anything?" she finally manages, biting back the bitter bile rising in her throat.
The woman's eyes go soft, then, kind in a way that Emma is not used to, and she looks at her for a long, long time before she says, "Because you looked like you could use some understanding."
Emma, who is unused to understanding, much less the kindness that goes along with it, doesn't know what to say to that, so she says the only thing she can think of: "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry, too," the woman says, releasing her arm, and Emma doesn't fully understand what this woman is apologizing for, but it aches nonetheless, forms a hard knot in her throat that she isn't quite able to swallow down, making her look away.
When Emma raises her head again, the woman is holding out a tape. At Emma's questioning look, the woman lets out a rough laugh. "A Walkman's not much use without any tapes, now is it, girl?" Emma doesn't know how to tell her that she doesn't have any money, but it turns out that she doesn't have to because the woman presses the tape into her hands, folding Emma's fingers over the plastic casing. "Consider it an advance on your paycheck. You'll work here every day after school until you're done paying off that Walkman. And if you can still stand being around me after that, the job is yours. Does that sound fair?"
Emma can't remember the last time anything in her life was fair, but she's certain that it's been even longer since anyone asked her for her input on the matter, so she just nods dumbly, still bewildered by the whole situation.
"Good. Now, what name should I put on your name tag?"
Emma stares back mutely, unused to being spoken to and expected to respond (Being screamed at, as it turns out, doesn't typically require much talking on her part.).
The woman doesn't bat an eye, just waits for Emma to find her tongue.
"Emma," Emma finally gets out. "My name is Emma."
The woman extends her hand, and Emma tentatively takes it.
"Well, Emma, it's nice to meet you. My name is Maude, and I just so happen to own the store you're about to start working at. I expect to see you on Monday."
Maude has a handshake that is somehow firm without trying to prove anything, the grip of a person confident in their own strength, and Emma likes it immediately, finds herself liking Maude immediately.
"Yes, ma'am, I'll be here."
Maude laughs again, low and rich, and says, "Just Maude will do."
"Yes, ma'am. I mean, Maude." Emma inwardly cringes, afraid that she has already ruined things, but Maude just smiles at her and pats her on the shoulder before slowly making her way back behind the counter, and only then does Emma realize that Maude is old. She carries herself with so much of that quiet certainty that gives the illusion of youth that if it were not for her impaired speed, Emma would never have known.
She stares a moment longer at this strange shopkeeper before shaking her head and making to leave.
"Oh, and Emma?"
Emma pauses at the door, one foot over the threshold, and turns back. "Yeah?"
Maude's face is kind but serious when she says, "Track 12 is my favorite. I'll see you Monday."
Emma looks down at the tape in her hand. Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can't We?, by The Cranberries. "Monday," Emma repeats. "Got it."
A/N: Let me know what you liked and/or hated. Thanks for reading!