Chapter Two

WHEN I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, I found myself lying on the white carpet next to my bed. What? I rub my head, looking up at the walls and then towards the sunlight shining through the opening in my curtains. Disgruntled, I climb onto my hands and knees and move toward my bed. I look around the room, wondering what would cause such a severe displacement from my bed. I find nothing, and decide that I must have rolled in my sleep and somehow landed on the floor. I look at the alarm clock on my bedside table. It reads 7:15. With a sigh, I stretch out my arms and walk towards the window, hoping it will provide a reason for my poor night's sleep.

I push aside the purple curtain and look out the window. The sun is bright, but I welcome it. In my mind, I breeze through my morning routine and consider everything I will need to accomplish it. The first thing on my list is breakfast. Reluctantly, I leave my sunlit window and head towards the kitchen. I find my dad already at the table eating a bowl of cereal.

"Mornin' kiddo." He says. "There's food in the fridge and cereal in the pantry. How did you sleep?" He asks, genuinely intrigued.

I smirk, remembering the insect-like view of my bed from this morning.

"Honestly dad, I can remember better nights. I woke up on my floor this morning."

"Well I can install a support beam along the side of your bed, if that will make you feel safer." He says humorously.

I give him my best glare, and reach for a mango on the kitchen counter. He starts laughing. After breakfast, I get ready for the day and decide to browse around town for a summer job. I look online for a list of music stores in the area and note each address down on a piece of paper. I have four stores in total that I want to look at, even if just for a peek at their music selection. The closest one that I find is in Corrales, only a half mile from my house. From the pictures, it looks like a small record store with a homey feel to it. I have a feeling that I will be spending a lot of time in that store this summer, job or not.

I gather my necessities in my brown leather purse and hang it over my shoulder. I place my oversized sunglasses on the top of my head and open the old fashioned map I found in my dad's office. I look at the map attentively, pinpointing my location. The directions are rather simple, two left turns and I should arrive right in front of the store. With that, I start walking towards the dirt road behind the house. I open the gate with ease and walk purposefully, in the direction of the music store. Careful not to fall into the canal of water that parallels the road, I veer to the left, closer to the fence. After a short distance of walking, I come upon the music store. It's small, but charming. Supporting local, I think with a smile.

I open the door and take a peek inside. The walls are decorated with Indian artwork and old fashioned records. There are three aisles of music to browse through, each nearly touching the ceiling. It's wonderful. I've never seen anything like it. With a rush of excitement flowing through me, I dash for the first genre that I see. Classics. I pick up the records. Elvis Presley, Sex Pistols, Rolling Stones. I must be in Heaven. I take a moment to look around this homey place that I intend to call my home for the summer. I breathe in the rustic smell of the atmosphere. With a sudden bout of courage, I look for the manager of the store. My hands are sweaty and I'm holding my application too tight. It has been wrinkled, and is no longer in the condition I intended to release it in.

The manager hears me approaching and turns around to face me. He is an older gentleman, with youthful grey eyes and long white beard. He offers up a small smile, and I return it, only bigger.

"Good morning miss. Can I help you find anything?" He asks in a soft, barely audible tone.

"Good morning sir. You have an incredible music store here! It must have taken years to collect this many vinyl records." I look around with awe, once again, and return my gaze to the old man.

"Oh! How rude of me. My name is Catherine, but I go by Kate. I live just down the road." I say, using my eyes to point the direction of my house.

I extend my hand to him, and he takes it. The feeling of relief washes over me. Finally! Somebody is willing to shake my hand. He smiles again.

"Thank you." He says, just a whisper. "My name is Al. I've owned this store for 25 years. It used to be my father's, but I took it over after he passed away. I use music as a way to connect to him. I've been collecting records all my life."

"I know what you mean." I say. "My dad takes me on all kinds of outdoor adventures. It's our thing. He taught me how to ride a dirt bike when I was fourteen." I laugh. "But he also takes me rock climbing and camping, when he feels up for it."

Al and I talk for while and he tells me about his adventures out of state to find records. I start to realize that it was a on a stroke of luck, that I was able to meet him here today. He could have been seeking out records, but instead, he was here talking to me.

"I'll be driving to Georgia next week to find my last David Bowie vinyl." He says with excitement. "I usually leave Jake in charge of the store while I'm gone. He takes good care of the place."

"Well sir… Al, I've always dreamed of working in a music store." I say, my face flushing bright red. "Perhaps you would consider having me assist Jake while you are gone. It would mean so much to me. You have a wonderful store." I motion around me; a look of desperation appears in my eyes.

Al seems to notice how much I care about his music, and out of pity, consents to me helping Jake, his only employee. I wonder if Jake is his son, or other relative. Maybe Jake is equally as passionate about music as Al is. The thought makes me happy. Al instructs me to come back the following morning, around the same time, for a full tour of the store and an explanation of my duties as an employee. With one last gesture of gratitude, I walk out of the store and head home, feeling wonderful.

When I arrive home, it is almost lunch time. I find my way to the kitchen and search through the refrigerator. I spot some bread, ham and vegetables scattered about and place the ingredients on the counter. I whip up a quick sandwich and sit on the couch. I look around, but my dad is nowhere to be found. He must be working. After I eat my sandwich, I head to my bedroom and decide to catch up on my sleep. I close the purple curtain and climb into bed, hoping that I won't fall out this time. Within minutes, my eyes become heavy and I fall into a deep sleep. My breathing is shallow and constant, but my mind is racing.

While I dream, the all-too-familiar brown eyes of my neighbor haunt me. I can see his figure in the distance, and I squint to see him clearer. I sense him all around me. The light scent of his cologne makes my head dizzy and I can't think straight. A small jolt of electricity flows through my veins as he moves closer to the light, closer to me. I hear him whispering, his words gaining strength from the echo of the room. I can't take my eyes off of his golden skin, and I reach out to him. But I'm stuck! I look down and notice that my right arm is tethered to the floor by a thick, blonde rope. Panicked, my breathing starts to increase and my heart beats fast and hard. I look up again, and see him towering over me. I cannot breathe. He looks like an angel. My intuition tells me that he is dangerous, that I should stay away. But I cannot. With my left arm, I slowly reach up until my fingers are nearly touching his chest. He takes a step back and immediately disappears.

I wake up in a startle, breathing heavily. I look around my room for any sign of danger. There is nothing. With a sense of relief, I get up and walk towards my window for the second time today. The sun is setting and a beautiful orange glow spreads across the walls of my room. In the distance, I can see my neighbors, and a shiver runs down my spine. I close the curtain with a shaky hand and walk towards the living room, completely dumbfounded. I find my dad sitting on the couch with a bag of ice on his shoulder.

"Dad! What happened?" I ask, alarmed and nervous.

"Hey kid. I got in a bit of a pickle while climbing this afternoon. Tom and I drove up to the Sandia's today and bouldered for a while. I fell on my back and missed the crash pad." He replies, nonchalant.

"You need to watch out for yourself." I scold. "I'll get you a fresh bag of ice."

With that, I strut into the kitchen and fill up a Ziploc with ice. I seal the bag and return to the living room, exchanging it for his now, soupy, bag of ice. Angrily, I walk back into the kitchen and put the bag in the sink.

With a sigh, I walk to the freezer and take out the curly fries. I dump them onto a tray and wait for the oven to heat up. Doesn't he care if he gets hurt? What if he gets seriously injured and nobody is around to help him? I take a deep breath to clear my mind, and put the fries in the oven. He is like a child! After a long while, I take my dinner out of the oven and set up a movie on the television. I don't talk to my dad, or even look at him, for the rest of the night.