Marvelous Read online

  The bigger of the two guys doing the beating is yelling something and kicking the kid, driving his shoe into his side and his back. I’m surprised not to hear any sort of screaming or crying. I park my bike next to the other one.

  When I get closer I recognize both the guys. Football players. Meaty, thick-necked jocks. Just two of the many reasons I never bothered trying out for the team. Greg Packard, the big guy in black sweats trying to pick up the kid by his T-shirt, is going to be a senior this fall, like me. The tanned kid next to him is Sergio. Who they’re beating up is a mystery.

  I see a baseball bat on the grass nearby and snatch it up just as Sergio turns toward me with a look on his face that says he thinks I’m there to help them pummel the guy. Greg calls the kid a name and tells him to get back up. For a second I see an angry face looking up in defiance. His nose is bleeding.

  “You little creepo, get up—”

  These are the last words Greg says before I swing the bat against his leg, the same leg that was kicking the kid on the ground. I expect Greg to go down immediately. Instead, he screams in pain and turns around. I guess I should’ve hit harder.

  “What the—” He leans over and grabs his thigh, cursing. Then he recognizes me, calls my name, and curses again.

  The kid on the ground pulls his T-shirt together and starts to sit up.

  “What are you guys doing?” I ask, the bat still nice and firm in my hand.

  “We’re showing Seth Belcher here what happens when you flip off strangers.”

  The name doesn’t sound familiar. The guy stands and wipes blood off his upper lip. He’s taller than I thought he’d be.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him.

  Seth nods and accidentally smears blood over his face. He doesn’t look okay.

  “Give me that bat,” Greg says.

  “Are you guys just bored when you’re not hitting people?”

  Sergio stands there looking at me, but Greg lunges. I swing the bat again and hit his arm. My swing doesn’t have a lot of power behind it, but it still stops him.

  “You are stupid, you know that, Brandon?”

  “If you come near me again, I’ll crack this thing over your head. Not that it’ll do any good.”

  Seth walks toward his bike.

  “What’s this have to do with you?” Greg asks. The rage I see in his face looks familiar. Once again, something inside me, something like a switch, goes on.

  “Two guys are beating up someone a lot smaller than them. And kicking him when he’s on the ground.”

  “You’re next,” Greg says.

  “I know who your father is. Don’t tell me he’ll put up with this,” I say.

  Greg’s father is a cop, and I know Greg is about two breaths away from being kicked off the football team for good.

  “Give me my bat,” he says.

  “It’s the only thing preventing you from jumping me right now. I think I’ll just keep it for a little while.”

  He shouts an obscenity. “You know, I’d break your face if I wanted to.”

  “I know where you live,” I tell Greg.

  “And I know where you live,” he says back. “It really sucks to be you, doesn’t it? What’s it like living with that drunk daddy of yours?”

  His words shock me. Greg must know about my father’s run-in with the cops.

  But there’s no way he knows the full truth.

  I toss the bat on the ground and walk slowly back to my bike. Seth is already pedaling away. I guess he’s saving his thanks for a sunnier day.

  Greg calls out another colorful four-letter word as I leave. I’m not afraid of him. If he wants to come after me, let him. Let him get kicked off the team and ruin his senior year. I’ll keep standing.

  I’ve learned by now what it takes.

  It’s just after noon, and the store has been dead all morning. Harry Reeves, the owner and manager, is cranking up a best-of album by a band called Siouxsie and the Banshees. One of Harry’s pet peeves is when his employees don’t know the music that’s playing; twice I’ve gotten nailed for having no clue. Now I always make sure I know, just in case a customer says, “Uh, hey, who’s this?”

  I see the girl the moment she walks into the store. She wears a wide-brim hat that hides most of her dark hair. She glances at me, then looks around as if she’s expecting someone else. A lot of the customers at Fascination Street Records are regulars, but I know I’ve never seen her before. She’s wearing a yellow short-sleeved top, a long skirt with bright flowers on it, and boots, like she’s dressed up for a fancy party and someone gave her the wrong address. Maybe the wrong decade.

  For a moment I look down at the counter and act like I’m doing something, but she still walks over to me. Cheerful eyes the color of a chocolate bar stare me down.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Harry. Are you him?”

  I shake my head. “No, he’s around somewhere.”

  “Okay.” She looks behind me at the shelves of unique collectibles and rarities that Harry keeps behind the counter.

  “Can I help you?”

  She opens a retro purse as colorful as her dress and produces a red piece of paper that looks familiar. “It says there’s a job opening for a ‘friendly and inquisitive soul,’” she says, reading the paper.

  It’s the same ad I was clutching when I walked in here a couple of weeks ago. The job I had to beg Harry to give me, even though I’m not Mr. Sparkling Friendly and I’m not really that inquisitive.

  Don’t tell her that, you tool.

  “Oh, yeah. He’s still looking for that.”

  I’m not sure why I just lied.

  “I can wait,” the girl says.

  I glance at the back door and remember Harry told me he was driving to St. Charles to meet a guy selling his vinyl collection. That’s only about fifteen minutes from Appleton.

  “You ever worked at a record store before?” I ask.

  This was the first question Harry asked me.

  “No.”

  And the same reply I gave him.

  “Why should I hire you then?” I ask, still repeating the conversation that got me hired.

  “Are you the one I’m supposed to talk to?”

  I nod. “Yeah, that’d be cool with Harry.”

  Maybe it’s the fact that I stood up to those jocks that’s giving me an air of invincibility. Though inside I know there’s no way Harry’s going to hire someone else.

  “I’m friendly,” she says with a smile. Not the kind of smile I used to get from my ex-girlfriend Taryn, the kind that says I’m-all-that-and-more. This really is a friendly smile.

  And hot, too.

  She’s a mixture of a sweet, dark-eyed girl plus a bit of a South American model thing.

  “Do you know a lot about music?” I ask.

  “I do, in fact. And don’t stereotype—I listen to more than Latino music.” She says something in Spanish, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t gotten a C in it last year.

  “Sorry, I didn’t quite apply myself in Spanish class.”

  “I said my favorite artist is Stevie Nicks. Can’t you tell?”

  I nod, but I have no idea who Stevie Nicks is or why I should be able to tell.

  “Wait a minute,” the girl says in disbelief. Friendly disbelief. “You don’t know who Stevie Nicks is? Come on.”

  “Don’t tell Harry. Especially if she’s from the eighties. He’s got a thing for the eighties.”

  “The hat? The dress? Totally seventies. Have you ever heard of Fleetwood Mac?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, sorry, don’t let me insult you.”

  Suddenly, I’ve become a lot more friendly and a whole lot more inquisitive.

  You’re hired.

  “Okay, so you pass the music and fashion test,” I tell her. I look more like a soccer player, which I am, than a rocker. But that’s okay—Harry doesn’t care what I wear.

  “Do I need to fill out a job application or anything?”

  Yeah
, give me your cell number and address.

  “What days can you work?” I ask. I’m digging myself deeper and deeper.

  “Any days but Sundays,” she says.

  “We’re not open Sundays.”

  “Well, that’s good then.”

  “Nights okay?”

  “Well, I do have a curfew, but yes, nights are okay.”

  I can’t tell if she’s joking, but I don’t ask. The bell signals an opening door, and I glance over to see if it’s Harry. I don’t want him to come in and tell her the truth.

  “Do you have any other jobs?” I ask. And also, do you have any boyfriends or big brothers?

  “No. But I might have to get another job, depending on the hours here.”

  If I don’t hurry up, she’ll realize that Harry has zero hours to offer her. “Okay, well, yeah, you seem to fit the position well,” I say.

  For a moment she remains silent and smiles. I wonder if she knows I’m full of it. Finally she says, “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “So what’s the pay?”

  “Oh, it’s $9.50 an hour. Does that work for you?”

  She nods, the smile still there.

  “Can you show up tomorrow? At noon?” Of course I’m working tomorrow, but I’ll figure it out by then.

  “That sounds great. There’s just one little concern.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Do you need to know my name?”

  I laugh. “Nah, we don’t use those around here. Yeah, sure.”

  She extends her hand and I shake it. “It’s Marvella, but everybody calls me Marvel.”

  Why, yes. Of course they do.

  “Nice to meet you, Marvel.”

  Very nice to meet you.

  The closest I get to telling Harry about Marvel is just before I head home at nine thirty, half an hour after the store closes.

  “Hey, Harry—you like Stevie Nicks?”

  He’s passing by with an armful of records and says a quick “Sure.” I just stand there, knowing I’m not going to tell him what I’ve done.

  Harry’s a cool guy. This record store has been around almost ten years now, and I know it doesn’t make a lot of money. I know ’cause he’s told me so, but not in a My-life-is-utter-misery sort of way. He’s got a funny attitude the same way he’s got funny, curly hair. “Keep the faith,” he says, and then laughs and plays some music.

  “You need anything before I go?” I ask him.

  “Sure, you want to babysit three boys?” He’s got a two- and a four- and a six-year-old. He says lately he’s been walking around terrified because it’s that time again. The two-year itch, he calls it.

  “I don’t think you’d want me babysitting,” I tell him.

  “I don’t think you’d survive it if you tried.” He laughs at his own joke.

  I want to tell him I hired someone and she’s starting tomorrow, but I don’t know how. If I’d been smart enough to get Marvel’s number I could call her and tell her the truth, but nah, I didn’t do that either.

  Somehow I need to figure out how to get through tomorrow without being embarrassed or getting fired. I realize that it’d be worse to be fired. I still have my car to pay off. The car that got totaled by one of my best friends, Barton Menke, when I wasn’t even there.

  Barton should’ve graduated this past spring, but it didn’t turn out that way. He had hoped to basically not study his entire senior year of high school, and someone like Barton has to study. He’s just not that smart. Then again, how smart was I, letting him drive my car after an end-of-the-year party?

  It was a good thing he hadn’t been drinking. That was one of the reasons Barton was driving. In fact, none of the guys in the car were partyers. They were just fans of El Burrito Loco and thought it would be a great idea to get burritos at midnight. I was tired and went home to bed. Big mistake that turned out to be.

  The Nissan Altima wasn’t that great of a car. I bought it for $8,000 since it was about five years old and had a lot of mileage on it. I paid $4,000 and my parents paid the other half. Well, Mom paid, with my assurance I’d pay them back. Dad wasn’t too happy about the arrangement in the first place, and when he heard about the accident, he had a whole faceful of I told you so. He said I needed to pay them for the car by the end of the summer. Which gave me a whole heartful of Thanks so very much.

  The accident happened on a side road near El Burrito Loco. A road crew had blocked off half the street, because about a hundred yards of it had been turned into an eight-foot-deep pit. Guess what Barton did? He found the only possible way to sneak through the barriers, then drove down the road, only to slide off into the hole. He didn’t blast off and kill himself and the others. But he saw the hole coming and tried to avoid it, toppling the car over and totally warping its frame. The tires were busted and the sides were mangled, and the insurance guy said we might as well buy a new car. Since, yeah, insurance wasn’t going to pay me anything.

  Barton told me he’d pay for it. I seriously doubted I’d see the money anytime soon. The guy was already in hot water with his parents for being forced to repeat his senior year, so they weren’t about to bail him out. And he still didn’t have a summer job, while I had two.

  I leave the record store and hop on my bike, and in two seconds I realize the obvious. The tires have been slashed.

  I don’t need to wonder who did this.

  I mean, yeah, sure, maybe Marvel figured out I was bluffing and opened up her switchblade. But I’m seriously thinking it was Greg and Sergio.

  I’m also thinking that stuff between me and them has only just begun.

  Devon picks me up in his brand-new Jeep Wrangler. It’s shiny and red, and his parents gave it to him on his birthday last spring. I got twenty bucks, and Devon got a new car. Life’s not fair, but I’ve known this for a long time. At least I can call him to pick me up after I’ve pushed my bike to a shop a couple of blocks away from the record store.

  “How’s the record business?” Devon asks.

  “I met a girl named Marvel.”

  “Sounds like a comic,” Devon says. “Or a comic book, not a comic, since I doubt she’s a comedian, right?”

  Devon Teed’s mind is a little like a shotgun. Each thought is a blast in a different direction. Sometimes he’s talking with you, then you realize he’s talking to himself. Sometimes you forget you were even talking to begin with, because you’re fascinated with listening to Devon.

  “She’s pretty hot,” I tell him. “A Hispanic girl, seems pretty cool.”

  “Can she talk English?”

  I shake my head. “No, not at all. Except to ask me if I want a flour or corn tortilla.”

  Devon doesn’t mean to sound arrogant or racist. He’s just dumb sometimes, simply because he’s lived a white, white life. There really is a white picket fence around his house, and his mother still helps him put sunscreen on his pasty skin.

  I don’t tell Devon about hiring Marvel. He’d have a lot of fun at my expense with that one.

  “So who’s this kid you got your bike tires slashed for?” he asks.

  “Seth Belcher. Know him?”

  Devon thinks for a moment. “That guy is weird.”

  “He’s quiet.”

  “No, he’s weird. I remember him in ninth grade talking about a cat he killed.”

  I laugh. “I hate cats.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t go around killing them.”

  “Well, I don’t go around beating kids up either. Those guys are punks.”

  “That Greg is a psycho,” Devon tells me. “Watch out for him.”

  “He keeps it up, I’m going to his father.”

  Devon pulls into his driveway and shuts off the car. I hear the crickets in the background. Devon looks at me with a serious gaze.

  “Don’t get him kicked off the football team. They need him next year.”

  “If he gets kicked off it’s ’cause he’s an idiot.”

  “You’re
an idiot messin’ around with him. That’s all I have to say.”

  I laugh because I know Devon will have plenty more to say.

  “And don’t even get me started about Sergio.”

  Yep. Devon always has more to say.

  We spend a couple of hours playing on his Xbox, till his mother invites me to stay for dinner, as she always does. I’m sorta the adopted son around here, since Devon is an only child. I get more love in the Teed household than in my own. I’d tell my father this too, if I thought it would change anything.

  I realized long ago that you can’t do anything about your place in this life. Like being the oldest kid in our house, for instance. I’ll never know what it’s like to be spoiled like Carter and Alex. Dad tells me I was spoiled once too, but I don’t think so. The first kid gets treated like a grown-up way too soon.

  Devon offers me a ride home, but I tell him I’ll walk. It’s only a couple of blocks, and it’s safe in Appleton, even at ten at night. I head home on the familiar sidewalk, crossing a street and stopping to look at the clear sky. Tonight the stars are extra bright, and I wonder what it would be like to be up there with them. To be looking down instead of up.

  I like being outside at night all alone, even if it’s just a short trip like this. Back to the house and whatever it might bring.

  For a moment I think of Marvella. Or Marvel. I wonder if she’s going to be at Appleton High School next year, and if she really is as cool as she seems. I wonder what she’ll think when I tell her the truth about the record store. Maybe I can work something out with Harry. Or maybe things will crash and burn like they did with Barton and my car.

  A lot of life is out of your control. People like Dad want to think they are in control, but really nobody controls anything. You wake up one day and find your car totaled. Then a couple of weeks later you wake up and something marvelous walks into your life.

  In both cases, you didn’t have a single thing to do with it.

  The house is silent, and thankfully Dad is sleeping. So even though things are out of my control, I do what I can. I can come home late hoping to avoid drama. I can sneak inside and make it to my room without any headache. I can try to sleep and think about the girl I’m going to see tomorrow morning. I can dream about the things I’d like to say to her. I can try my best and then hope.