The Casquette Girls (Book 1)

10. Lady Stardust

Focus on something, Adele. Anything.

By the time I dragged my luggage upstairs, I felt like I'd had a total body workout, but whenever I rested for more than a minute, my mind bounced back and forth between the convent and Sacred Heart, until I felt like I was going to explode.

Finish cleaning.

I stood in my new attic bedroom with my hands on my hips, trying to figure out where to start. The afternoon sun illuminated the dust, making everything sparkle in a weird, whimsical way, and the sheeted furniture cast oddly shaped shadows on the walls, reminding me of a modern art exhibit. I snapped a few photos, then held my breath and pulled off the first sheet, sending dust sparkles everywhere.

Whoa, an upright piano. Maybe everything isn't just old junk.

I tore off the rest of the sheets like a kid on Christmas morning. A rocking chair. A beautifully carved vanity with a trifolding mirror. A rose-colored chaise, and a large oak wardrobe. The perfect little setup from the past. In the middle of the room was a large bed with four ornate brass posts that would have held a delicate canopy once, but from which now hung a couple of limp drop cloths. Without thinking, I yanked them off and plopped down onto the plastic-covered mattress.

My gaze settled on the last drop-cloth sculpture. It was an incredibly odd shape. Tuba? I jumped up and ripped off the cover, revealing a phonograph.

"Cool."

The case over the turntable had been sealed tight, so it wasn't even that dusty when I opened it. "Do you still work?"

I raced down to my father's studio and then, breathing heavily, ran back up the stairs with an armful of randomly selected records: the soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar, a classic Louis Armstrong, a Led Zeppelin, and a David Bowie. I carefully looked over the cardboard case protecting The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. I didn't know much about David Bowie, but something about the bright gas lamp on the cover attracted me like a fly. Will these records even work on this old machine? I wondered, gently pulling the vinyl from the sleeve. I placed it on the turntable and moved the needle.

My fingers searched for a power switch. You're an idiot, Adele. I reached for the hand crank, but I couldn't get it to budge. Mental note: get the WD-40 from Dad's studio.

I gave the phonograph a little pep talk and exerted some force on the handle.

It gradually started to turn.

The record spun, and the music began playing, all without the power of electricity. "Just like magic," I whispered.

The glam-rock beats sounded raw and scratchy coming from the large flower-shaped cone, and the slow start of the opening song crept over me with the grip of a soon-to-be obsession. I spritzed dusting cleanser with the downbeats of the tune and wiped the rag over the piano as if I were performing onstage. By the time the next track began, I'd moved on to the vanity mirror and decided that I loved Bowie.

When the third track began to crescendo, my fingers picked an air guitar, but just as I started to shred, the music cut off and the room became completely still. I caught sight of my frozen pose in the mirror and quickly dropped the imaginary instrument.

I glanced at the phonograph, hoping I hadn't broken it. Blaming the spiders from Mars, I forced myself to keep cleaning, but it wasn't the same. Even though we'd only just been introduced, I was already having Ziggy Stardust withdrawal.

"Ugh, the crank!" I said, having a second mini revelation over the machine's need for manual power.

Finish the mirror first . . .

Without even the slightest ambient street noise coming in through the open windows, the swooshes from my rag seemed loud. I worked faster, eager to get back into David Bowie's spaceship, but then a wave of tingles jettisoning down my spine made me freeze midscrub.

A faint rattle came from behind me.

I strained to listen. It's just the old pipes. The rattling sounded way too close to be coming from behind a wall.

Scrubbing again, my nerves began to frazzle, but I refused to look back, feeling safety in not knowing the truth. The noise grew louder and louder, chipping at my curiosity like an ice pick. Chip. Chip.

Breathe.

Without moving my head, I raised my eyes to the mirror and blinked a couple of times at the reflection. Across the room, the metal hand crank was aggressively jerking, causing the entire music box to shake. I spun around, dropping the rag.

As I gaped at the machine, the handle slowly began to turn itself and the music started up again, just as if it had never stopped.

"What the . . . ?"

Am I losing my mind? I forced myself to go back to cleaning. Some kind of Storm-induced post-traumatic stress disorder?

The next time the volume died, the sound of my pounding heartbeat was interrupted again by creaking metal. I knew what was making the noises, but my brain could not adjust to the idea.

Creak. Creak.

Breathe.

Once again, Bowie's voice warbled back to full volume, and the room was back to feeling like a 1970s rock opera.

I exhaled loudly, swooshing the rag around the bucket of soapy water, racking my brain for a logical explanation, but I didn't land on anything scientific. Maybe it's a ghost? A lost spirit who really, really wanted to listen to Ziggy Stardust? I couldn't blame it. Wait, do I even believe in ghosts?

The volume died again.

Annoyed by the start-and-stop, I whipped around—the metal handle spun so quickly the album hardly skipped a beat—and David Bowie's voice parachuted in to keep me from going into panic mode.

I had no idea whether I was dreaming, awake, crazy, or sane, but as the B-side repeated, I began to relax, and my thoughts moved from a recently grayed-out New Orleans to an explosion of color in Mr. Bowie's fantastical world.

I hadn't realized that I was full-on rocking out with the mop until my father appeared and twirled me around.

"There is absolutely no denying you are my daughter," he yelled over the music. I was loving it too much to be embarrassed.

He grabbed the shadeless floor lamp and belted out the "Lady Stardust" lyrics, doing his best David Bowie impression. I burst out laughing.

"Oh my God, Dad, stop. You're ridiculous."

He sang even louder.

The more I laughed, the more dramatic he became. I hadn't seen him act this silly since I was a kid. Maybe we were both going loopy. He slid across the piano bench and banged out the chords on the long-dormant instrument.

His ridiculousness escalated until I was doubled over with tears pouring down my cheeks. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed so hard. My ribs hurt. My cheeks hurt. And I was gasping for air.

That's when I discovered a really good laugh could change everything.

He jumped up from the piano bench just in time for the last verse, spun me around a few times, and then slowly rocked me back and forth. As the song finished, so did the crank, and the music stopped.

"Everything's going to be all right, Adele." He kissed the top of my head. "I promise."

I willed myself to believe him, but when I opened my eyes, I saw the metal crank vibrating, as if it were trying to figure out what I wanted it to do. And then, even stranger, I felt myself commanding it to stay still.