Audiophiles & Amplifiers

02

Aberdeen's face is pretty. Freckles cover her cheeks and nose more than anything, but also snake down her arms. They make her arms look like a pale backdrop of space and nebulae of freckles had formed on her skin. Her eyes are a starburst of green and brown. Her face is round, and she has sharp cheekbones, where you can tell puberty had hit, where she lost her baby fat. When she smiles, her face widens, but only a little, along with her cupid's bow. She never fully smiles--she only smirks.
    Looking around the near-empty room (except for all the boxes), after we introduced ourselves, I hesitated, but said politely, "So, what can I do to help?"
    She looked around as well and, sighing, said, "Could you help unpack my records?" Her voice was soft, but seemed familiar, too. It seemed nonchalant, but not like she was trying at all to make it seem so. I liked her voice.
    I nodded without a sound, agreeing to help, and she smirked.

As I helped unpack Aberdeen's records, I saw she had been playing Arcade Fire's The Suburbs, as I watched her put it back in its sleeve. I had heard of them, but never really listened to them, although I recognized the song she had been playing.
I saw she listened to a lot of bands I hadn't heard of, such as Arctic Monkeys and Spoon and The Vaccines. But I also saw some I knew, like Green Day and Cold War Kids, Coldplay and The Airborne Toxic Event. God, was I happy to see she listened to them.
Surprisingly, Aberdeen let me pick out a record, from her fifty in all. Finally, I picked Cold War Kids' Dear Miss Lonelyhearts--she watched me closely as I took it out of its sleeve, and once I had set it with gentle hands on the turntable, she made sure it was on PHONO.
I listened to her nonchalant voice as she told me about how her record player used to be her uncle's, and had it wrapped for her for christmas one year. How he died unexpectedly and as they were cleaning his house, found the gift and she opened it. She had treasured it ever since, which was around a year ago.
Being quiet and polite has its perks. Unlike last year, when I was falling for a blonde bitch who didn't care about me anyway, I learned to distance myself and become the quiet one in the back in class. I learned that if you keep to yourself and don't talk, you don't usually have to take shit from people who act like they know you. Who act like you singing Baby at a girl's Sweet Sixteen party is all you've ever done.
When the needle lowered, and the first notes played, Aberdeen turned up the volume and adjusted the bass and treble. I was jealous of the setup, since I didn't have a record player, and had been wanting one. But whenever I ask for it as a gift, I get a whole lecture about how I'd abuse it and use it to annoy "your loving parents".
I looked over to Aberdeen--we exchanged glances, shy smirks, and then went back to unpacking.

    Nearly fifteen minutes later, my mom was coming up the stairs to the attic--I sat with Aberdeen as we sorted through her books, arranging them by size. We had gotten through the records and they were sitting in their respective shelves. The books were stacked all around us, and we both frequently got distracted by the synopses of them, sometimes flipping to the first pages and starting to read. We'd catch ourselves and continue to pull books out of the few boxes on her floor labeled "books". I was quiet and polite. I didn't know what else to do, honestly.
All of the boxes were filled to the brim, which was a sign that Aberdeen was, and is, a reader. Good, I thought, at least she isn't like the rest of this generation, too absorbed in their technology to do something as "boring" as reading. Greg had gone back downstairs after about five minutes--he didn't want to help, so he ran off.
Mom looked around approvingly, and walked over to us. "Oh, this is a lovely room! Rodrick's room has wood paneling, too--I've always liked the look of it, it's very retro, isn't it?" She blabbered on about the room like Aberdeen needed her approval (which she didn't, but, then again, she does this to everyone, especially with me and my choices of friends, or my past choices).
Aberdeen was polite, but since my back was to my mom, I rolled my eyes a lot at what she said as I continued with unpacking as if she weren't here. I caught eyes with Aberdeen a couple times, and she smiled at my facial expressions. I didn't even realize I was doing them until I saw her smirk. I'm so used to doing it all the time, about everything.
Soon Dad walked up the attic stairs and said we should leave--but not before he did the same thing as Mom and started talking up the neighborhood instead.
When there was a lull in Father's blabbering, I turned around and looked up at Mother like I was a kid on a playdate asking for five more minutes. But instead, I asked as softly and as nicely as possible, "Can I help her unpack?"
Mother thought for a moment, lips pursed. I could hear her making excuses, saying I have chores or that I needed to do this or that--I stared at her, wide-eyed, trying not to look as invested in staying away from my parents as often as possible, hiding my spark of hope.
Finally, she sighed. "Okay, but be back for supper."
"Thanks, Mom," I said immediately after, lest she take it back or yell at me later for not saying so. I avoided eye contact, head tilted down so my eyes were hidden behind my bangs, but still able to see what my mom was doing.
She flashed a fake smile at Aberdeen. "Looks like you have a new friend, Aberdeen! If he gives you any trouble, let me know." She glanced at me with a 'don't fuck this up' look before she descended the stairs. I was used to that look, and sighed inwardly.
    After they left, I turned back to Aberdeen. "Sorry... for my mom," I laughed once, eyes downcast, but when I glanced up through my bangs, I saw she was smiling.
    "My mom's the same way, don't worry," she said, "she always talks up what she likes and talks down what she doesn't--she's the poster child for generic suburban mom."
I glanced up at her and wondered if she was inside my head, somehow, for a quick second. Immediately afterwards I shook off the notion.

By the time supper rolled around, we had unpacked everything she needed. Her clothes were few. Since there was no closet for her to put clothes in, she had to use an old clothes rack, which she used in her previous closet anyway. The rest of her furniture included a futon and a desk--both were equally a bitch to get up the attic stairs. We had to dismantle and rebuild the desk.
In that time, we made small talk, talking about Aberdeen's previous home, and why she moved here. She said she liked it there, but, sadly, knew her friends wouldn't miss her. She acted like it didn't bother her, but the words "they won't miss me, I know" slithered out of her mouth and wrapped around her throat; she cleared it with a small cough, trying to act casual. Her parents moved here for her father's new job, as an english teacher at the high school--which, she wasn't sure about. Which meant she wasn't looking forward to having to be the girl hearing about how horrible/amazing her dad is. She might even have to deal with girls developing crushes on him. Just thinking of that makes me cringe.
    It was when my mom texted me when Aberdeen walked up the stairs with a guitar case and a guitar stand, setting the case on her bed and the stand by her record player shelf. She opened it, pulling out a Fender standard precision bass. I stared, almost unbelieving. She looked at me questioningly as she set it in its stand and setting the case beside it.
    "What, haven't you seen a girl bassist before?" she asked, an edge of expectation to her voice, and snapped me out of my haze of interest. I realized that she might think my gawking was a form of sexist misbelief.
    I tried acting cool, straightening my back and saying, "Well, I play in a band--we're called Löded Diper. We're just starting out, but I think we'll make it big, maybe." Fuck. Why didn't we change the name?
    She nodded, erratic with thought. "Oh--cool," she said--she was curious, I could tell, but also probably questioning the name. Maybe it's time for a change in that department...
    "Um," Shoving my hands in my pockets, I quickly said, "My mom just texted me, so, I probably should go." I jabbed a thumb back behind me to where her stairs were.
    "Okay. Um..." she paused, unsure, lips parted, before she blurted: "See you later?"
    I walked to the stairs, throwing back my response: "Yeah. Sure," before heading down the stairs.