The Art of Jumping [rewritten]

i- records and wind-blown hair

i-

The brunette shut the door firmly behind her, closing it against her mother's furious aura. She had barely been able to grab her jacket and headphones before she finally left their little apartment. Drew huffed and pushed a hand through her hair. She waited several moments, listening for any sound indicating her mother broke a plate or something before she stuffed her headphones in and stalked to the staircase at the end of the hallway.

She half expected her mother to burst from the apartment and continue the argument they'd had but she was the only one in the hallway. Drew stuffed her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket as she reached the street, the wind blowing her hair back. At four in the afternoon the Brooklyn street was littered with people. Leaving the safety of her building, Drew chose a random direction to walk and went with it.

Her music drowned out the sounds of the people surrounding her, and soon she was lost in the sea of people. Normally a claustrophobic person, Drew didn't feel that way in crowds. She actually loved the idea of being a faceless person in a crowd. Of no one knowing her and her story, of no one knowing anything deeper than just her appearance.

As she continued walking, her phone vibrated in her back pocket. Drew pulled the device out, saw who had texted her, and immediately stuffed her phone back into her jeans. She did not want to hear her mom's attempts to get her to come back and sort out their problems. They could do that after she cleared her mind and maybe got a wrap from a little restaurant a few blocks away.

Drew hadn't realized, but she had started to walk across a street just as a taxi driver pulled forward to make a right turn. She yelped, slapping her hands down on the hood of the taxi to steady herself. Luckily the driver had managed to stop the car before he actually hit the frightened girl. She stared at him with wide eyes, realizing her utter stupidity right then and unsure what to do with that knowledge. The driver honked his horn and yelled some obscenities Drew couldn't hear though it somehow got her moving again and she raced across the street.

In her flustered state, Drew pulled open a door to what she had thought was the restaurant that had her favorite wraps, but was not greeted by the familiar scent of lemon and green peppers. Rather, the first thing she noticed was the musty smell and then she focused on the interior of the little shop.

Guitars hung on the wall opposite her, accoustic, electric, bass, beautiful instruments. A shiny red drumkit sat in one corner. Saxophones and clarinets and oboes and other various instruments Drew didn't have a name for resided on stands. Massive amounts of sheet music seemed to overflow as they rested in the shelves. What really struck her, though, were the stacks of vinyl records beside where the CDs were, closer to the small cash register.

She released a breath just as the door she had thrown open shut behind her, a little bell jingling. A boy she just realized was standing behind a counter, flipping through a magazine looked up. His dark hair hung over his forehead and his eyes seemed to scrutinize her very existence.

She flushed under his gaze and forced her feet to carry her to the vinyl. She thought she would feel his gaze on her, but she didn't. When Drew glanced back towards the boy, she found his attention was back on his magazine, so she focused back on the records. She flipped through the records, her eyes shifting over and reading the album names. A thrill of excitement ran up her spine as she pulled a Nirvana and Pat Benatar album, holding one in each hand. Her smile was wide as she slid them back in, making a mental note of where those specific albums were located. She found a wide variety of artists from vastly different eras, and felt a little prideful that she knew at least one song from every artist or album.

Drew was a little surprised to see that the majority of the album covers were obviously used. Some of the corners were worn, the artwork not as vibrant as others. She found herself gravitating towards those ones, the used and discarded ones that people obviously sold or gave to this little music store.