Skater Boy

Chapter 4

WHERE WE LEFT OFF: Popular girl Dawn Miller is sick of her fake, flaky friends and her overbearing parents. So when she meets the new girl in school, rebelious headmaster's daughter Starr, she's immediately intrigued. Starr's not so sure, on the other hand, whether Dawn's worth hanging out with, but she takes a chance, inviting her to Boston to go shopping. 

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Boston is a whole new world with Starr as my tour guide. Sure, I’ve been to the city before. The Evil Ones take me shopping for school clothes every autumn and to the Nutcracker every Christmas. But those experiences pale in comparison to Starr’s Boston.

After getting sprung from detention, I drop my poem and entry form in the mail and then Starr and I head to the train station. Luckily we don’t have to wait long since I’ve suddenly developed this huge paranoia that my dad’s going to drive by and catch me. But of course he doesn’t. Still, my heart’s  beating a mile a minute as the whistle blows and the train pulls out of the station. No turning back now.

Starr fills the half-hour trip with wild tales of boarding school (wow!), her environmental  concerns (gas guzzling SUVs—bad; hybrid,  environmentally friendly  Toyota Prius—good), even (yay!) politics.

And bonus—she never once mentions shoes, jeans, or anything remotely related to  fashion, which  is soooo refreshing.

When we arrive in Boston’s North Station, we take the subway to Newbury Street where we hit Urban Outfitters for funky clothes, Silver Nation for retro jewelry, and then Mystery Train, a used record store for tune’age.

In Mystery Train’s low-lit basement store, Starr contents herself to flip through the seemingly endless bins of used records, pulling out and examining obscure recordings I’ve never even heard of.  Bands with  names like Joy Division and Sisters of Mercy and Bauhaus.

“This is a great album,” she says, holding up a record- ing from a band called The Cure. “And  it’s not as hard- core as the others. In fact, even a Barbie like you might appreciate it.”

I take the album from her, wishing she’d cut the Barbie crap. There’s a pair of bright red lips on the cover and songs like “Torture,” “The Snake Pit,” and “A Thousand Hours” listed.

“Sounds like a barrel of laughs,” I say. “Do they, um, have it on CD?”

Starr blinks. “You  know,  records are the  authentic recordings of the music as it was meant to sound, before electronic enhancements messed with its purity.”

“Sure, I get it. But I don’t have a record player.” I shrug. “Is it available on iTunes?  I could download it. . . .”

Starr rolls her eyes. Why do I feel so incredibly unhip around her? I mean, she’s the one who listens to vinyl— even the ancient Evil Ones have moved on to CDs. But her purposeful, pig-headed rejection of technology just makes her seem even cooler for some odd reason.

She yanks the record from my hands, pulling it from its dusty, cardboard sleeve and sets it on an empty turntable against the wall. Then she places the needle on the record and hands me the attached headphones.

As I put them over my ears, a dark, intense music bom- bards my senses. A man purrs and wails in a powerful, soul-wrenching voice. It’s  so deep. So beautiful. Like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I close  my eyes to better take in the sound. It may seem completely corny, but I get the feeling this kind of music could change someone’s life, if they let it.

“What  do you think?”  Starr asks a few minutes later, as she pulls the headphones from my ears.  I reluctantly relinquish them, blinking my eyes, still a bit dazed.

“Awesome,”  I  say, though the word seems  kind of inadequate to express how the music has affected me.

“A little different from your average Bieber, huh?”

I  frown.  “Just ’cause I’ve never heard of  this band doesn’t mean I like Justin Bieber, you know.”

“Okay, then, what kind of music do you listen to?” The question has a definite challenge embedded in it and I feel my face heat as I try to figure out how to answer her. I never tell anyone what music I listen to. I’m afraid they’ll just make fun of me. But Starr is different. . . .

“Let  me  guess,”  she says, regarding me  with unabashed disdain. “Justin Beiber?  One Direction? Taylor Swift? Beyonce?"

“Actually, I prefer the classics,”  I admit at last. What the heck, it’s better than having her assume  I like Justin Beiber. “Rolling Stones, The Animals, Beatles, David Bowie.”

“Oh!  David Bowie rocks,” Starr says, eyes shining and disdain quickly fleeing her face. In fact, she actually looks a bit impressed. Score one for Barbie.

 “You  like him?”  I’ve never met anyone under thirty who liked David Bowie. “I’ve had a total crush on him since I saw Labyrinth when I was a kid.”

“Oh,  yeah, he was way sexy in that  movie,”  Starr agrees. “I never understood why Jennifer Connelly chose saving her baby brother over him.” She steps forward, in total actress mode. “Through dangers untold and hard- ships unnumbered,  I have fought my way here to the cas- tle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen.”

I giggle at her rendition. “For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great. You have no power over me,” I continue, in my best dramatic voice.

“He’d have a heck of a lot of power over me wearing those tights, I’ll tell you what,”  Starr says with a laugh. She lifts the record off the turntable and puts it back in its sleeve. “You know, Barbie, you’re not half as clueless as I’d guessed.”

“Gee, thanks.” I roll my eyes, but I’m secretly pleased. “I’m  going to buy this for you,” she says, holding up the Cure album. “And I’ll even give you a break and get it on CD.”

“You don’t have to,” I start to say, but she waves me off. “It’s  all good. I  like educating people about music.

Music’s very important.”

“I agree,” I say with a smile.  I feel so relieved to have shared my secret music obsessions with someone who wasn’t going  to  ridicule them because my list didn’t include Rhianna.

The clerk rings up her purchase and we leave the store. It’s  getting dark, so I  suggest we catch the next train back. Don’t want to get home too late and feel the wrath of The Evil Ones.

Because if I don’t get caught this time, I’ll be able to play bad girl again. Something  I definitely want to do.