Signal to Noise(87)

Meche shrugged. Always such a little baby, Daniela. The wax snaked around them, drawing secret patterns upon the floor.

“You’re scaring me,” Daniela squeaked, the flashlight trembling in her hands, the beam of light bouncing up and down.

“Stop it,” Sebastian said. “She’s frightened.”

“Oh, come on,” Meche said rolling her eyes. “I’ll make it stop when you give me my record.”

“Enough of this,” Sebastian said.

“I’m scared!” Daniela wailed.

“Enough!”

Sebastian screamed. The scream made her jump back, staggered by the ferocity of it. Sebastian reached for his backpack and pulled out a record.

Meche could not see from where she was standing because Sebastian was half in shadows. Instead, she felt it, like a great, beating heart crouched in the corner of the room.

For a moment she smiled, feeling her object of power so close to her, almost back in her arms...

... and then he snapped the Duncan Dhu record in two. It made a sound like bones breaking .

She screamed as an invisible fissure traveled up her feet, up her legs and through her chest until it reached her chest. There came the sensation of being ripped apart. Her heart was squeezed ferociously and she could not breathe...

... and then breath returned to her in a shocked gasp.

The candles all went out at the same time, plunging the room into darkness.

Meche dropped down, crouching by the record player.

Her trembling hands touched the needle, quieting the music.

The whole factory was silent.

Sebastian stepped forward, his flashlight pointed at her.

“Are you alright?”

“It’s gone,” she whispered. “The magic.”

Meche looked at him and could not stop the tears streaming down her cheeks.

He stretched out a hand towards her. Meche slapped it away. She closed the record player and grabbed it in one hand, hurrying down the stairs and holding on to the bannister with the other.

“Meche, you can’t see!” he yelled.

He was right. It was very dark. But it did not matter. Blindly she stepped down and in darkness found the way out, bursting onto the street with the record player clutched against her chest.

She ran home, her feet pounding the pavement, jumping from puddle of light to puddle of light.

When she reached the apartment she pulled her suitcase from under the bed and filled it with some clothes. She latched it and hurried to the door, bumping against her mother in the living room.

“Meche,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving,” Meche said. “I’m getting out of this place and going to live with dad.”

“Meche, you are not going anywhere.”

She had to. She could not stay. Humiliation, rage, despair, that was the only thing which could grow between these walls, on that whole street.

“Dad will be glad to have me over.”

“Your father can’t take care of you,” her mother said, tugging at the suitcase.

Meche pulled it back.

“Why not? He’s my dad.”

“Because he drinks. Because he’s never able to do anything right.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“You don’t even like me! And I don’t like you!”

“He stole our money!” her mother roared and tugged at the suitcase hard enough to pull it free from Meche’s grasp.

Meche huffed, pressing a hand against her chest. “What do you mean?”

“Our savings, Meche. He stole our savings and spent them on that woman.”

“He did not,” Meche said, feeling offended. “The savings fund is for me. For university and for—”

“I barely have enough money to put food on the table. Your grandmother is going to end up in Monterrey because I can’t support both of you. I am not making this up. I am—”

“You are nuts!”

Meche rushed out, carrying the record player under her arm. She heard her mother screaming after her, but she ran down the stairs fast as she could and out onto the street.





HER DAD SMILED, though his smile was a little creased at the edges.

“Meche. How’s it going?” he asked. “Um... were you coming to visit today?”

“No,” she said and set the record player by the entrance, looking around the apartment.

It was very small and there were lots of boxes. He had not unpacked most of his things, it seemed. Meche sat down on a little blue couch and her father took an old rattan chair across from her. There was a ratty coffee table in between them and she noticed an ashtray filled to the brim and a glass with some dregs at the bottom. It smelled like whiskey. Her father grabbed the glass.

“I should take this to the sink. Do you want a soda?” he said. “I’ve got soda in the refrigerator. I don’t have food. I’m eating out. I do have potato chips.”

Meche took off her green jacket and placed it on her knees.

“It’s cool. I don’t really—”

“They’re good chips,” he said.

Her father wandered into the kitchen, pulling out glasses, filling a little bowl with chips.

“Dad, is it okay if I come stay with you?” she asked, trying to sound casual. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Because it probably wasn’t.