We Run the Tides(33)

“They’re British,” I say.

“I’d like to hear them before I agree to anything,” he says.

“Okay. I have the album.”

After dinner, Ewa helps my mom with the dishes and my dad follows me upstairs. He bought me a record player from Sears last year. Embarrassed, I covered up the Sears logo. I used a special handheld machine that lets me punch out capital letters on red embossing tape. I wrote “BRAND NAME HERE” on the tape and stuck it over Sears.

My dad sits in my desk chair, swiveling. I hope he doesn’t see the concert tickets—I don’t think he’ll like the fact that I’m the one who invited Keith to the show.

My dad is no stranger to concerts. He went to see Little Richard across the bay in Richmond when he was in his twenties—he was one of two white men in the audience, he said. But there are noticeable gaps in his career as a music lover. One time I asked him who his favorite Beatle was. “I kind of missed that trend,” he said. Missed that trend, I thought. The Beatles trend. So I don’t know what he’ll think of the Psychedelic Furs.

The record’s already on the turntable and I place the needle carefully on “Pretty in Pink.” I figure the title of that song is innocuous, and makes the band seem most appropriate for someone my age.

He closes his eyes as he listens to the song.

“Eulabee,” my dad says.

“Yes,” I say.

“They’re fine,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “So . . .”

“You may go to the concert,” he says, though it’s clear he can’t believe he’s saying the words. “We’ll have to work something out where maybe Ewa picks you up right afterward or something.”

“Of course,” I say. “Thank you.”

Instead of saying, “You’re welcome,” he nods. Then he stops swiveling and stands.

*

EWA DRIVES US TO THE SHOW in my parents’ yellow Saab. Keith and I are quiet on the drive and Ewa fills the air by talking about how popular heavy metal is in Sweden. We pull up in front of the Fillmore. The crowd is thick and older.

“She’s cool,” Keith says when Ewa drops us off.

“Yeah,” I say. I love that he likes her.

The scent of damp fallen leaves hits me as we enter the building.

“Pot,” Keith says.

Right, I think. The only other concert I’ve been to is Duran Duran.

We’re standing in the middle of the theater, not knowing what to do with our hands. Everyone else around us has drinks in theirs. When the concert starts, we sway a little to the music.

“No banter,” Keith says.

“What?” I ask. Leaning in to him, I smell Tide. His mother must not dilute the laundry detergent the way my mom does.

“Interesting that there’s no banter from the band. Not even ‘It’s so great to be in San Francisco.’”

A relative newcomer to this world, I say, “Yeah.”

The band starts playing “Heaven,” and Keith begins spinning around with his arms stretched up in the shape of a V.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“That’s what Richard Butler does in the video for this song.”

I know better than to ask who Richard Butler is. I never thought of learning any of the names in the band.

“Try it,” he says.

I start spinning, reluctantly at first.

“Stretch your arms up and out,” Keith says.

I do.

And there we are spinning, circling in opposite directions so that our hands gently collide with each rotation. Each time we face each other I see that Keith is singing the lyrics. I succumb to the music. I soar up above the world and nothing else matters except seeing Keith’s face again on the next rotation, when I get another whiff of Tide.

“I’m so happy we came to the concert,” I say.

“What?” he says, trying to hear me over the music.

“I’m so happy,” I yell.

When the Furs finish their set and leave the stage my heart drops. But then everyone shouts for an encore—me included, me especially—and the band comes back out and plays “Pretty in Pink.” I scream because now I know what it feels like when the music stops, and I desperately don’t want it to end.

When the show is officially over, Keith and I step outside into the cold fog. The night air smells like new leather jackets. The Saab’s low and wide headlights come toward us and we both slip into the back seat.

“How was it?” Ewa asks as we drive away.

“Fantastic,” Keith says. His fingers spider-walk over to my hand and he holds it. I feel his heartbeat in his thumb.

“Look at this,” Ewa says as we drive up Pine. “The lights must be timed. We’re hitting green lights the whole way.” As we cruise smoothly and steadily through the night, it feels like we’re on a boulevard built only for us.





20


The Friday of the party finally arrives and Maria Fabiola’s not at school. Maybe she was kidnapped again, I think, but know better than to say this aloud. The only person I could say this to would be Keith. He would think it was funny. But Keith’s out of town, in Yosemite, for his cousin’s wedding.

No one can concentrate at school—not even the teachers, all of whom, except for the science teacher, Ms. Mc., are going to the party, too. Everyone’s distracted by what exactly is going to happen. Is an announcement going to be made? A secret revealed? Not one of us knows any more about the circumstances surrounding Maria Fabiola’s disappearance and her miraculous Christmas Day return than we did three weeks ago.