had plenty more to say on the subject but understood I was in no condition to listen.
“There’s a package on your desk,” she said instead. “Verrrry special delivery.”
I didn’t think much of it, despite Gia’s innuendo via inflection. I’d ordered some office supplies and assumed my delivery had arrived a little earlier than expected. Nothing major, just some floppy discs, printer paper, and other stuff that would be used by me for the next month and whoever took over the job after that.
I was wrong.
“What is it?” Drea asked, peeking over my shoulder.
It was a cassette tape.
Barbra Streisand.
The Broadway Album.
I ran my finger along the jagged edge of the case. A chunk of plastic was missing from the corner.
“What is it?” Drea persisted.
I opened it up and found a yellow Post-it note inside. In black ink, blocky handwriting, a message: DAMAGED GOODS. NOT FOR SALE.
“Go on,” Gia urged.
“But…” I protested.
“You haven’t worked all afternoon,” Gia replied. “Why start now?”
“But…”
“But nothing! As your boss, I demand you go thank that cute boy immediately.”
Cute? Was Sam Goody cute?
“Go!” shouted mother and daughter together.
* * *
So, I went to the music store. Sam Goody didn’t notice me right away because he was busy with an aging hippie. I had to get within a foot or two to eavesdrop over the hair band blasting out of the speakers.
“Finally found the love of a lifetiiiiiiiiiime…”
This was a song written expressly for senior prom slow dancing if I had ever heard one. It was even worse than Michael friggin’ Bolton. Seriously, I didn’t know how Sam Goody endured this daily attack on his senses and musical sensibilities.
“Compact discs have superior sound quality,” Sam Goody was saying. “They absolutely will not be replaced by any new form of musical technology any time soon.”
“Yeah, yeah,” griped the customer. “That’s what they said about eight-tracks.”
Sam Goody nodded grimly in agreement.
“You know what? You’re right. There’s always going to be something newer and better to replace what you’ve already got.”
“If it’s all the same to you,” said the curmudgeon as he shuffled toward the exit, “I’ll stick with vinyl.”
“What’s your opinion on cassettes?” I asked, holding up the cracked case of The Broadway Album.
Sam Goody spun around.
“Oh! Bellarosa! Hey! Um. Hi!”
His cheeks flushed with surprise. Gia was right. Sam Goody was cute. And catching him so flustered like this only made him more so.
“The Broadway Album is now the least terrible of all musical options when my mom drives me to work every day.”
“Aha!” Sam Goody shook both hands through his hair. “Barbra was for your mom. That makes so much sense. I was wondering how The Broadway Album fit in with Morrissey, 10,000 Maniacs, R. E. M., Indigo Girls…”
Aha indeed. It hadn’t ended with “Viva Hate.” Sam Goody had been paying attention to all my T-shirts. Which meant Sam Goody had been paying attention to me. He immediately realized how creepy this confession could come across.
“I’m not stalking you or anything! Nine hundred thousand square feet sounds like a lot of space, but it’s really hard not to see the same people who work here every day.”
Yet I hadn’t seen Sam Goody nearly as often as he’d apparently seen me.
“I didn’t see you,” I replied truthfully. “Until you tripped me at the bookstore.”
This made him smile, which made me smile. My parents would’ve recommended refitting a new retainer, but I liked his mouth just the way it was when it wasn’t smirking.
“You tripped over me,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.
“As Barbra sings on The Broadway Album: Po-tay-to, po-tah-to, to-may-to, to-mah-to…”
Barbra didn’t actually sing those lines on The Broadway Album. But I doubted Sam Goody’s musical knowledge had that kind of reach.
“I feel bad about how I acted,” he said, “you know, the first time we met.”
There was just enough hesitancy in his voice for me to know he was telling the truth.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“I was having a bad day—a year’s worth of bad days, really—and I decided to take it out on you for some reason. And for that, I’m sorry.”
Earlier in the summer, I wouldn’t have accepted this excuse for dickish behavior. But I’d had more bad days than good lately. I knew I wouldn’t want to be judged by my tray-flinging anger at Troy, my short-and-sick attraction to Slade, or any of the other lows vying for the honor of my sad, sad, Scott Scanlon moment of the summer.
“I—”
“Hold that thought,” Sam Goody said.
He needed to help a baffled old lady wandering up