“Other things?”
“Other things.”
Okay. Maybe this whole van situation isn’t a complete loss. My hands are in his yellow-white bleached hair, and our lips are smashed against each other, when there’s a loud, rude “Got any change, man?”
We break apart to find a guy in head-to-toe dirty patchwork corduroy glaring at us.
“Sorry,” I say.
“No need to be sorry.” He glowers at me underneath his white-boy dreadlocks. “I’m only f**king starving.”
“ASSHOLE,” Max shouts as the guy slumps off.
San Francisco is positively crawling with homeless. I can’t walk from home to school without running into a dozen. They make me uneasy, because they’re a constant reminder of my origins, but usually I can ignore them. Look past them. Otherwise . . . it’s too exhausting.
But in the Haight, the homeless are passive-aggressive jerks.
I don’t like coming here, but Max has friends who work in the overpriced vintage clothing boutiques, head shops, bookstores, and burrito joints. Despite the psychedelic graffiti and the bohemian window displays, Haight Street—once the mecca of sixties free love—is undeniably rougher and dirtier than the rest of the city.
“Hey. Forget that guy,” Max says.
He sees that I need cheering, so he leads me to the falafel place where we had our first date. Afterward, we wander into a drag shop to try on wigs. He laughs as I pose in an absurd purple beehive. I love his laugh. It’s rare, so whenever I hear it, I know I’ve earned it. He even lets me put one on his head, a blond Marilyn. “Wait till Johnny and Craig see you,” I say, referring to his bandmates.
“I’ll tell them I decided to grow it out.”
“Rogaine works,” I say in my best Max voice.
“Is that another old man joke?” Max laughs again as he tosses back my pale pink wig. “We should go. I told Johnny I’d meet him at three-thirty.”
I tuck my real hair underneath it. “Because you don’t see him enough at home.”
“You rarely see him,” Max says.
Johnny Ocampo—Amphetamine’s drummer, Max’s roommate—works at Amoeba Records, the one thing I do love about this neighborhood. Amoeba is a vast concrete haven of rare vinyl, band posters, and endless rows of CDs in color-coded genre tabs. There’s still something to be said for music you can hold in your hands.
“I was only teasing. Besides,” I add, “you never hang out with Lindsey.”
“Come on, Lo. She’s nosy and immature. It’s weird between us.”
His words are true, but . . . ouch. Sometimes lying is the polite thing to do. I frown. “She’s my best friend.”
“I’d just rather spend time with you.” Max takes my hand. “Alone.”
We’re quiet as we enter Amoeba. Johnny, a pudgy but muscled Filipino, is in his usual place behind the information desk, which is raised as if the guys behind it hold the end-all truth about Good Musical Taste and Knowledge. Johnny and Max exchange jerks of the head in acknowledgment as Johnny finishes up with a customer. I wave hello to Johnny and disappear into the merchandise.
I listen mainly to rock, but I browse everything, because I never know when I’ll discover something that I didn’t know I liked. Hip-hop, classical, reggae, punk, opera, electronica. Nothing grabs my attention today, so I wander over to rock. I’m browsing the Ps and Qs, when the small, invisible hairs on the back of my neck rise. I look up.
And there he is.
Cricket Bell is standing front and center, searching for something. Someone. And then his gaze locks onto mine, and his face alights like the stars. He smiles—a full smile that reaches all the way to his eyes—and it’s sweet and pure and hopeful.
And I know what is about to happen.
My palms break into a sweat. Don’t say it. Oh, please God, don’t say it. But this traitorous prayer follows: Say it. Say it.
Cricket weaves easily around the other customers as if we’re the only two people in the store. The music over the loudspeakers changes from a sparse pop song into a swelling rock symphony. My heart pounds faster and faster. How badly I once wished for this moment. How badly I wish it would end now.
How badly I wish it would continue.