Read Online The Suburban Strange by Nathan Kotecki - Free Book Online Page B

them manage their own love lives so well. Someday I’ll have to tell you about Regine’s unrequited love for Ivo and Liz’s unrequited love for one of the football players, of all people.”
    “The guy in the parking lot on the first day of school, right? Who is he?”
    “His name is Skip—I know, Skip, right? His favorite color is orange . What more do you need to know? Liz refuses to talk about him, so don’t bring it up or I’ll just get in trouble for gossiping again,” Marco said.
    They said good night by the cars. As she put the key in the ignition, Regine told Celia, “When you’re allowed to stay out later, we can stop at the all-night diner and get food before we head home. On a good night we don’t get back until three or four.”
    Celia sank back in the passenger seat, enveloped by the sumptuous music on the second half of Brenden’s mix. She thought life really was better with the right soundtrack. Out the window she could see the stars, and she felt as though all of it had been made for her. After she slipped in her front door and crept up her stairs, the thing that kept Celia from falling asleep was her happiness. The beginning of school had been a lovely adventure, but now another adventure had overshadowed it, one that felt even more vivid, more life-changing. Celia wondered if moments like these would happen all her life, or if they were a special kind of alchemy that was only possible for teenagers. She took out her sketchbook and made a quick drawing of Regine at Diaboliques, her arms unfurled, one foot touching lightly in front of the other, her head tilted to the side. She was tempted to draw the silver-eyed boy, but she resisted. It felt like a girlish, lovesick thing to do, and not at all behavior of which the Rosary would approve. She wanted to be cool and unaffected like her friends. Celia looked around her bedroom, full of pastel colors and frills, and thought, I need to redecorate .
     
    THE NEXT DAY CELIA SAT in front of her computer and typed in the website address Brenden had given her for his blog. The dark and lush graphic design reminded her of the d´cor at Diaboliques. There were categories of posts from which to choose, and she clicked on "Strangers in Open Cars —Songs You Should Know." The first entry on the list was Cocteau Twins— "The Spangle Maker." In the margin she clicked on an audio player to hear the song while she was reading Brenden's essay-length post.
    “The Spangle Maker” was unlike anything Celia had ever heard, even including all the new music she’d encountered in the previous months. It was a song that would have mystified her just a few months ago, but now it seemed to unfold like a treasure map, revealing details and ideas as Brenden pointed them out to her. When the song ended, she clicked the player link to start it again. As it began a second time, she felt that already she was hearing it differently. The song’s strangeness was wrapping around her like a shawl.
    Brenden had been right about the lyrics. Celia barely could make out more than a word or two, and those didn’t really add up to anything. In the chorus she heard what sounded like “It’s pomegranate” and smiled. It felt as if the song was about her, just a little. Celia played the song yet again, and she reread Brenden’s post. Then she kept clicking the link, until she had heard “The Spangle Maker” a dozen times. It was just as strange and wonderful as Brenden had described it, and his writing was the perfect tour guide to embrace the strangeness, wade into it, accept it on its own terms. Celia remembered what Brenden had said about having heroes to inspire her, and she wondered if she should tell him he, and the rest of the Rosary, had attained that status for her.
    The aroma of Diaboliques lingered in her memory—a mixture of industrial space, exotic perfumes, and alcohol. The people posed and danced in her mind. Celia’s first impulse was to open her sketchbook again and