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Authors: Rysa Walker
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power source…should last a whole lot longer than batteries. Fixed the front cover, too.”
Once he has the headphones over my ears he pushes play and the announcer says, “…peaking at number six on the charts in July, coming at number sixty-three, ‘Come Dancing’!”
Then The Kinks start singing, but it’s the voice in the background that stops my heart. Deb is yelling, “Told you, told you, told you! The Kinks. ‘Come Dancing.’ Right there at number sixty-three. I hit it on the nose. Five points for me!”
Even with the stabilizers, my heels feel a little shaky right now.
“Are you okay? Pru?”
I hug him, partly to mask my emotion, but also because this was really thoughtful. “Thank you so much.”
Tate’s back stiffens when I press against him. He doesn’t push me away, but he doesn’t really return the hug, either—just sort of pats me on the back and steps away.
“There’s a second part to the surprise,” he says. “The CHRONOS music archives took a bit of a hit in the bombing, but they’re gradually getting the stuff they stored off-site back into the system. My friend Dana let me in this afternoon so I could put together this…she said you used to call it a mixtape?”
I nod. The tape part is right, at any rate, although I can’t remember anyone ever saying mixtape .
“I didn’t have another cassette, and I didn’t want to record over the ones with your sister, so…Octavia, play Tate Poulsen music list, Mixtape 1984, reverse order, with position, artist, and title.”
There’s a brief pause and then Octavia says, “Number 100. James Ingram and Michael McDonald. ‘Yah Mo B There.’”
The song starts, confirming my worst fears. Without me there to keep tabs on it, 1980s music is going straight into the dumper. Even Deb made fun of that tune. Oh well, at least it barely made the list.
Of course, I don’t actually say how much the song sucks, because that would sound ungrateful.
“Thank you.” I smile up at him—even in these heels, the only way to smile at Tate is up —and squeeze his arm, resisting the urge to hug him again. Being pushed away once is quite enough for one evening.
Maybe he’s gay?
And then the little voice at the back of my head that sounds just like Mother chimes in.
More likely he thinks you look like a little kid playing dress-up. Couldn’t you have found something more age appropriate?
Oh, shut up, Mother.
Once we’re in the elevator, Tate gives me another long look. His eyes are still a little uneasy, but he smiles. “Did I mention you look really nice? That color is perfect on you.”
“Thanks.” I look away quickly, partly because I’m nervous and partly because I don’t really believe him after his initial reaction.
When the door slides open on level two, my first thought is that we’re outside. It’s only after we step into the corridor that I realize we’re overlooking a sunken room that just resembles a forest at sunset. The walls are a panorama of trees. There’s a brook off in the distance, and the ceiling is lit in streaks of orange, pink, and purple. Orbs of light about the size of tennis balls dance in the air above the guests’ heads, like giant fireflies or incandescent bubbles, bobbing and weaving as people move about. It’s almost as though I’m walking into a scene from The Hobbit or A Midsummer Night’s Dream .
The music has an otherworldly feel too, like something you’d hear at the Renaissance festival we go to each year—except even weirder. It’s like all of the Ren-nerds are playing their tunes on electrical instruments, or one of those bizarre theremin things, instead of flutes and lyres.
There are far more people than I expected, clustered in small groups, some eating, some talking, a few…I guess they’re dancing? While it’s probably the only kind of dance you could do to this music—fluid and trancelike—it would get them laughed off the floor at the 9:30 Club.
Tate’s already in the
Once he has the headphones over my ears he pushes play and the announcer says, “…peaking at number six on the charts in July, coming at number sixty-three, ‘Come Dancing’!”
Then The Kinks start singing, but it’s the voice in the background that stops my heart. Deb is yelling, “Told you, told you, told you! The Kinks. ‘Come Dancing.’ Right there at number sixty-three. I hit it on the nose. Five points for me!”
Even with the stabilizers, my heels feel a little shaky right now.
“Are you okay? Pru?”
I hug him, partly to mask my emotion, but also because this was really thoughtful. “Thank you so much.”
Tate’s back stiffens when I press against him. He doesn’t push me away, but he doesn’t really return the hug, either—just sort of pats me on the back and steps away.
“There’s a second part to the surprise,” he says. “The CHRONOS music archives took a bit of a hit in the bombing, but they’re gradually getting the stuff they stored off-site back into the system. My friend Dana let me in this afternoon so I could put together this…she said you used to call it a mixtape?”
I nod. The tape part is right, at any rate, although I can’t remember anyone ever saying mixtape .
“I didn’t have another cassette, and I didn’t want to record over the ones with your sister, so…Octavia, play Tate Poulsen music list, Mixtape 1984, reverse order, with position, artist, and title.”
There’s a brief pause and then Octavia says, “Number 100. James Ingram and Michael McDonald. ‘Yah Mo B There.’”
The song starts, confirming my worst fears. Without me there to keep tabs on it, 1980s music is going straight into the dumper. Even Deb made fun of that tune. Oh well, at least it barely made the list.
Of course, I don’t actually say how much the song sucks, because that would sound ungrateful.
“Thank you.” I smile up at him—even in these heels, the only way to smile at Tate is up —and squeeze his arm, resisting the urge to hug him again. Being pushed away once is quite enough for one evening.
Maybe he’s gay?
And then the little voice at the back of my head that sounds just like Mother chimes in.
More likely he thinks you look like a little kid playing dress-up. Couldn’t you have found something more age appropriate?
Oh, shut up, Mother.
Once we’re in the elevator, Tate gives me another long look. His eyes are still a little uneasy, but he smiles. “Did I mention you look really nice? That color is perfect on you.”
“Thanks.” I look away quickly, partly because I’m nervous and partly because I don’t really believe him after his initial reaction.
When the door slides open on level two, my first thought is that we’re outside. It’s only after we step into the corridor that I realize we’re overlooking a sunken room that just resembles a forest at sunset. The walls are a panorama of trees. There’s a brook off in the distance, and the ceiling is lit in streaks of orange, pink, and purple. Orbs of light about the size of tennis balls dance in the air above the guests’ heads, like giant fireflies or incandescent bubbles, bobbing and weaving as people move about. It’s almost as though I’m walking into a scene from The Hobbit or A Midsummer Night’s Dream .
The music has an otherworldly feel too, like something you’d hear at the Renaissance festival we go to each year—except even weirder. It’s like all of the Ren-nerds are playing their tunes on electrical instruments, or one of those bizarre theremin things, instead of flutes and lyres.
There are far more people than I expected, clustered in small groups, some eating, some talking, a few…I guess they’re dancing? While it’s probably the only kind of dance you could do to this music—fluid and trancelike—it would get them laughed off the floor at the 9:30 Club.
Tate’s already in the
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