as1.e7 – Shine

as1.e7

Shine (Collective Soul)

            I don’t know why I gave Halloween of 1993 a brief stop-in; it kind of sucked. We still only trick-or-treated in the apartment building. Originally, 1994 was be the first time we did it in Desert Tree, and also pretty much the first instance we spent any significant time there at all. Olive was the one who suggested it, because of how much Riv and I missed doing the rounds in our Chicago neighborhood. I probably could’ve convinced her to take us down there this October, but since this was now Edmond’s introduction to dressing up and asking for candy with me and Liesel, I didn’t want to scare him off.

            Third-graders in the 1990s typically often went for the simple, non-licensed stuff, so I stuck with the alligator costume from the first time that I remembered from photos. Liesel was a witch—specifically the old hag from Hansel and Gretel to pay homage to her family’s Germanic roots—while Edmond dressed up like a bank robber, complete with striped shirt, ski mask, and pillow case. I had wondered if this was the year he graduated from a McDonald’s pail, or whatever he used in the neighboring building.

            As River did his run with Penny and Carlos over in their part of the city, Olive kept her distance at the end of the hallway on each floor to make us feel a little more independent. We would knock on any door with even a single Halloween decoration, get a costume judgment from the resident, and collect more candy we’d trade around later.

            “I thought this might’ve been slightly cooler than my apartment,” Edmond sighed as we passed by other costumed kids. “Maybe we should’ve gone to Liesel’s after all.”

            “It’s never been that great there,” she replied. “It’s an old neighborhood, so there aren’t many trick-or-treaters, or houses that give candy. At least we’re getting candy here.”

            “Should we have gone to Desert Tree instead?” I murmured rather passively.

            They stopped and turned to me, and Edmond asked, “Isn’t that the huge suburb place on the other side of the interstate? I wonder how they do things over there.”

            Needing a little pick-me-up, Liesel removed one of the gingerbread children that was stuffed in with others in a pocket, and bit its head off. “My grandparents live there, so I already visit sometimes. But I don’t know it very well past their block.”

            “If you had the chance to redo this Halloween, would you take it and go to Desert Tree instead?” I put that out there, just to see how they’d react.

            Eddie and Liesel looked at one another, and Edmond gave his bag full of candy a jostle and replied, “I mean, I’m not complaining. I got a pretty good haul going here.”

            “Yeah, and we still have the top floor,” Liesel added. “You’re funny sometimes, Maze. This isn’t the first time you’ve asked us if we’d like to ‘redo’ something.”

            Right… I probably shouldn’t turn that into a habit. Well, next year for sure.

            I handed the keys back to old-me so she could enjoy the top floor, which was a source of some good candy from what I remembered, and leapt ahead about a month to the next stop on my current itinerary: Black Friday at the mall. Of course, our family was not one of spendthrifts, but Olive had left the mall last year feeling a little less “gross” about shopping on the weekend after Thanksgiving. We’d all seen the sales during that visit, and the way she figured it, maybe going at opening on Friday this time, when there were more things in stock, wouldn’t be so bad. Surely, the crowds would be manageable.

            This would be the last time she’d go to the mall on Black Friday itself at all.

            While she went out to brave the hordes for Christmas gifts, us younger kids were left in the care of River, Penny, and Carlos. But after I waved Ollie off in the rear atrium portion of the building with the sunken plaza, I turned around to not only see Eddie, Liesel, and my brother and his friends—but also Hayden, Adelina, and Quincy.

            That was a bit of a surprise, at least until the new memories caught up to me. I hadn’t expected us to be chummy enough to be at the full-group visits to the mall stage already. I wondered what cars we had all… Oh. It just hit me. That explains it.

            We’d gotten together by happenstance. The other trio was leaving a store as we set foot in the mall, being supervised by Quincy’s parents. Now that we could easily spot each other in a crowd, we got together, and Quincy’s folks got a break from babysitting.

            I pondered, briefly, how close I’d been to spotting some classmates on the prior version of this day. Not that I’d have done much more than give them a wave, if that.

            “Well… Where do we want to go?” Quincy was the first to ask. “Can we agree on a place without getting into a fight? Because I want to get away from these crowds.”

            “Quince, do you, um, get cold? You’re so bundled up!” Liesel remarked.

            He looked down at his sweater and replied, “I just enjoy the feeling… of being wrapped in a blanket.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “Maisy, your big brother over there and his friends look like they want to get moving. Is he the scary kind of big bro?”

            “River and his buddies are pretty chill, dude,” Edmond, still nervous about even looking a boy like Quincy in the eye, answered for me. “But, yeah, where should we go?”

            “I’d like to check out the guitar shop and see what they got on sale, if that’s okay with everyone,” I said before any other ideas got tossed out. “It’s close by, anyway.”

            “Hey, yeah, that could be fun!” Adelina replied. “I like seeing all their shapes.”

            Having reached an agreement, us younger kids went into Goodie Guitar, and River and his friends followed us while they kept talking to each other about whatever.

            The independently-owned shop only lasted two or three years from what I could recall, which was a shame since it had something of a quirky stoner vibe to it; smelling like incense and having pictures of mushrooms and people playing at Woodstock on the walls. Its selection of acoustics and electrics was small, but most of the major brands got some representation, and the price range was such that there was an axe for everyone. It also had a variety of wah-wah pedals, which tended to be less common in most stores.

            “Oh, that’s like one of the ones my bro used to play, and still has,” Quincy said and went up to a hanging black and red Gibson bass. “He gets really mad if I touch it.”

            Speaking of, the clerk behind the counter who had been talking about the “worst rock albums” with a customer gave us the stink-eye. Not that I could blame him, what with seeing six kids our age walk in. I couldn’t hear what Penny said over the Pink Floyd playing from the speakers, but it looked like she’d been compelled to tell him that she’d keep us on our best behavior. At some point in only the next four years or so—the day after tomorrow to adults—I planned to be a customer at a store like this.

            “Daaang…” Hayden said as a familiar Stratocaster’s price tag made his eyes glaze over. “That’s what they cost? Ady’s dad plays this one in the band, but I had no idea.”

            “What’s their name, anyway? Who plays what?” I asked, genuinely curious—and a little surprised that according to my memories, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

            “Um, well…” Hayden turned to me, nearly kicking one of the stocked amps in the tight aisle as he did so. “My dad’s on drums, Mom sings the vocals for the lady songs and does the PR… Quincy’s pop is on bass, and Ady’s is on rhythm. Then they got the lead guitarist and other vocalist—a family friend with no kids. They go by Live Wire.”

            “Wait, for real?” Liesel said. “That name hasn’t been taken yet?”

            Hayden shrugged. “Apparently not. They get asked to play the Mötley Crüe song a lot, though. They’ve been on the scene since the 80s, and go on a lot of indie circuits.”

            “So… you’re all interested in the same instruments your parents play,” Eddie stated.

            “Uh-huh. Sorry if that’s ‘boring’ or something, but what’d you expect?”

            “All of my sisters except one play the guitar, too,” Adelina added. “It’s a family tradition for us, and we kinda have rivalries that get us to keep improving.”

            “I didn’t mean anything by it,” Edmond said. “I’m still an outsider to all this. The girls keep trying to get me into music, but I feel like I just don’t know enough yet.”

            “Well, ask me a question, Eddie,” I offered. “I bet I can answer it.”

            He crossed his arms and thought for a moment. “Hmm… Okay, this is a pretty random one, but I’ve been wondering about it for a while. A few of the folk CDs you’ve been letting me borrow, with a lot of guitar play? Some of the songs have a weird sound, like a… How to describe it… It sounds like a bird. A sad bird. What is that, exactly?”

            Not having to think about it, I answered, “It makes sense you think it sounds like a bird, because those are usually called guitar chirps, and you get them either on purpose or by accident depending on how you hit the string. They can annoy some listeners, but other people like them; think they add something human and authentic to the tune. Hey, Eddie! How about another association exercise? What do chirps make you think of?”

            “Aw, man, not another one of these. And in front of everyone this time? I dunno. Maybe, like… a guy playing in a log cabin. On a big plaid armchair. Am I wrong?”

            “How many times do I have to tell you—there is no right or wrong. Whatever music makes you feel or imagine when you listen to it is genuine. You gotta learn that.”

            Quincy raised an eyebrow and said, “You guys got somethin’ special going on?”

            “Agh! Do not!” Edmond whined. “She’s just always grilling us on this stuff!”

            Having seen what the store had to offer within a few minutes, and since it went without saying that no one would be buying anything, the nine of us soon headed out to check on other places. We let everyone pick one stop each, which was one way to see what each kid was interested in the most. For Carlos, it was a sport memorabilia store near JCPenney, where he looked at autographed posters and came out with a pack of baseball cards. River was on the hunt for on-sale shoes that were comfier on his feet, but still couldn’t afford any after his yard sale splurge. Penny loved a good pair of jeans and chose Gadzooks, Liesel looked at keyboards in a piano store, Hayden checked out a pre-Lids indie hat shop, and Edmond browsed the poetry section at Walden Books—which was a surprise to just me, since I was the only one who witnessed it. The glare he gave me when he noticed my staring eyes non-verbally yelled, “tell no one.”

            Adelina, who wanted to pierce her ears in a few years, held earrings in Claire’s up to her lobes. And Quincy, odd duck that he was, “wasted” his given time at a Magic Eye kiosk where he tried, unsuccessfully, to see one 3D image across two books. I never got those things to work, either. And Liesel had the gall to tell the other eight of us, “What do you mean you can’t see the cat? It’s not hard. It shows up for me in seconds!”

            By the time we had all taken a turn, we’d ended up outside the mall arcade, at the edge of the packed food court. The number of kids and teens playing cabinets in there was a sight to behold, and one that didn’t exist in 2045. But I was never a big fan. For one, playing such games was a bad investment; they’re challenging quarter-eaters, and all you might get out of it is three letters on a scoreboard that could represent a lot of other names. The bigger problem was that they gave me headaches. My music-appreciating sensibilities couldn’t take the discordant, chaotic noise of so many games in one place. But if there was a vote, I knew I’d lose eight to one, so I didn’t bother calling for one.

            “You guys got any quarters burning a hole in your pockets?” Penny asked us.

            “I’ve, um… Never actually been in there,” River said.

            “Whaaat? You’ve never been in an arcade, Riv?” Carlos exclaimed. “Dude!”

            “I’ve been in arcades before, back in Chicago! It’s just that we don’t make it out to the mall that much, and it usually looks pretty busy.”

            “Even busier today, mi amigo, eh?” Carlos gave him a friendly slap on the back. “I know what really scares you: some random kid coming up, asking for a game.”

            River blushed, which was as good an admittance as any, so Penny also backed him up with an elbow nudge and added after a snort, “Don’t worry, Riv. You’ll have us in there. If anyone comes at ya, they gotta go through us. Or just beat us at a game first.”

            “Thanks, guys,” River said quietly. “Being on a team makes everything easier.”

            Eddie murmured, “I bet Penny’s the kind of girl that calls her friends ‘dorks…’”

            Penny flipped her head around and replied cheekily, “What’d you say, dork?”

            She was also the kind of girl that had good hearing, apparently. My mind always on our future band, I immediately considered asking her to be the sound tech.

            As if there was an air curtain running that created a barrier between the rest of the mall and the arcade, the smell of sweat and faint CRT ozone hit us the moment we stepped inside and our feet touched the dark blue carpet full of planets and geometric shapes. Most of the games at the front were occupied, and pretty much every player had someone watching, or waiting their turn. Even the Hungry Hungry Hippos battle dome had a small line. It didn’t take long for the excitement of the others to be dampened by the realization that they’d have to choose their games carefully, and wait no matter what.

            And then I heard a distinct and familiar voice before I even saw that bright orange hair that also stood out. Over at one of the front-and-center cabinets, a position given to newer or hot titles, was a game of Virtua Fighter—and there was that older kid from the yard sale, duking it out with a shorter boy as a taller one with braces watched.

            “Boom! There it is,” he said following some prior trash talk, upon knocking out his competitor. “Stu, man, I keep telling you—that fighter you like so much isn’t good.”

            “I don’t care! He looks cool and I want to get better with him. The day I beat you with his fists will make all this ‘training’ worth it. Right, Mikey?”

            “Sure, Stu,” Mikey replied. “Don’t let all of his tough guy talk bring you down.”

            “Ugh, you guys, don’t take it so personally!” the pro-arcade player shot back. “I keep saying that it’s just part of games like this, ya know? It takes some of the edge off.”

            It was so weird seeing a title like Virtua Fighter here in 1994. Polygons were still fairly cutting edge, even if arcade cabinets had the power to pull them off more easily.

            “Hey, fellow redhead,” Penny shouted over the noise to get his attention. “I’ll play a round.” She gave her knuckles a crack. “I’m pretty good at fighters.”

            The boy turned around, and was a little surprised by the size of our group.

            “Whoa, what the heck is this? An arcade gang?” He then studied me and River. “Hey, I know you guys—you came to our yard sale! Terrence told me you bought his Super Nintendo. Oh, man, he was so pissed!” he said with a laugh. “I want to play with the kid who has his console. What’s your name, buddy? I don’t think you told me.”

            “R-River,” my brother said nervously. “And Maisy. B-but I don’t know anything about this game. I wouldn’t be a good challenge. Y-you should fight our friend.”

            “What’s the matter, Gav? You afraid to fight a girl?” Stu teased him.

            “No? Look, if I can admit that my big sis is tough, I’ll be the first to call her that, too; I was just hoping for a warm-up. I see the fire in her eyes. What’s your name?”

            “Penny McDermot. Make fun of my last name if you dare. People have tried.”

            “Wouldn’t think of it. Gavin Patile, local legend,” he introduced himself with a pointing thumb. “The old Main Street arcade was my stomping ground once. Now I trash the newbies that come out here—especially on Black Friday, when this place is full of kids that get dumped while their parents shop, and have never touched a joystick.”

            “How honorable. I wasn’t on the scene before that place closed, and River here moved to town during its last days, but what I lack in experience, I make up for in grit.”

            “Okay, okay. Yeah. I like the confidence. So, Penny, you got a quarter?”

            She grinned and took one out of her pocket. Once they had both contributed to the cause of smashing in each other’s faces, Penny picked some badass chick named Vanessa Lewis, while Gavin selected a shirtless dude named Wolf Hawkfield. I didn’t know a thing about the characters, but seeing them punch and kick each other in a 3D arena was quite a novelty in the current time for all those watching. Gavin’s two buddies cheered him on, of course, but Penny had the bigger crowd. And the aggression factor.

            In baseball, you swing the bat and run; there isn’t much reason to be outwardly loud or competitive. Here, though, she acted like she had something to prove and shout to the world. Gavin had precision and finesse with his attacks and combos; Penny was a pure button-basher, and her constant mantra of “yeah!” and “that’s right!” among other remarks, probably had a demoralizing effect on her opponents. She was frightening.

            “Holy moly, Gav,” Mikey said. “She beat you bad. What happened?”

            “Shut up, Mikey. I want a rematch! Best two out of three, at the very least!”

            “You’re on. I can do this all day,” Penny said and pulled out another shiny coin.

            And so, onto the second round. Gavin adapted to Penny’s chaotically aggressive playstyle and eked out a win with the same character from before. Penny wasn’t going to let that slide, and another pocket quarter was withdrawn before the victory screen had even faded. A fine example of why I thought arcades were a bad consumer value.

            “Last game,” Gavin said while they were on the character select screen. “My sis is probably going to be back from shopping any minute, and if she sees me in here, she’s gonna want to fight me next. I do not have the stamina left to compete with her.”

            “Hey, Gavin,” I got out before their last game began. “What’s her name, anyway? And has she gotten any better on her drums yet?”

            “Vanni. And, no! She’s terrible! I hear it through the house! I wish she’d give up.”

            As they got back to fighting, I turned around to check on the others—and found that they had all left at some point; even Gavin’s friends. Either their wanted games had opened up, or they got bored. Or maybe scared of Penny. Since it didn’t matter to me who would ultimately win, I took off, too; my curiosity about what everyone was playing was stronger than waiting to see what stores they’d go into. There were the pairings, too.

            The sounds getting to me by this point and putting me into a daze, I searched the arcade to see what was up. I found Carlos and Hayden first, playing the classic frenetic and loose NBA Jam together. Past them were Adelina and Liesel, and seeing them both wielding pistols to take out hardened street scum in the full motion video light shooter, Crime Patrol, made for a strange sight. But they were both laughing about it; the cheesy dialogue and acting in the “game,” if it could be called that, was entertaining to them.

            Edmond was learning to tolerate Quincy, or at least wanted to beat him in a title they were lucky to snag the seats for: Virtua Racing, which, canonically, might’ve been how the Virtua Fighter characters got home after their matches. Quincy liked it because he got to sit, and was chill as his low-polygon car tore down the tracks, but Eddie, like in Super Mario Kart, was unusually serious about winning. I saw it just in how he gripped the steering wheel. There seemed to be something about him and racing, for some reason.

            “Hey, Maisy! Over here!” River’s voice reached me through the crowds.

            I spotted him in one of the corners full of the vintage classics, saving a spot for me by a dusty, old, slightly worn-out cabinet of Double Dragon—the first co-op beat ’em up. He had a nostalgic smile, despite his nature seemingly clashing with the game’s.

            “Maze, play this one with me—we can be on a team, and the controls are really simple.” He offered me one of his quarters. “I know you don’t game much, but it’ll be fun for a little bit. The characters are both muscle guys, though, so… sorry about that.”

            This also didn’t happen originally. Then again, it was just me, Riv, his friends, and Liesel last time, so the vibes were different. We did visit the arcade, but he didn’t offer to play anything. Thinking back, I was pretty sure he just watched the rest of us duke it out.

            “It’s not what I expected you to pick, but… sure, Riv,” I said and took the coin.

            “I know. But Olive also used to go to the arcade in Chicago, believe it or not. I have good memories of the two of us playing this. We lost badly, but… it was fun.”

            Huh. That was a story I didn’t think I’d ever heard before. They weren’t popping up too often, but it was so strange to find out new things in the past, once lost to time.

            We didn’t do so great. But River did keep smiling.

            I enjoyed the rest of the day and didn’t skip ahead to the next one. It arrived just the same, and by noon, I was eating a sandwich from the sub shop by Olive’s workplace, Strum Records and Music, while tracks from the 1981 album Classic Yes played on a tinny old cassette player in the employee breakroom; we weren’t allowed to mess with the CDs at this age, but we could listen to any of the used tapes being sold. That we being me, Liesel, and River. Mr. Kratt was kind enough to let us hang out here while my sister worked when our parents were away, and for a couple years, it became something of an infrequent hangout for us. Heck, the guy even bought us subs, too. What a hero.

            “Maisy, lyrics are a lot harder than I thought they’d be,” Liesel said from her side of the table, as she wrote in a composition book. “You have to say so much in so few words. None of my stuff is coming out great. I mean, I wouldn’t want our dream band to actually perform any of this. And hearing other song lyrics is distracting.”

            “I can turn the music down,” I offered, while I filled a notebook of my own with lyrics that, I hoped, were at least better than those from a typical eight-year-old’s mind.

            Leese took a bite of her sandwich and replied, “It’s okay. It’s just for practice, anyway, right? I’m liking these tunes. The keyboard work is really funky, in a good way.”

            “Well, Rick Wakeman is one of the greats you should listen to…” I did it again, sounding smarter than my age. “Er, I mean, that’s what my dad says about the album.”

            River looked up from his sports almanac, glanced at both of us, and hesitantly asked, “Could… I see some of the songs you’re writing? I’m kind of curious.”

            “No!” Liesel exclaimed and covered her work with her arms reflexively. “These songs are horrible! Maze keeps telling me not to worry about it—that’s it’s more about getting into a habit, and I’ll improve with time… And something about learning respect for the craft or however she put it. But I just feel like I’m embarrassing myself!”

            “I mean, she does have a point about practice. When you get used to something, you become more confident and less scared about it, and eventually it comes naturally. I didn’t like going up to the plate at first, either, but I knew I wanted to play baseball, so I kept at it. It can’t be as scary as playing music in front of people, though. Do you think you’re really gonna start a band, or is this just some make-believe what-if fun… thing?”

            “It’s really going to happen, River,” I promised him. “Maybe even before we leave middle school. But first, I have to get everyone used to the idea.”

            “That’s crazy, Maze. But if you go for it, I guess I’ll be rooting for you guys.”

            The last song on the B-side faded out, and I plucked the tape from the player and put it back in its plastic rectangular case. I couldn’t remember the last time I hit play for an audio cassette as an adult. I liked them as much as CDs, and they carried some of that analog “warmth” that vinyl is known for. Their only flaw was wearing out from overuse.

            “We should have time for one more before Olive’s shift is done,” I noted and stood up with the tape in my pocket, and my rolled-up notebook in my hand—I didn’t want to risk Liesel getting a peek at the lyrics no one my age could think up. “I’ll try to find another album with inspiring keyboard parts for you, Leese.”

            “Um, thanks, but shouldn’t you be listening to guitar ‘parts?’”

            “Don’t need to; I hear those all the time already!”

            I left the breakroom, passing through the beads that separated it from the rest of the store. There were a few customers inside, with Olive casually reading a Rolling Stone issue at the counter as she waited to ring someone up. Mr. Kratt, meanwhile, was off near the wall of top-shelf vinyl albums, having a rather prophetic debate with a frequent customer about whether or not Phil Collins should leave Genesis to pursue his own projects. And I don’t think I’ve ever been in a record store, even in the 2040s, that didn’t have on display that famous Andy Warhol banana for The Velvet Underground & Nico.

            The pre-loved cassettes and CDs were at the front of the store along its window, and after I put the tape back in the XYZ section, I started flipping through albums until I found one that spoke to me. The holiday decorations on lower Main Street were a little bit distracting, though. To make up for the lack of snow, there were wreaths or ribbons on every lamppost, and garlands between them. The city just hadn’t put that same effort in for decades by my present. When one of the three last running streetcars went by, it really made me feel like I was in the last vestiges of the city’s 1950s heyday.

            Psychedelic rock was one of my least favorite sub-genres; I just wasn’t a big fan of the “dreamlike” quality of the music. Still, The Doors’ debut album was another good example of what a pro keyboardist could do, so I grabbed the case—and it was way too light, because the goods were missing. So, I brought it over to Olive for correcting.

            “Oh, Maze, is it empty?” she asked me. “The Doors, huh? Mom might say you’re a little young for them. But, let’s see where the tape is…” She turned around, looked at a messy stack of cassettes near the store stereo that played for customers, and sighed out, “Mr. Kratt never really puts these back. Let’s see… By the way,” she found the tape and returned it to its home, “I just noticed how tall you’ve gotten over the past few months.”

            “Really?” I replied and took the album. “I don’t notice that kind of thing.”

            “Well, it’s true. When I started working here, you had to get on your tiptoes to reach over the counter. I’ll probably have to take you clothes shopping soon.”

            With the passage of time having become a slippery concept for me, it may have been longer than I thought since I last did the guitar neck check. The tape safely in my pocket, I walked over to the back corner of the store where some used guitars were on sale. I looked down at my left hand, and flexed its muscles and fingers.

            Was this the day? Would I really need to start practicing and playing again, after getting an excuse to have a break for a few months from my viewpoint? Once I knew for sure, there was no turning back. A part of my life would return, and with it, more work and the stress that came with the pursuit of perfection. Not that it wasn’t also fun.

            With a deep breath and a trembling hand, I reached out, choked the beat-up old Gibson acoustic going for a hundred and fifty bucks, and… I could just barely touch all the strings using a normal, comfortable grip position. A big day, indeed.

            Maybe I could use some Doors right now, to get lost within myself for a moment.

            I had a week to practice, and I wanted to do it without River and Olive finding out so I could completely surprise them, really for no other reason than to bask in their reactions. I always visualized the moment as one shared between just the three of us, so the goal was to play a single song for them before Mom and Dad came home. I couldn’t fully explain why I wasn’t ready for our folks to listen, too. Maybe it was a pressure thing, or I just didn’t want to be embarrassed by their compliments. Worst case, they might try putting me into a program for gifted young musicians. Unlikely, but a nonzero chance.

            So, on Sunday morning, I snuck the guitar out of the apartment after I was able to convince Edmond to come “pick me up” early for a hangout at his place.

            “Are you coming back for lunch, Maze?” Olive asked me from the kitchen while she made breakfast, and I smuggled the Martin out the moment she wasn’t watching.

            “Sure,” I said, as River got out of bed and crossed the hallway to the bathroom.

            I managed to hand the guitar over to a yawning Edmond, waiting in our open doorway, without either of them noticing. I gave him a friendly reminder with some hand gestures emphasizing the need to be careful with it, as the slightest impact with the wall or floor could set off the strings and alert my sibs to the guitar being moved.

            “Have fun, then,” Olive replied and gave me a smile and a wave.

            I gave her my best innocent face, and then stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind me. I gently took the guitar from Edmond and put the strap over my head.

            “You made me get up at eight in the morning for that?” he grumbled as we walked down the hall. “Why is this such a big secret that you wanna keep from them?”

            “I already fixed up the strings without them finding out,” I said, cradling the old guitar in my arms. “There’s nothing like pulling off a huge surprise, Eddie. And you can only do it so many times in your life, before your surprises stop feeling… surprisy.”

            “Whatever you say, Maze,” he said with a tired moan. “You don’t think there’s a chance they’ll actually hear you playing it from the next building over though, right?”

            “Not without an amp! Just keep it safe for me for one week, okay?”

            “Sure. I got plenty of room in my closet. But you better not be so lousy with it that the neighbors complain.” We began going down the stairs, and he added, “What are you going to play for them, anyway? Is it Mary Had a Little Lamb, or some AC/DC?”

            “Something in between those extremes. And sorry if you get sick of the song.”   

            Over the following week, I visited Edmond’s place after school each day. At first, I was indeed a bit rusty, and needed to adjust to having shrimpy little fingers. But he and his folks were kind enough to lend me their living room for an hour, and once I’d gotten over the messy early warm-up sessions by Wednesday, the three became supportive—and even a little impressed. Eddie’s eyes began to light up as he watched me play, at least for as long as he could tolerate the only song I was working on. It was understandable; I was no genius, but I was still operating on a level few third-graders could.

            By Thursday, word had gotten around, and Leese brought Adelina over as an unexpected guest. Edmond didn’t mind terribly. On Friday, the whole gang was in his living room by three in the afternoon. That, he didn’t like as much. But it didn’t feel like a formal first invite for the other trio; to them, the apartment was just a venue in which to see a quick show. The fact that it felt impersonal and they only glanced at his space may have been what kept him from flipping out over the sudden get-together.

            “Maisy, you’ve gotten so good at that!” Mrs. Palmer said, clapping as she became the first to congratulate me the moment I had strummed the last note. “When are you playing it for your brother and sister? I’m sure they’re going to love it!”

            “Tomorrow night,” I huffed shakily and set the guitar on the floor, with my fingers still trembling like they often did whenever I performed for more than a person or two. “I need a day to rest first. It’s one of Olive’s favorites, so I have to get it right.”

            Not that it’d be a problem, I thought to myself as my friends looked at me with some mild shock in regards to how fast I had improved and what I just pulled off.

            “How did you…” Hayden struggled to find the words. So, he smirked and shook his head instead. “Dang, Maze. You’re making me actually believe in this band thing.”

            “You should come to my house and play for my parents and sisters,” Adelina suggested. “Ehh… On second thought, I think you’d just make the sibs jealous.”

            “Maisy,” Edmond’s dad asked, “do you prefer sheet music, or tabs?”

            I hadn’t gone off of sheet music since I was in my middle school band, playing flute—a painful memory. “Just guitar tabs. But only if I can’t learn the chord by ear.”

            Eddie groaned, “Yes, we’re all very impressed. But can everyone go home now?”   

            To his chagrin, Liesel and Quincy looked at each other, and shouted, “Encore!”

            I only sort of gave myself a break. I knew I’d be anxious and impatient until I played, so I cut out the middle time and skipped to that tomorrow night shortly after nailing the song for my friends. When the traveling-me arrived Saturday evening after dinner, more than a full day after I last played, I did mostly feel mentally recuperated.

            It was a chilly night in the valley, and we were all already bundled up in our PJs by the time I was ready to put on my performance. Appropriately, Olive was wearing the big old baggy and thick Janis Joplin shirt she’d gotten nearly a year ago. I’d given myself plenty of space as I sat with the guitar on a pillow on the living room rug, but as I held the fixed-up instrument in my hands, I couldn’t help but feel those old familiar jitters.

            “What are you going to play for us, Maze?” Olive asked me. “I wasn’t even aware that you were practicing, sneaky sis. Lemme guess. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?”

            “My bet’s on Hot Crossed Buns,” River said, and tried really hard not to snicker.

            Suddenly, my jitters ceased, I think because that did it. They were underestimating me, so I’d just have to play even better than before. It was time to blow their minds, and also possibly break the universe. I didn’t have a pick yet, and while I liked the feeling of strings on my fingers, I’d lack the precision I preferred. That was okay, for now. I closed my eyes, exhaled, shut out the rest of the world, and let myself feel the music.

            What I’d been working on was a custom arrangement of one of folks’ most time-worn pieces: a melancholic song that I knew reminded us of home and its trains. Peter, Paul, and Mary’s 500 Miles. It only took the first three chords for Olive to recognize it, and for me to begin visualizing lit-up train windows heading off into dark loneliness. It was no mere copy of the original guitar work, either; my playing was dense and complex, because it turned the vocals into instrumentation. I had to both hit the words, and the sharper original notes that needed to sound distinguishable from the missing lyrics.

            I opened my eyes after the first verse to check the reactions. River, like my pals, was speechless and wide-eyed. But Olive had a hand over her mouth and moist eyes. She was either being flooded by nostalgia, an overwhelming sensation of frisson—music “chills”—or was just highly impressed by my playing. All three wouldn’t surprise me.

            “Maisy!” she gasped out once I’d finished. “H-how did…? Who taught… When?! My favorite song, and you just… Oh my God…” she murmured, and actually left the room.

            “Um. Good job, Maze,” Riv said afterwards; her reaction unexpected for us both.

            December 4^th, 1993. Thirty minutes ago, I played the guitar for the new-first time for Olive and River. She locked herself in her room for ten of those minutes. I was even starting to get a little worried about her emotional state. I did not plan for a response that strong. Was it just the talent I put on display? Was she shocked upon realizing that, given my age, there might be a prodigy in the home? Or was it more that I had brought back something visceral that she missed dearly from those days before I was born? I played it perfectly, I’ll admit; no retries needed. And I was tempted to undo and scrap the whole thing. Maybe some time-tinkering is okay, but once you go too far with the cheating and begin to break what others see as natural or predictable, you’re reaching a line.

            But, when she did eventually come out of her room with a damp tissue still in one hand, she simply assured me over some sniffles that she was so proud. That she saw some of Dad in me. Then she took the heaviness to another level, and added after some hesitation, “I think I just saw your future, Maze. Maybe you should make a band.”

            My future. Right. Was it beginning to actualize and come into focus? It felt like I just crossed the starting line for a very long run tonight. The thing is, I’m in a state of constant inner conflict, since I’ll be dragging Liesel, Edmond, Hayden, Quincy, and Adelina with me into a thing that did not exist before, regardless of how much they may want that world for themselves. But who else could I ask to join me? Some moody teens in high school I’d never know otherwise? I won’t make my friends do anything they don’t want to. I’ll be open to suggestions, and I’ll work to fulfill their needs. They will be my buddies first, bandmates second. The foundation cornerstone was set, and we’d be building our house, in the middle of the street, all together now.

            All these old metaphors and references… I am a songwriter, to be fair.

            If I wasn’t certain that taking them down this road to nowhere with me wouldn’t improve their lives, I wouldn’t have involved Leese or Eddie. But I knew enough about how they turned out in the timeline I left with Charlie to warrant their inclusion. They had no kids, no remaining career prospects, no relationships to maintain. I didn’t know that much about their previous adult lives, but I knew enough to keep them at my side.

            If you miss the train I’m on, you will know that I am gone. I’m 1,700 miles from my home.

            The next day took me by surprise. I was planning to just use the Sunday to chill as my nerves still needed some cooling off from last night’s emotional rollercoaster, but then River unexpectedly asked me and Olive over breakfast, “Ollie, would it be okay, if Maze wants to do it… For us to take a bus over to Desert Tree? I’ve kinda been wanting to explore the neighborhood a little more since the big yard sale thing.”

            This development was no doubt another consequence of my interference. Still, I fully expected Olive to say no, even if she had been wanting to hang out with the first friend she had made in Royal Valley since the move, and Sundays were one of the few times she had the chance. Also surprised by the request, she looked up from her cereal.

            “I don’t know, River. You’re a little young to be doing that on your own.”

            “I won’t be on my own! I’ll have Maisy with me. And she won’t leave my sight!” he tried to convince her, in a world before every kid had a cell phone. “C’mon, Ollie. I got to know how the Chicago bus routes worked before we moved, and this city’s metro lines are a lot less complicated. I’ll bring quarters for a payphone just in case. There’s a Circle K not far from the stop. You can go hang out with Rita. I’m almost eleven!”

            “Okay, okay. Don’t start begging. I’ll think about it.” She looked over at the rare morning frost on our windows. “I get how it makes you feel closer to home out there.”

            All this, and I wasn’t even asked if I wanted to go.

            Forty-five minutes later, the loud city bus spewed exhaust as it took off from the stop not far from Desert Tree Elementary; a good distance away from Sherman Miller and the area where River had snagged the Super Nintendo. I even managed to convince Edmond and Liesel to come with us, as I figured it would make the trip more worth it if we toured the neighborhood together, too. I did want the whole gang to go on a candy run out here next Halloween, after all. And River didn’t mind the company.

            It was colder today, so we were bundled up. Relatively speaking for California; we wore pants and jackets, but had no need for extra layers or scarves.

            “I do like coming out here,” Liesel remarked as we crossed one of the small bridges, that barely felt like one, over the narrow canal that surrounded most of the large neighborhood. “See how green it is? And this feels like home to you two, right?”

            “Sort of. But definitely more than anywhere else in the city, yeah,” I answered.

            “It’s been years since I’ve seen this place,” Edmond said as he studied the quaint cottages that lined a road called Mansion Street. “It looks pretty much the same.”

            “Oh, another piece of Eddie’s mysterious past!” Liesel exclaimed. “Come on, tell us—did you used to live in the area? Or did you have mysterious old friends out here?”

            Edmond groaned and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “One of my cousins used to live here, before he moved when I was five or so. That’s all there is to it.”

            “Hmmm. And which one is that? It’s hard to keep track of all your cousins.”

            “I only have six! The one that lived here is in San José now. I got two that are still local and are out in Kettlebrook—they’re the ones younger than me. Then my last three, who are sisters, are down in Los Angeles. They usually visit during summer break and in winter. And, yes, I get along with all of them. Even the boys. They’re family.”

            “So… you’ve noticed that we’ve noticed. You wanna talk about that?”

            “Nope,” Edmond said, and did his reflexive tic again where he held his left arm. I was really starting to wonder what that was about. “Let’s just enjoy the walk.”

            “That’s what we’re here to do, Edmond,” River replied. “Just remember, guys… this is my first time in charge like this, so please don’t screw it up for me, okay?”

            “You’re all right, River. Just follow me, and no one gets lost.”

            Apartments may be full of personalities, but you have to work to find them, or get lucky with chance meetings in the common areas. What I love about suburbia are the yards and sidewalks, because they bring out the locals, and you’ll never know who you’ll see or what they might be doing. You can learn a lot about someone just by how they’re mowing their lawn and with what kind of equipment, or the way they’re relaxing on outdoor furniture. The state and style of a yard can exhibit personalities, too.

            It's sometimes said that Desert Tree is run by the young, and this morning was providing evidence of it. It felt like most of the kids in the area were out enjoying the uncommonly cool and crisp weather, along with the growing displays of holiday décor. From tykes to teenagers, they treated the neighborhood like their giant playground.

            Of course, I was keeping an eye out for anyone in Wes’ circle, having gotten to know a little about the group. I wasn’t planning to interact with him, but since he was also a time-traveler who might randomly show up one day, I had my reasons to find out where he lived. Just so I could check up on the kid on occasion. Gently, at a distance.

            Liesel skipped to catch up to me and asked quietly, “Hey, Maze. You haven’t told us how the performance went last night. You did play, right? No chickening out?”

            To which I replied, “Sure, I did. They were, um… really impressed.”

            “They should be,” Edmond said, River now some twenty feet ahead of us after having turned into an eager suburban explorer. “It’s pretty crazy you can play like that.”

            I tried modesty. “It’s just practice. Memorizing what strings to play and when.”

            But Liesel did a closed-eyes head-shake to say that she didn’t buy my humility. “No way. You got some magic, seriously! You need to play at the school talent show and share your gift. And you inspired me to really get better at the keyboard.”

            I was too embarrassed to reply this time. It was going to be tough to maintain some kind of balance. I had to be good for my age to get noticed; it was hard to find fame, and our eventual band’s young age was one of the greatest boons I could give it. But if I was too good, the attention could possibly spiral out of control. Was there even some chance that musical geniuses or actual scientists would want to study me?

            Fine, I was never going to be the next rock star as an adult, but skill was relative. A soon-to-be nine-year-old playing like someone who had been strumming for twenty years? That math didn’t add up. I had a needle to thread, with thick guitar string.

            “Samantha, wait!” the voice of a girl my age snapped me out of worries. I looked over at the yard of a smaller house, where a dark-haired girl wearing big glasses was chasing her blond friend with freckles. “I can’t keep up—I’m not a good runner!”

            “Come on, Millie!” Samantha called back to her. “We gotta go people-watch!”

            I wasn’t sure what “people-watching” entailed, but I certainly didn’t want to get stalked by the pair, so I picked up my pace and caught up with River.

            After another few blocks, we made a random right turn to change direction. But before we left the area, I managed to get a lucky peek at Wes and his friends across the empty intersection. He and five of his friends, Pigtails Girl included, were chasing each other around with water guns and laughing as they sprayed at one another. Their fun-filled shouts were incoherent, and there didn’t appear to be any rules amid the chaos; it seemed that they simply wanted to burn off some energy and soak each other with water despite the cold weather. I wasn’t about to drag the others with me so we could follow them as they ran off, but at least I now had a general idea of where Wes must’ve lived.

            When the top of the Sherman Miller school building appeared over some house roofs, it felt like we’d gone far enough. Eddie wasn’t confident that he could find one of the other bus stops in Desert Tree, but was pretty sure he could get us back to the one we’d arrived at. Before we turned around, I heard some distant drums that must’ve been Vanni’s. Like her brother had warned, she really still needed practice. I’d have to hold off on any attempt at asking her to tutor me in something for a little while yet.

            About halfway back to the bus stop, with our legs needing a break, we happened upon a cute park with lots of shade and a small playground set that had swings and a slide. There were a few other kids about, but they were all too young to be in Wes’ crew.

            As Edmond and Liesel sat tiredly and idly on the swings, River and I shared the one available bench and watched the little children enjoying the rest of the equipment. Most of them had that same energy from the days where every playground felt exciting and new. Me and my friends still had some of that sense of wonder, but it was fading. By now, River’s class doubtlessly just mostly hung out and chatted at recess.

            “Hey, Maze,” he eventually spoke up when it felt about time to get moving again. “I know everyone’s bugging you, but for real… where did you learn to play so well?”

            “I asked Dad, and he taught me when no one was watching,” I lied, and guilt gnawed at me for it. “But don’t tell our parents I told you that, okay?”

            “Um. Sure. But… why? Why does that have to be a secret?”

            “Because Dad’s ashamed that he doesn’t really play anymore,” I said, hoping a kid River’s age would buy the vague excuse of adult regrets. “I’ve been practicing that one song for months, also. It’s not like I can play anything else that good.”

            “Well. If you say so. It’s kind of weird that it made Olive cry, but I guess it got her to feel things. About the old days, before we were around.”

            “And did it make you feel something, other than ‘wow, Maisy’s really good?’”

            River smirked, and did what he usually did whenever he refused to give a straight answer to a big question: he simply patted my beanie and kept quiet.

            Just then, a wild girl in red flannel ran into the park from seemingly nowhere. For no discernible reason, she stormed up the slide effortlessly, frightening some of the kids.

            She yelled triumphantly, “Yeah! I’m here, and I’m the queen of the playground!”

            I think I remembered seeing her at the theater. She was in Wes’ circle. Figures.

            When our parents came home, on my insistence, neither Olive nor River told them about my guitar playing. For now, I just wanted to focus on practicing, and I’d surprise them at some point later on. My Christmas presents were mostly CDs of recent releases we didn’t have, so that I could begin building my personal library much earlier than I did before. I focused on the bands that could inspire myself, or my friends, who had unique talents across other instruments. Eventually, they’d be useful for homework that I’d pass out to my bandmates. Some songs, I simply missed listening to.

            On the second Friday after school was back in session, we had the half-day that I was partially dreading. Charlie would be waiting to meet me at his full-day school, and I had decided that it was better to continue diplomacy than get someone who could freely time travel angry at me. Last thing I needed was bad blood and escalation that ended in some climatic time-leaping, space-time destroying battle between us in suburbia.

            Mr. Henderson was another of my favorite teachers, and one of the oldest. For the most part, I skipped the parts of school days that weren’t on the playground, during lunch, or at the computer lab—but for him, I’d pop in on occasion. And, looking back, half-days were such weird little obscurities that, over time as an adult, I kind of began to doubt were even real. But they had indeed been a thing, as I learned all over again.

            “Okay, class,” he said to us at the early hour of eleven in the morning that day. “We end with English; no math, history, or social studies today. You can pick up a lunch to go in the cafeteria if you’d like. Enjoy the rest of your day, and I’ll see you Monday.”

            Man, I loved third grade. It was like learning from a fun and cool young grandpa.

            We filed out into the halls, and I split off from my five friends who wanted that lunchroom food. I’d chosen to go a little hungry and eat when I got home, to make the best use of the time I’d been given to talk with Charlie. If we had to have a chat, better to cover more subjects and reduce the odds that he’d want to meet again anytime soon.

            Being among the few students that had rushed out to the pickup loop meant I had a faster exit, and I wasted no time in finding Olive’s car and hopping right in.

            “No lunch? You really must be in a hurry,” she said as I buckled up. “Maisy, I know how much you like Desert Tree, but if you spend too much time there…”

            “I get it; our parents will feel bad we don’t live there. I’m just meeting someone.”

            She put the car in drive. “Sometimes it feels like you’re leading a double life, sis.”

            I had to do something about these suspicions. I could feel the pressure building, and that lurking “wrongness” family and friends sensed about me. I was likely moving too fast, and would need to slow down. There wasn’t a rush, right? But… not quite yet. Not until I finished pouring the cement for that foundation always on my mind.

            Olive parked in the same spot from the last time I visited DTE, and it looked like the third-graders from another land had only recently been released. I stood at the fence, waiting for Charlie to come over. But a minute went by, and I couldn’t even spot him on their big old playground that put ours to shame. He was being rude.

            Unsure what else to do, I kept standing there, feeling stupid and shunned. After another couple minutes, a blond girl noticed me and came running up. She was wearing a cat ear headband of all things, and a pawprint blouse. Maybe she had a thing for cats.

            “Hiya!” she said with a wave, but kept her distance as a precaution. “Um, are you, like, looking for someone? I annoy—I mean know most of the kids out here, so…”

            “Charlie Pippin—any idea where he is? We got, um… business,” I replied.

            Her peppy attitude appeared to darken somewhat, and she said a tad seriously, “Why do you know Charlie? The boy’s bad news. Everyone thinks he’s so cool, but he’s really just intense and likes being the center of attention! Ugh, how does no one else see it? Anyway, he’s hanging out in The Dump right now. Our secret club? Only the fifth-graders are supposed to go there, but he… doesn’t seem to care. Go to the other side of the playground. You can talk to him through the bike rack fence. If you really have to.”

            Great. At least I wouldn’t have to walk. I thanked the cat-girl and returned to Olive. She looked up from her People magazine issue and groaned in the driver’s seat when I asked my follow-up request, but got the car started again just the same. Getting a good look at the entirety of the grounds on the way, and their monitor yelling at some kids, we pulled up alongside the sidewalk that the cage full of bikes was attached to.

            While they were all locked down, the chain-link gate was not, so I could squeeze past the fiberglass and metal rides. I had no idea why DTE students hung out by a smelly dumpster, but now that I thought about it, I could remember Charlie mentioning the place. I liked the idea of “secret school clubs,” but I would’ve chosen a better spot.

            I saw him before he saw me, back against the school wall opposite the dumpster as he sat with one leg over the other. By this point, he somehow even looked nihilistic.

            “Maze?” he said as his eyes turned to me and he jolted up slightly. “That you in there? I didn’t think you’d actually come out. I mean, I was reliving the day, just in case.”

            “I thought you wanted to talk,” I replied from the other side of the fence.

            “Yeah, I do. It’s starting to get lonely, being the only guy around who can do this internal time-travel stuff. I think I actually kind of… miss you a little.”

            I tried not to gag. “Don’t say stuff like that now, Chuck. It’s a bit creepy, us being kids again and all. Look, what we had as adults was okay, and I wouldn’t take it back or anything, but I don’t really see us as all that compatible at this younger age.”

            He laughed. “Babe, I’m not trying to wine and dine here. I just thought, maybe, you know… we could hang out sometime, talk about the old days that are a long way off? Let’s at least trade digits and addresses. I’m open to that now. What you said when we first met like this—about how we could help each other out or whatever? I’ve come around on that. I mean, if anything, we could just share stories. I have my fun, but most days, I undo everything and leave it all as is it was. But if we don’t talk about all the stuff we’ve tried, then those stories are lost, right? So? What’s the baddest thing you’ve done?”

            Cripes, this was exactly what I did not want to talk or learn about.

            “Charlie, I think we need to keep that crap private,” I argued. “I’d rather hear about how and why you and Wes created a time machine. I got plans, and I’m not gonna waste this chance, but it’s important I learn more about the nature and rules of this gift.”

            “Aw, but Maze, that’s all boring stuff. We’re living in a true playground here! Just the other day, I totally walked up to my teacher, in front of the class, and gave him a big old smack, right in the face. The room became so quiet after the gasps. Oh, do you know how easy it is to burn a house down? I’ll let you in on something else—a third-grader’s feet can only barely reach the pedals of a police cruiser you’re taking on a joy ride.”

            I shuddered and choked out, “You’ve really done all of that, haven’t you…?”

            He shrugged like his actions meant nothing. “Well, sure. I undid it all, so what’s the problem? Come on, Maze. Don’t act like you haven’t been a bad girl now and then.”

            I shook my head in disgust and turned around. This had been a mistake.

            “I’m using this opportunity only for good, Charlie. It’s not that hard to do.” I added coldly as I walked away, “Stay away from me. I’ll do just fine on my own.”   

            “Peh. How PC. You’ll come around, ‘Moral Maisy.’ It’s only a matter of time.”