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W hen I walked into the living room, Mom was sitting on the couch, talking to Dad, her knitting bag next to her. The coiled scarf on her lap grew as her wooden needles clicked and clacked under and over and through the yarn. It was a hideous rainbow of pastels, like the tentacle of a Lucky Charms–colored sea monster. I scowled at the scarf and slipped the zine into Mom’s bag before throwing my arms around Dad.
“Lú!”
Dad scooped me up in a bear hug.
“Hmm, a gift for me?” Mom asked, glancing at the zine.
I nodded and straightened my T-shirt as Dad put me down.
“Malú, do you think you could wear something a little nicer?” Mom asked. “This is your last dinner with your dad for a while. It would be so lovely to see you looking like una señorita. I’d even settle for a fresh T-shirt.”
“She’s fine,” Dad said.
“See, Mom?” I grinned as obnoxiously as I could at her.
“Of course,” Mom said, looking from me to Dad. “Peas in a pod.”
She was right. Dad wore his usual ratty black Chuck Taylors, a black Spins & Needles Records T-shirt, and cutoff corduroys. I had on my Doc Marten boots, a black Ramones T-shirt, and cutoff khakis. Dad and I looked at each other and laughed.
“We’re twinsies,” I said.
“Really, it’s no big deal, Magaly,” Dad said. “We’re just getting takeout and hanging out at the store.”
“Come on, Dad.” I grabbed his arm and pulled.
“Fine, have a good night,” Mom said. “And don’t forget our flight is at noon, Michael.”
“I’ll be here with my chariot,” Dad said as he closed the door behind him.
We wheeled our bikes out of the yard, and Dad handed me my helmet.
“I hate that scarf,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Scarf?”
“Mom’s never-ending knitting project. It’s a bad omen.”
Dad laughed. “I didn’t know you were so superstitious,” he said.
“I’m serious, Dad. That scarf only appears when Mom’s stressed about something.” I snapped the chin-strap buckle of my bike helmet. “She was knitting all the time before she told me we were moving. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
“Well, how about we forget the evil scarf for now?” Dad said. “We have some DaVinci’s to pick up. I ordered all your favorites.”
“Awesome,” I said. “Because right now it feels like I’ll never have DaVinci’s again.”
My mouth watered thinking about the food as we rode our bikes the few blocks to our once-a-week dinner spot. If I had to have a last meal on my final night at home, I wanted it to be DaVinci’s with Dad.
After we picked up our food, we rode back to Dad’s place, stopping under the sign that hung over the entrance to his store. The sign looked and spun like a real vinyl record. In the middle the SPINS & NEEDLES logo went around and around.
When Dad opened the door, Martí, his pit bull, ran out to greet us. Dad was funny about Martí’s name, always making sure people knew how to pronounce it properly.
“It’s Mar-TEE, like José Martí the Cuban poet, not MAR-tee like Marty McFly from Back to the Future .” Most times people would look at him like they had no idea what he was talking about.
After today I wouldn’t see Martí run through the door or hear Dad correct people’s pronunciation. Two more things to say good-bye to.
“What’s happening, buddy?” I asked, scratching Martí behind the ears. He wagged his tail and sniffed at me until he realized Dad had the food, then trotted off after him.
“Traitor,” I said, shaking my head.
“What do you want to listen to?” Dad asked from behind the counter.
“You pick it.”
“You know they’ve got some great record stores in Chicago,” Dad said. “You’ll have to check out Laurie’s Planet of Sound.”
“That’s great,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter because none of them will be this place.”
Spins & Needles wasn’t just a record store; it was my second home. Dad had owned it for as long as I could remember. He lived in the apartment upstairs. When I was sick and stayed home from school at his place, he would play quiet, soothing music because he knew the sound traveled upstairs easily.
I loved spending time with Dad at the store, listening to records. My favorite stuff was from the seventies and eighties, old punk that Dad always played. I helped him around the store too. I made sure the records were alphabetized in their correct bins, and I decorated the white plastic separators between bands.
But the best thing was being there when people crowded in to watch a band. The air would hang warm and heavy, and sometimes there wouldn’t even be room to pogo because the store would get so packed. The energy of the band and the crowd made me feel like there were hyper butterflies trapped inside me. The music would flow through the store like a magic carpet inviting me to hop on for a ride. You could stand so close to a band, it was like you were part of them. Some bands even welcomed people to sing along into the microphone. I always wanted to sing, but I never did because I was too scared.
“How’d you know I was in a Smiths mood, Dad?” I asked when the store’s sound system crackled to life.
The song started out with a jangly, quiet guitar and a voice that sounded sad but a little hopeful, too. Like when you’re stuck inside on a rainy Sunday and all you really want is for the sun to peek out so that you might be able to go outside, even for just a little while, before the school week begins.
“Just a lucky guess. Shall we dance?”
Dad grabbed one of my hands in his and put his other arm around my waist. I couldn’t stop giggling as he waltzed me around the record store and sang along. The song was about someone with crummy luck. I knew the feeling, so I joined in at the chorus, begging to get what I wanted for once.
Dad twirled me toward the counter and let go of my hand.
“Thanks for the dance, kid,” he said. “Now let me get some plates so we can eat.”
I gave Dad a thumbs-up and turned to the record bin labeled NEW (USED) ARRIVALS . I pulled out a record by a band I recognized and studied the singer’s face on the cover. The singer seemed to stare back, her hair teased and standing on end. She had her signature dark, heavily made-up eyes and lips. It was a look that made her a little scary, like an angry witch, but also kind of pretty. This reminded me of Mom and how she called punk music “a racket.” It always bummed me out that she could hear the anger but not the beauty in it like I did.
“I bet I could do that to my hair no problem,” I said. “What do you think, Dad?”
I held up the album cover for him to see.
“Sure,” Dad said, digging through a drawer for utensils.
“So you think it would be okay for me to do it?” I asked hopefully.
“You definitely have to ask your mom about that.”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “She’s making me move across the country. Can I at least decide how I look?”
“You’re entitled to feel that way, Lú,” Dad said, handing me a paper plate and a napkin. “But you still have to talk to your mom.”
“Sometimes I wish you two argued like normal divorced parents,” I mumbled.
“No, you don’t,” Dad said.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
I knew I was lucky. I liked that my parents got along even though they weren’t together. People always assumed my mom and dad were like other divorced parents, who fought over everything, but they were actually friends. They split up when I was a baby, so I had no memories, just some old photos.
“Anyway, she doesn’t like how I dress, so what’s one more thing?”
“Mom doesn’t dislike the way you dress,” Dad said.
“Nice verbal gymnastics, Dad.”
“Really, she’s used to wacky outfits and loud music. She was married to me, wasn’t she?”
“No comment.” I grabbed a roll and stuffed the whole thing into my mouth.
“I think you and your mom are more alike than you realize.”
“SuperMexican and I are nothing alike,” I said through bread.
“You both do that scrunchy thing with your upper lip and nose.” He laughed just thinking about it.
“This is serious, Dad.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I still don’t understand why I can’t stay with you.”
“I knew this was coming,” Dad said. The look on his face told me he didn’t want to have this conversation. “Malú, you know my schedule is too unpredictable. That’s why you live with your mom, remember?”
“But I’m almost thirteen,” I said. “And very responsible. You know that!”
“True,” Dad said. “But this is a done deal.”
I could feel my hope crumbling as if one of those huge wrecking balls used to tear down buildings had just slammed against it, turning it into dust. I thought of the zine I’d left for Mom.
“What if Mom changes her mind tonight?”
Dad gave me a look like he was questioning my grip on reality.
“She could,” I said indignantly. “Parents don’t always know best, you know.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Dad said.
I emptied my root beer can into a plastic cup and watched the foam threaten to spill over.
“Look, think of it as your big city adventure,” Dad said. “How many kids get to be in a new and exciting place for a while and then come back home?”
“Yeah, I must be the luckiest kid in the world.”
Dad opened the pizza box, and the warm smell of baked crust and melted cheese rose up, but my appetite had disappeared. Talking about moving had ruined my last DaVinci’s.
“Sorry, kid,” Dad said. “This is going to be hard for all of us, but we’ll get through it, right?”
Neither Mom nor Dad seemed especially torn up about it, to be honest. I could feel my eyes well up with tears, but I didn’t want to cry. So I grabbed a slice of pizza and busied myself by picking at the tomatoes and rearranging them into an angry face.
“Let’s not spend our last night together feeling sad,” Dad said. “Here, I got you a little gift.”
He pulled a small shoe box from behind the counter and placed it in front of me.
“A gift isn’t going to make me feel better,” I said. “But can I open it now?” I gave Dad a sheepish grin.
“Of course,” he said.
I pulled off the lid and picked up the small, oval-shaped yellow box that sat on top. It was so light, it felt empty. Inside were six tiny dolls that looked like stick figures, with ink dots for eyes and mouths. Each doll was about as big as my thumbnail, with cardboard limbs wrapped in colorful thread made to look like clothes.
“What are they?” I asked, carefully tapping the dolls out onto the counter.
“Worry dolls,” Dad said. “You put them under your pillow when you go to bed, tell them your worries, and they take them away while you sleep.”
“Do they really work?” I asked.
“You’ll have to tell me,” Dad said. “I thought they might come in handy.”
I nodded and scooped the dolls back into their tiny container. The other item in the shoe box was Dad’s old Walkman cassette player and a cassette in its plastic case.
“Cool! You made me a mix?”
“I put some new stuff and some old stuff on there,” Dad said. “I hope you like it.”
“Is the Walkman a gift too?” I asked, hopefully.
“How about I let you borrow it?” Dad said. “Return it when you’re back home again.”
I threw my arms around Dad and kissed his cheek.
“You may be far from home, kid, but you can take the music anywhere,” Dad said. “It’s always with you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Hey, you want to play DJ?”
“Sure,” I said, and hopped off my stool.
Normally I loved playing DJ at the record store, but for once it wasn’t getting me out of my sad mood. Still, I pulled some of our favorites to play over the store’s speakers while we finished eating.
After dinner we cleaned up and took photos in the old photo booth, one strip for each of us. I looked around the store one last time, pretending my eyes were a camera, and snapped mental shots to tuck away for safekeeping. Then I turned off the lights.
Upstairs, Dad put on The Wizard of Oz while I changed into my pajamas. It was one of my favorite movies, and watching it together once a year had become our thing. I squeezed in between Dad and Martí on the couch. I always loved the beginning, where Dorothy’s in Kansas and everything is a brownish gray.
“Don’t listen to this part,” I said to Martí, covering his ears when Miss Gulch threatened to harm Toto.
I knew I was too old, but I snuggled close to Dad anyway and breathed deep into his shirt, trying to memorize his familiar smell of laundry detergent, peppermint gum, and sweat. I wondered when we’d be able to watch the movie together again.
“Dad?” I said, hesitating. I felt like a water balloon about to burst.
“Lú?”
“I know it’s not punk to be scared . . . but I’m scared.”
“It’s okay to be scared, Lú.” Dad squeezed my hand. “Hey, do you remember what the first rule of punk is?”
“There are no rules?” I asked.
“Okay, never mind,” he said, and laughed. “The second rule of punk?”
“The louder, the better?”
“You’re a real comedian.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “Be myself.” I’d heard Dad say the same thing five thousand times. “But how’s that supposed to help me?”
“Well, it’ll help you make new friends, find your people.”
“I have friends,” I said, before I could stop myself. “I don’t want new friends.”
Dad didn’t respond, but I knew what he was thinking. It was the same thing I was thinking. I didn’t really have any close friends at school. I considered Dad my people more than anyone else. I guess Mom was my people too, though she was different from Dad and me. It looked like I had a lot of people finding to do.
“I know,” Dad said, and nudged his chin toward the screen. “But you’re going to need a Yellow-Brick-Road posse.” He squeezed me tight and kissed the top of my head.
Dad kept telling me not to worry. That everything was going to be okay. I really wanted to believe him. But as I watched Dorothy’s house fly up into the air and spin around in the twister, I wasn’t so sure.