Page 120

I don’t want to look away, but Ari’s voice comes and goes in sweet but powerful eddies as she moves from the verse into a chorus. I devote my attention to her, and a strange contentment comes over me. An overwhelming sense of belonging, in this moment, in this place. To be here with my brother and my best friend, with Quint’s elbow pressed lightly against mine, to have this unfamiliar yet beautiful song speaking to my soul.

And I guess I can understand why Ari longs to create music. It does have this uncanny way of bringing a moment into focus. Of making the world seem suddenly brilliant and magical andright.

I don’t know if I’m the only one feeling it. But I do know that when Ari is finished, we all applaud our freaking hearts out.

THIRTY-FIVE

There was a time when I was a regular visitor to the pawnshop on Seventh, though I was never on a first-name basis with the owner, Clark, like the beachcomber is. The shop is the sort of place that regularly takes in music memorabilia, so my parents used to stop in every few months, dragging us kids along, to see if they’d gotten new Beatles posters or merchandise, or if there were vinyl records they could get for cheap and sell at a higher price back at the store. Years ago my mom found a set of plastic Beatles picnic plates that we still use to this day.

The store is also a go-to stop for instruments. This is where we got Jude’s guitar and Penny’s violin, and even my keyboard.

But it’s been years since I’ve been inside. So I’m surprised when I open the door and am immediately greeted with a slew of familiar smells—musk and lemon wood polish and cigar smoke. I’m even more surprised when the man behind the counter grins widely when he sees me. “Is that Prudence Barnett? Holy hell, you’ve gone off and turned into a teenager. Look at you!”

I freeze a couple steps into the doorway and smile awkwardly. “Um. Yep. Hi.”

“Come in, come in.” He waves his arms, like he’s trying to drag me forward with the force of his gestures. He’s a big guy. Like, Hagrid big. I’d remembered this, but thought that my young mind must have been exaggerating, because now that I think of it, I was a little afraid of him when I was a kid, even thoughhe was always really nice to me and my siblings. But there’s just something unsettling about being greeted by a guy well over six feet tall, who probably weighs twice as much as my dad. He has an unruly gray-peppered beard and is wearing a tweed newsboy hat. This, too, I remember from childhood.

“I expected your mom or dad to stop in any day now. Didn’t think they’d be sending you in, but it sure is good to see you. All grown-up. I can’t hardly believe it.” He clicks his tongue, then lifts a finger, indicating I should wait. “I’ll go get your money. Be right back.”

I blink. Money?

But before I can say anything, he’s slipped into a back room, a tiny office with a window covered in yellowed blinds. I approach the main counter, where he keeps the jewelry. There are so many little velvet boxes holding little diamond rings that it’s dizzying. I move to the next case. Necklaces, watches, bracelets—earrings.

I inspect them all, but none of them is Maya’s. He probably wouldn’t keep a solitary earring with these sets anyway, I reason.

Maybe he has a missing-parts jewelry section?

I make a quick pass around the room. More glass cases hold antique cigar boxes, porcelain figurines, hand-painted teacups, pocketknives, collectible coins, baseball cards. One entire case is dedicated to used cell phones. The walls are covered in paintings. The shelves display everything from clarinets to laptops, bowling balls to table lamps.

There is a display of costume jewelry on one counter. I spend a minute digging through it, but there’s nothing that resembles the earring, and if Clark really did pay more than a grand for it, I doubt it would be sitting out here unattended.

“Here we go,” says Clark, emerging from the office with a white envelope. He lays down a handwritten receipt, then opens the envelope and takes out a handful of money. He starts to count it out, placing each bill down so I can double-check his math, but my attention is on the slip of yellow paper.

Guitar amp: $140.00

Tennis bracelet (diamond 1 ct): $375.00

Cordless drill: $20.00

DVD player: $22.00

Electronic keyboard w/stand: $80.00

At the bottom is my dad’s signature and phone number.

My eyes linger on the last item. A keyboard.Thekeyboard, I’m sure, that I’d told Ari I would give to her, before I realized we didn’t have it anymore.

Before my parents told me they sold it.

“Six hundred and thirty-seven.” Clark finishes counting, then stacks up the bills again and slides them back into the envelope. He hands it to me, along with the receipt. My hand instinctively closes around it, feeling the heft of the money inside. “We’ve had some interest on that cutlery set, but no takers yet. Your pop mentioned he might be bringing in a guitar? Acoustic, I think? Those have been selling like hotcakes lately, if you want to let him know.”

Cutlery? Guitar?

“Um. Okay. I’ll mention it to him.” I swallow. “Which cutlery set, exactly?”

“Ah, you know. This vintage one.” He walks around the counter and ushers me toward another case, where he pulls out an old wooden box. When he opens it, I’m greeted with a set of silverware—lightly tarnished spoons and forks and a row of steak knives strapped to the bottom of the lid. There are some serving pieces, too—a ladle and one of those huge forks used for carving meat. I reach out and run my finger along the handle of one of the spoons, engraved with a motif of grapes.

I know this silverware.