Jukebox Read online

  Shortly after her summer program started, Harper and the other students would take the short train ride to Venlo, Holland to study each afternoon in the coffee shops. Drug tourism, it was called, and it was very popular with surrounding countries.

  Harper soon discovered that her favorite variety was Northern Lights, and a few puffs gave her the shiniest, most colorful daydreams of her life. Sitting at her table, she’d often forget about exposure, filters and darkroom techniques, and drift into another world. A world where Grace was always waiting.

  In her psychedelic dreams, she was often flying, and flying across city after European city until she reached Spain. She’d sail over Luxembourg, Lyon and Montpellier before she reached Barcelona. She imagined, through the vivid details Grace was giving her on the phone, the four-bedroom Mediterranean apartment where she was living in an old village called Barceloneta. If it was after dark, she’d see Grace sleeping, curled up next to the stucco wall her bed was pushed up against. Letters Harper had written were stacked on her night table, so were books by John Grisham and a bottle of Kiehl’s grapefruit lotion, her favorite.

  That’s why she loved Northern Lights; it was a channel—a secret wormhole—to Grace.

  The first letter Harper got from Grace said she missed her terribly, more than she thought she would. My bed’s lonely without

  you, Grace wrote. Harper read it three times before fumbling it back into the envelope as her roommate, Barb Hanson, approached. Barb, a bleached blond sorority sister with whom Harper was not close, had coincidentally signed up for the same program that summer. Barb was best friends with Harper’s still archenemy Sloan Weasle, although they’d learned to tolerate each other socially.

  Grace’s message stayed with Harper all week— my bed is lonely without you—haunting her, keeping her up at night. It burned in places Harper wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

  Every day, the words Harper scribbled in ballpoint pen were much different than the ones she whispered through the phone lines at night. And the calls increased with every joint Harper smoked. Harper had it down to a science: when the other students were amply faded, she’d slip out the door and walk twenty steps to the corner telefoon.

  In her wood clogs, Harper talked to Grace for hours. Leaning against the weathered wall of a hardware store, she bored her finger into a corroded hole where the bolts met the plaster. Bits of white powder crumbled to the sidewalk until Harper’s finger fit all the way inside. They discussed what they’d do when they got home—drive-in movies, long dinners, endless games of pool.

  They’d find every jukebox in town.

  At that payphone, Grace told Harper about Spanish wine, her days in Madrid and the family with which she was living.

  Harper mused about the strudel, the German architecture and the remaining strip of the Berlin wall.

  One weekend in Paris, as dusk settled in over the city, Harper made one of her calls. She’d been traveling with Barb and a few others when she passed a circle of local Parisians playing music near the Arc de Triomphe. She stopped, pulled out her 35mm camera and began swapping lenses. As Harper adjusted her shutter speed, she saw the other students disappear into a restaurant.

  Barb stopped and waited at the door. “I’ll meet you inside,”

  Harper said, waving her off.

  After Harper captured shots of each performer—including a man lighting his tongue on fire—she walked to the corner phone

  booth before joining the others for dinner. She dialed a flurry of numbers and then someone answered in Spanish.

  “Puedo hablar yo con Grace? ” Harper asked.

  With a husky voice, the man of the house yelled Grace’s name.

  “Gracias Marco,” Grace said, taking the receiver. “I’ve been waiting all day. Where have you been?”

  “The Louvre. It’s like five hundred million miles long,”

  Harper said, still watching the musicians. “I tried to get away earlier. But—”

  “Nobody understands why we need to talk three times a day?” Grace asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “Tell me about it. Marco and his wife think you’re my sister.”

  A woman, who sounded just like Edith Piaf, began singing with the band. Her dress, adorned with intricate silk weaving, looked like vintage Hermés, Harper thought.

  “I miss you extra today,” Grace said. They sat with this for a moment. “I sent two letters this morning. And there may be others waiting. I’ve lost track.”

  “I mailed one yesterday,” Harper said. “And I’ve been carrying a postcard around all afternoon. I’ve yet to find a mailbox.”

  “Where are you? It’s loud.”

  “I’m on the Champs-Élysées,” Harper said, shutting the booth’s door. “I can’t believe the summer’s nearly over. Just three weeks and I’ll see you in Amsterdam.”

  “It’s not soon enough,” Grace said. “Call later to say good night.”

  At the end of the long weekend, when Harper returned to her hotel in Dusseldorf—a place called the Tulip Inn near the university—several of Grace’s letters were waiting.

  Still wearing her overstuffed backpack, Harper grabbed the pile of mail and tore the first letter open. She read it as she walked to the lobby cafe, where she also read the others before returning to her room.

  0

  Later that night, after Barb was asleep, with a flashlight, Harper reread them in bed:

  I’m going insane. The way I miss you is mad!

  You’re the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing at night. Why are you all I think about, my silly Harp?

  I can’t wait to sleep next to you again. I’ve never wanted anything more.

  Harper read the last lines several times as she lit a cigarette, the words delighting her. I can’t wait to sleep next to you again. I’ve never wanted anything more.

  Harper began writing Grace back, her second letter of the day. My darling, she wrote.

  From the darkness, Harper heard rustling. She quickly smothered the light.

  “What are you doing?” Barb grumbled.

  “Just journaling,” Harper said, still in the dark.

  “It’s like four in the morning.”

  “Sorry,” Harper said, clicking off the flashlight.

  On her last night in Germany, after the school program had come to a close, Harper organized the mail hidden under her bed when she was alone. There were over a hundred letters stacked in three piles. Nearly all from Grace. Before she bound them in string, she reread some of her words:

  This will be the last time we’ll ever be apart, I’ve decided. I can’t handle not having you each day. You’re a drug. And I’m an addict.

  With fewer brain cells, longer hair and a new belly button ring, Harper traveled to Amsterdam to meet Grace the next day.

  Harper’s well-traveled parents had set them up at their favorite hotel in the city, a five-star jewel on the Amstel River. Harper got an early start, called ahead and arranged for a morning pedicure and massage, hoping the bodywork would calm her nerves.

  In the afternoon, Harper flitted around town while Grace, who was impressively fluent in Spanish by then, rode the train from Barcelona. After a long weekend in Amsterdam, they would travel to Italy for several days before heading home. Harper’s aunt and uncle were expecting them in Bologna.

  Harper rented a scooter, and in a half-shell Snoopy helmet, she stopped at one market after another before ending up at the Van Gogh museum. She’d already visited earlier that summer, but his painting A Pair of Shoes was calling her back. When Harper got to the self-inspired 1886 canvas, she must’ve stood there for a half hour, consumed, again, by his strokes, the rabid bend in the laces, the darkness—darkness which resonated somewhere inside her. There was such acute fear and sorrow in his work, she thought.

  After lunch, on the steps of Central Station, Harper smoked a cigarette and thought again about Grace’s letters. What would it be like between them?

  I
’ve never wanted anything more.

  And what did this all mean, the connection between her and Grace? This weird dance. This strange, unspoken conversation they’d had all summer.

  Aside from her nerves, for the most part Harper felt normal, just like she always had. She was aware, however, of the intensity of her feelings for it had kept her awake many nights writing poems and rereading Grace’s letters. She’d never felt such a strong connection with another person before.

  It was just their friendship, Harper decided, that had reached an intimacy of epic proportion. They were the best of best friends.

  Soul mates.

  Harper found a café on the water near their hotel, an old

  skiff painted in lollipop colors that rocked when she stepped in.

  From her square table, she could see all the way down the canal.

  Amidst the mildew and coffee, Harper tapped her pen, searching for words to finish her European memoir, a soft leather journal Grace had given her. A Celtic symbol representing the bonds of friendship was burned into the front. The pages were nearly full.

  That summer, Grace was carrying the same one.

  Staring at the sheet, Harper had no idea where it ended or where it began. Even in a different country, Grace was the largest, most vital artery of her trip, the life force, what she remembered most. How could that be? As she thumbed through it, Grace’s name was on every page.

  Harper’s chest was tight as she watched the clock ticking toward Grace’s arrival. Thinking about the things Grace had said, the things she’d written, Harper remembered Grace’s frustrated delight, her inability to articulate the depth of her void. I can’t sleep some nights, Grace wrote, wondering if I’ll get a letter the next day.

  It had been the same for Harper.

  She couldn’t quite place it then, but somewhere silent and deep, anger simmered beneath the surface. And it was fueling her anxiety. Van Gogh’s painting had set it off.

  In a dark corner of her soul, Harper knew she was betraying herself, slowly breaking an unconscious pact she’d made years earlier—right around the time she stopped beating boys in PE

  and, instead, began kissing them in the baseball dugouts after school.

  “I Kissed A Girl”

  Jill Sobule

  It was early evening when Harper strolled back through the lobby. On her way to the elevator, she told the front desk to give Grace a key when she arrived.

  In the center courtyard, chefs in tall hats snipped herbs and guests gathered for happy hour. Harper checked her watch. Grace was two hours away and would arrive just in time for dinner.

  While she waited, Harper unpacked some of her things.

  Their three-bedroom suite was way more space than they needed.

  With a full view of the city, a baby grand piano, white linens and fresh orchids in a sparkling Waterford vase, it was much different than the hostels Harper had stayed in with classmates over the summer.

  In the upstairs loft, the only bedroom with a king-size bed, Harper set out her clothing options for the night, two very different looks. A knit set she’d picked up in Cologne and a plaid miniskirt she’d found at Harrod’s. The German schoolgirl or the English seductress? Who would she be?

  When she pulled out the accompanying shoes, she tried to picture Grace’s face. She couldn’t; it was vague, a chopped mosaic of memory. Funny how time and physical distance did that.

  Harper was putting her toiletries in the bathroom when she

  heard the knock. She looked at her watch again; it was too early to be Grace.

  With quiet steps, Harper walked to the glass door covered by a thin wine-colored panel. Through the cloth, she could see an outline on the other side.

  She peeked. Her knees nearly buckled when she saw Grace, her tan the color of a hot cup of cocoa.

  At that moment, something fractured inside Harper. She could feel it breaking apart.

  Another knock, louder, almost forceful, startled Harper. She stepped back and looked at the silk robe she was wearing; there wasn’t time to get dressed.

  After a measured breath, she finally pulled back the curtain, leaving the door between them.

  Despite her own fear, the rich anticipation in Grace’s eyes—

  wistful, but intent—made Harper feel safe.

  Slowly, she lifted her hand to the glass. Grace mirrored with hers. Through the pane, Harper felt the warmth of her palm.

  Grace held the room key in the other hand, but waited for Harper to let her inside. With one more teasing smile, Harper unlocked the door.

  “I thought you’d never let me in,” Grace said, reaching for her. When their bodies came together, Grace’s face against hers, everything came rushing back like no time passed. She’d missed Grace even more than she’d realized.

  “I can’t believe it’s you,” Grace said. “Is it really you?” She pulled away to get a good look.

  “It’s me!” Harper said. “You’re early. Really early.”

  “I know. I took an express train through Paris. I couldn’t stand the wait.”

  Harper grabbed Grace’s heavy bag and set it on the luggage rack. “I can’t believe how long twelve weeks was,” Harper said.

  “Twelve weeks was forever.” From behind, Grace put her arms around Harper’s waist. “I never want to be away from you again.”

  The concierge had made reservations at a small Spanish tapas bar near the Magere Brug, a narrow bridge that cut across the Amstel. “It will be perfectly romantic for you and your husband,”

  the woman had said. Harper didn’t bother correcting her.

  Like Van Gogh’s turbulent strokes, the sky swirled and twisted with wind. A swift gust almost knocked the girls over as they parked Harper’s rented Vespa in front of the restaurant.

  The waiter mentioned a storm as they sat at their window table, the bridge illuminated in the distance.

  Grace showed off her Spanish. From across the table, Harper watched her order and chat up the waiter—something about Almeria, his hometown. That much Harper understood. There was still so much she didn’t.

  After he walked away, Grace looked at Harper and continued in Spanish. “Yo me moría lentamente sin usted, mi amor,” she said.

  “What are you saying?”

  Grace poured Tempranillo from the decanter. “I said I missed you”—Grace smiled—“a lot.”

  The night air had shifted during dinner. They could smell it when they walked out of the restaurant.

  At the scooter, Grace straddled the seat first and inched back making room for Harper, who had chosen to be the English seductress. She bent over and dug the Vespa key from her knee-high boot.

  “Hurry up,” Grace said, pulling Harper in close.

  After Harper fired up the engine, she leaned back and kissed Grace on the cheek. It surprised them both.

  Once they started to move along the cobblestone, Harper could feel Grace’s head turn and rest on her shoulder; Grace’s hands were already clasped around Harper tightly. She felt Grace’s breath, her body swell then deflate, her full breasts pressed flat against her back. Grace squeezed tighter, then gently kissed Harper’s shoulder.

  Like the night air, fundamental boundaries were shifting.

  Through the tiny side mirror, Harper could see Grace’s eyes close. She could also see a big storm moving in from the west, the clouds dark and ominous. Wet. Getting closer.

  Harper slowed at a stop sign, and stole another peek at Grace in the reflection.

  She was startled when she saw the white of Grace’s eyes.

  Harper looked away quickly.

  But then, like the kiss, instinctively, Harper’s gaze returned.

  Grace hadn’t looked away and let a confident, uninhibited smile come to the surface, one that sent the electricity in the air through her body.

  No one was around when they stopped in front of the hotel.

  Harper’s skirt, like Saran Wrap, charged and clingy, stuck to her legs when she put down the k
ickstand.

  In the distance, the squall hanging in the atmosphere was a bag of water. Ready to break. Whether the heavy dampness was the impending storm or the magnitude of what was building between them, she’d never know. Was it all the years of unspoken dialogue through the jukebox, their knowing eyes in the mirror, how quickly they looked away? Or didn’t.

  Harper turned off the engine. When they locked eyes one more time in the reflection, a raindrop fell. The bag was breaking.

  It was quiet in the lobby, only a plump man at the front desk.

  He watched as the girls passed. “Goedenavond,” he said with a hand wave.

  “Dank u,” Harper said, wishing him a good evening back.

  “Glad you got in before storm,” he continued, his English stilted. “It’s big one.”

  Harper watched her feet, her deliberate steps to the elevator.

  Grace, a few strides ahead, pressed the button calling the elevator. In silence, they stood for a moment, both looking around as it made its way to the lobby. Harper could hear the old cables working behind the etched glass doors.

  “Dinner was good,” Harper said, swinging her purse, still looking down.

  Grace turned to Harper, paused and said, “It was,” with a hint of a smile. “Really good.”

  They pulled open and shut the elevator’s gate together.

  As it began its ascent, Grace leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. She was facing Harper, who was watching the numbers slowly increase, avoiding eye contact.

  “It’s crazy,” Grace said. “How much I missed you.”

  Back in their room, Harper sat on the opposite end of the couch from Grace while they watched TV, her feet in Grace’s lap. Rain beat the courtyard window and a mist blew through the screen, filling their suite with storm, stirring Grace’s hair before lifting the magazine cover on the table.