Molly pondered it over for a moment before nodding. “That’s actually way better, yeah.”

* * * *

Connie visited my house for the first time that evening after we left the others. It wasn’t necessarily that I was reluctant to show her where I lived; her house was enormous and fancy and all the things I was supposed to want, but it was also cold, and empty. I didn’t envy her the life she led, with parents who often forgot they had children in the first place. I was not embarrassed about where I came from. But opening up to her, introducing her to my world—I was slow to do it all the same. My house was smaller than hers and infinitely less tidy but she followed me upstairs without complaint and didn’t whine, as I had expected, about the state of my bedroom. She was far more at ease than I reckoned her to be, plopping down onto my bed and kicking off her shoes, eyeing the posters on the walls with approval. My room was a mess—there were piles of clothes, both clean and unclean, scattered about the place, and a collection of mugs built up into a small tower on my desk. The room was north facing and so there wasn’t as much natural light as there might have been, and the black bedclothes and black wardrobe gave the room a somewhat depressing aura. But I liked it. The organized chaos reflected me well.

“So,” I drawled, sitting on the edge of the bed. “My record collection.”

I spent the remainder of the evening discussing with her my extensive music tastes and she listened intently though her interest in what I had to say was limited. I took out my band shirts and laid them on the floor for her to examine—Depeche Mode, Joy Division. I told her all about the concerts I had been to in the Olympia with Claire, and re-enacted the fight that had broken out at a gig the previous summer between a boy I recognized from Christopher’s and a man nearly seven feet tall after the boy spilled a tray of drinks all over him. And then I took out my Walkman, watched her eye it curiously.

“Move over,” I instructed, and she shuffled over on the bed. I sat down next to her and we each took one earbud, both of us in silence for the next few minutes listening to the mixtape Claire had made me for my birthday. I could tell she liked it. She nodded her head along, smiled when she recognized the chorus of “Lovecats.”

“Do you like it?” I asked and she nodded eagerly.

“Of course, I really like it. Who are they, though? That band?”

My jaw dropped. My eyes widened. I sat up a little straighter and stared at her, flabbergasted, before gripping onto her arm. “You don’t know The Cure?”

I spent the rest of the evening lecturing her sternly about the importance of developing a broad, varied, and cultured music taste. I imagine she regretted ever saying a word.