John Lennon was sixteen when he formed the Beatles. Don’t get me started on Michael Jackson either.

You’re already past your prime.

We never go to Becky’s, for obvious reasons. And James’s place is crowded, so we’re at mine. Dad is working late and my mom is helping with a bake sale at church. I keep hoping she’ll see Father Simon for the lech that he is, but it’s unlikely. She doesn’t even know her own sons.

We’re hanging in my room listening to records—Depeche Mode, Split Enz, R.E.M.—and building a giant house out of playing cards, which James keeps leaning in and blowing over before it can fall. Meanwhile, Michael Stipe is singing on my turntable, but I can’t understand what he’s saying, and the band refuses to print lyric sheets, a personal pet peeve of mine.

Do you have a CD player yet? Becky asks James.

The jury is still out on those things, he says as he replaces the ace of hearts. I mean, there’s purity in hearing the music the way it was created, but there’s also something to be said for the accumulated history of records. Those scratches and pops were earned.

Becky smirks. Sorry I asked, she says.

Then she reaches into her bag. Here, she says, I got this off the bathroom wall at The Echo.

She holds out a grimy scrap of paper.

I draw back and ask, You actually touched something in The Echo’s bathroom and took it home with you? Why aren’t you wearing gloves?

James leans over her shoulder. A phone number? I didn’t think you were that hard up, kitten.

She elbows him in the ribs, but he laughs.

I think that’s how Connor met his last boyfriend, I joke and then realize it’s been a couple of days since I heard from him.

No, she explains. The sign said: Dial-a-Daze: Call in times of questioning to be moved toward times of transcendence. I’m curious, can we call?

Becky’s eyes are lit up, and I shrug. Is it local? My parents will be pissed if they get hit with a charge for long distance.

Becky nods.

Sure, why not, I say. I haven’t seen her excited about anything in a while.

She gets to the phone before I do, while James opens the kitchen window and lights up, trying not to catch my mother’s pink gingham curtains on fire.

Becky waits until the sounds of sirens on the street fade away, and then she dials and holds the phone receiver out to us.

We lean in. There’s a pause. Then a smoke-worn voice whispers, The world is made up of pieces. Scraps of paper. Broken concrete. Incomplete thoughts. We fill in what isn’t there. Sew it together. Seep around each other’s edges.

Becky lets the message repeat. Hangs up. Aside from James drawing on his cigarette, we’re silent.

It’s true, you know, James says after a while. It’s the things that are missing that keep us searching for a reason to stay alive.