And that makes me feel sicker.

James twists a ring and takes a drink. It’s hard to know where he ends and the actor begins. He’s heard this all and worse before, of course, but his face is impassive. Perhaps he’s used to it. Perhaps he’s able to tune it out. Perhaps he has his own way of hiding.

Later, James and Becky and I stand out on the deck. Prince’s “1999” plays inside. I wonder where we’ll be in sixteen years. In our thirties, I guess, which is bizarre to even think about.

It’s a clear night under a full moon, and we’re out here so Becky can do her monthly ritual of trying to emotionally let go of things, although I’m never really sure what she’s trying to let go of.

James leans back against the railing, his eyes to the sky, a thoughtful look on his face.

I hover over Becky’s shoulder, close enough to be surrounded by a cloud of Love’s Baby Soft perfume, and watch as she writes fear on a piece of paper towel with a black Sharpie, and folds it into a square.

She holds out her hand, and James wordlessly passes her a slim, silver lighter as if they’d choreographed their movements. Then she lights the paper and throws it over the side of the boat. It hits the water, sizzles, and sinks.

Well, says James in a voice dripping with sarcasm. There you go. I guess we’re all safe now.

The next day, I take the rest of my allowance to collect my reward for braving the subway on New Year’s Eve.

B-Side Records is my father’s worst nightmare. New albums in on Tuesday. Comics on Thursday. A steady stream of rich kids, poor kids, weird kids, gay kids, kids who smell like pot, kids who smell like booze, kids who just smell.

Music is the great equalizer: $7.99 for an LP. $5.99 for a cassette. Twenty-five cents for all the used stuff in the bargain bin.

I could easily spend every dime I have in this store, but I stay focused and head to the import section. UK 45s have this tiny hole in the middle, like an LP, instead of a big hole like U.S. singles. Thankfully I have an adapter, a yellow piece of plastic with RHINO RECORDS stamped on it to use with the rest of my singles, so I can stack the U.S. and UK ones together on my turntable’s spindle.

The import section is decked out with a million flags from a million different countries, even though 90 percent of the records are from the UK. The British flag is red, white, and blue. I don’t get why the colonists hated England enough to declare war on them but stole their flag colors anyhow.

I think about James and his British mother. About how there’s so much tension between them all the time.

It’s funny how sometimes you can speak the same language, yet you still need a piece of round plastic to bridge the gap.