We Run the Tides by Vendela Vida

Author:Vendela Vida [Vida, Vendela]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780062936233
Google: F7-QzQEACAAJ
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2021-02-09T00:00:00+00:00

19

At dinner I bring up the concert.

“I think it’s a good idea for you to go,” my mother says.

I know she means I think it’s a good idea for you to have a new friend your age. She likes that Ewa and I get along so well, but I can tell she’s worried that the phone never rings for me anymore.

“Wait a second, Greta,” my dad says and puts down his fork. He turns toward me. “You’re going to a concert with a boy?”

“It’s not a boy,” my mom says. “It’s Bonnie and Fred’s son. You know, from Sea View.”

I think of correcting my mother. Keith is a boy. But pointing this out won’t help further my case.

“What is this band all about?” my dad asks.

“They’re British,” I say.

“I’d like to hear them before I agree to anything,” he says.

“Okay. I have the album.”

After dinner, Ewa helps my mom with the dishes and my dad follows me upstairs. He bought me a record player from Sears last year. Embarrassed, I covered up the Sears logo. I used a special handheld machine that lets me punch out capital letters on red embossing tape. I wrote “BRAND NAME HERE” on the tape and stuck it over Sears.

My dad sits in my desk chair, swiveling. I hope he doesn’t see the concert tickets—I don’t think he’ll like the fact that I’m the one who invited Keith to the show.

My dad is no stranger to concerts. He went to see Little Richard across the bay in Richmond when he was in his twenties—he was one of two white men in the audience, he said. But there are noticeable gaps in his career as a music lover. One time I asked him who his favorite Beatle was. “I kind of missed that trend,” he said. Missed that trend, I thought. The Beatles trend. So I don’t know what he’ll think of the Psychedelic Furs.

The record’s already on the turntable and I place the needle carefully on “Pretty in Pink.” I figure the title of that song is innocuous, and makes the band seem most appropriate for someone my age.

He closes his eyes as he listens to the song.

“Eulabee,” my dad says.

“Yes,” I say.

“They’re fine,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “So . . .”

“You may go to the concert,” he says, though it’s clear he can’t believe he’s saying the words. “We’ll have to work something out where maybe Ewa picks you up right afterward or something.”

“Of course,” I say. “Thank you.”

Instead of saying, “You’re welcome,” he nods. Then he stops swiveling and stands.

* * *

EWA DRIVES US TO THE SHOW in my parents’ yellow Saab. Keith and I are quiet on the drive and Ewa fills the air by talking about how popular heavy metal is in Sweden. We pull up in front of the Fillmore. The crowd is thick and older.

“She’s cool,” Keith says when Ewa drops us off.

“Yeah,” I say. I love that he likes her.

The scent of damp fallen leaves hits me as we enter the building.

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