“Yeah, maybe.” Too bad when I get back home, I’m going to be grounded for life.
I really don’t want to think about it right now. Jake, probably bored by our conversation, flips the radio volume up a few notches. The song that blasts out is one I recognize.
“This is ‘Thunder Road,’ right?” I ask after a moment.
He looks at me. “You like Bruce Springsteen?” I like the note of surprise in his voice. The fact that there’s something about me he, the eternal enigma, doesn’t have all figured out.
“My father loves the Boss,” I say. “He likes to delude himself into thinking he grew up in a mining town in Jersey instead of the Michigan suburbs.”
“Your dad’s got good taste then.”
“Obviously you haven’t met his girlfriend.”
Jake’s mouth quirks into a half grin. In the back, Laney wrestles with the seat belt, grunting as she yanks at the stubborn strap.
“What is with this thing?” she grouses.
“I’ve been meaning to get that fixed,” says Jake. “You’ll have to sit on the other side.”
“Joplin’s not so infallible after all, huh?” I smirk at him. “What’s with that name, anyway?”
“She’s named after—”
“Janis Joplin,” Laney pipes up from the other seat. She’s busy buckling herself in. “Right? Though I don’t know why you’d name your van after
her.
Wasn’t she ugly?”
“But she had the
music,”
Jake says fervently, fist clenched and pumping the air. He sees my and Laney’s matching bemused expressions and sighs. “Never mind. Harper, grab that CD off the floor. The one on top.”
I double over and snatch the first CD case from the top of the pile—another mix. I hand it to Jake, who takes one hand off the steering wheel, ejects Bruce and slides in the new disc. Almost immediately I hear a woman’s scratchy voice, caterwauling on and on about a man named Bobby McGee. It isn’t pleasant, per se, but it’s raw and growling and full of conviction.
I love it.
“That’s Janis,” he explains.
“Oh,” is all I can say.
We drive on, and Janis’s song fades to make way for another. I realize each song has a name in it: Bobby, Eileen, John, Stephanie, Daniel, Layla, even one about a boy named Sue. Johnny Cash, Jake tells me when I ask who the singer is. I like it and tell him as much.
“You’d have to have no soul to not like Johnny Cash,” he says.
The next song is about a girl named Ruby Tuesday. At first all I can think about is the chain restaurant, but then a lightbulb goes on in my head. That voice—it’s the same swaggering male voice from June’s CD, the first track with that startling guitar riff.
“Who is this?” I ask.
Jake stares at me like I’m the stupidest person he’s ever had the misfortune of coming into contact with. “The Rolling Stones. Mick Jagger. Only one of the most legendary front men ever. You seriously don’t know who he is?”
Laney leans up from the back, propping her elbow against my headrest. “Some of us like to live in the now.”
“Yeah, okay, Ms. Monroe.”
“That’s totally different. This stuff is, like, ancient. Don’t you have
any
music from the past decade? Jay-Z? Snow Patrol? Kelly Clarkson? Something relevant?”
“Everything on the radio is crap,” snaps Jake. “It’s fast food for your ears. It doesn’t make you think. It isn’t even
about
anything—not anything real. Don’t you think music should
say
something?”
“So people have different tastes. So what? You don’t have to be a jackass about it. Just because pop music doesn’t say what you want to hear doesn’t mean it doesn’t say anything,” Laney says. She falls back against her seat with a groan. “God, you’re like a douche-baggy hipster music snob with the tastes of a forty-year-old white guy.”
“Douche-baggy? Is that even a word?”
“See!” Laney gesticulates emphatically toward Jake with one hand. “Snob!”
“Look,” I interrupt, trying for my most diplomatic tone, “if we
I really don’t want to think about it right now. Jake, probably bored by our conversation, flips the radio volume up a few notches. The song that blasts out is one I recognize.
“This is ‘Thunder Road,’ right?” I ask after a moment.
He looks at me. “You like Bruce Springsteen?” I like the note of surprise in his voice. The fact that there’s something about me he, the eternal enigma, doesn’t have all figured out.
“My father loves the Boss,” I say. “He likes to delude himself into thinking he grew up in a mining town in Jersey instead of the Michigan suburbs.”
“Your dad’s got good taste then.”
“Obviously you haven’t met his girlfriend.”
Jake’s mouth quirks into a half grin. In the back, Laney wrestles with the seat belt, grunting as she yanks at the stubborn strap.
“What is with this thing?” she grouses.
“I’ve been meaning to get that fixed,” says Jake. “You’ll have to sit on the other side.”
“Joplin’s not so infallible after all, huh?” I smirk at him. “What’s with that name, anyway?”
“She’s named after—”
“Janis Joplin,” Laney pipes up from the other seat. She’s busy buckling herself in. “Right? Though I don’t know why you’d name your van after
her.
Wasn’t she ugly?”
“But she had the
music,”
Jake says fervently, fist clenched and pumping the air. He sees my and Laney’s matching bemused expressions and sighs. “Never mind. Harper, grab that CD off the floor. The one on top.”
I double over and snatch the first CD case from the top of the pile—another mix. I hand it to Jake, who takes one hand off the steering wheel, ejects Bruce and slides in the new disc. Almost immediately I hear a woman’s scratchy voice, caterwauling on and on about a man named Bobby McGee. It isn’t pleasant, per se, but it’s raw and growling and full of conviction.
I love it.
“That’s Janis,” he explains.
“Oh,” is all I can say.
We drive on, and Janis’s song fades to make way for another. I realize each song has a name in it: Bobby, Eileen, John, Stephanie, Daniel, Layla, even one about a boy named Sue. Johnny Cash, Jake tells me when I ask who the singer is. I like it and tell him as much.
“You’d have to have no soul to not like Johnny Cash,” he says.
The next song is about a girl named Ruby Tuesday. At first all I can think about is the chain restaurant, but then a lightbulb goes on in my head. That voice—it’s the same swaggering male voice from June’s CD, the first track with that startling guitar riff.
“Who is this?” I ask.
Jake stares at me like I’m the stupidest person he’s ever had the misfortune of coming into contact with. “The Rolling Stones. Mick Jagger. Only one of the most legendary front men ever. You seriously don’t know who he is?”
Laney leans up from the back, propping her elbow against my headrest. “Some of us like to live in the now.”
“Yeah, okay, Ms. Monroe.”
“That’s totally different. This stuff is, like, ancient. Don’t you have
any
music from the past decade? Jay-Z? Snow Patrol? Kelly Clarkson? Something relevant?”
“Everything on the radio is crap,” snaps Jake. “It’s fast food for your ears. It doesn’t make you think. It isn’t even
about
anything—not anything real. Don’t you think music should
say
something?”
“So people have different tastes. So what? You don’t have to be a jackass about it. Just because pop music doesn’t say what you want to hear doesn’t mean it doesn’t say anything,” Laney says. She falls back against her seat with a groan. “God, you’re like a douche-baggy hipster music snob with the tastes of a forty-year-old white guy.”
“Douche-baggy? Is that even a word?”
“See!” Laney gesticulates emphatically toward Jake with one hand. “Snob!”
“Look,” I interrupt, trying for my most diplomatic tone, “if we
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