Sound of Sirens by Jen Minkman (new reading txt) 📖

I blink up at him owlishly. I hate to admit it, but that’s actually a pretty brilliant idea. And very considerate of him – I bet he could force me to give up Sytse’s gift if he really wanted to.

“Uhm, okay,” I stammer. “When?”

“Tonight. Six?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’ll be having dinner with my dad and brother. Eight o’clock.”

He nods. “Eight it is. I’ll leave the light on outside so you can find me.”

“Good.” I take a step back and bite my lip. “See you.”

“Soon,” Royce says, smiling faintly.

I turn around and dash off into the crowd, trying to catch up with Dani and Sytse. I find that the Jyoti LP fits perfectly in my backpack.

That afternoon, we gather in the living room. Dad has splashed out and made enough pancakes to last us through lunch and dinner, because Eida donated some eggs to us too, the sweetheart. Dani joins us for tea and cookies. Sytse has brought our favorite, waffles filled with the sweetest syrup in all of Fryslan. I get the portable gramophone from my room so we can put it on the coffee table and listen to the new music my brother brought home. Dani bought a few Victor Silvester records from an old sailor she knows through her grandpa, and she’s brought those too.

The first song we play is called My Secret Love Affair. It’s Dani’s pick. A slight smile graces her face as we listen to the dance band playing a somewhat mournful tune with a beautiful violin solo. The majority of this orchestra’s recordings don’t feature vocals, and I feel the urge to start singing and add some lyrics about a couple sneaking off to meet up in secret.

Dani used to date a guy from Meslons who kept their relationship a secret. Hank didn’t want to tell his parents because they expected him to ‘do better’. They’re rich, stuck-up snobs who are tragically deluded because they think Hank will marry a Current girl one day. No mixed-heritage couple on this island will ever tie the knot. It just doesn’t work that way.

Dani broke up with him a few months ago because she got tired of being Hank’s clandestine lover, but I know it still stings her. She really liked him. This kind of music reminds her of what she’s lost.

Next up is my latest Kathleen Ferrier acquisition – a record featuring the songs What is Life and Art Thou Troubled? I pick the first song and we listen in silence. Kathleen’s dark, contralto voice fills the room. Dad closes his eyes and savors the music. It reminds him of Mom and the happier times when she was still alive. He once told me how much he loved me playing Kathleen Ferrier’s music in the quiet afternoon hours while doing homework, invoking bitter-sweet memories.

After the song is finished, Sytse volunteers to wind up the gramophone for the next round of records. The crank is getting a bit squeaky, but the machine is still working properly. I stand next to him to replace the steel needle and shoot Dani a wicked grin when she walks over holding up a Bob Scobey record. “Want me to put in a loud needle?” I ask.

“Of course,” Dani replies. “The Frisco Band needs to be played at maximum volume.”

Last time we did that, Eida came over to check out what all the noise was about and ended up jazz-dancing in the living room with us. She’s a feisty old woman, just like my grandmother Antje.

“Okay, here we go,” Sytse says. He carefully places the needle in the outer groove and the soundbox comes to life with a crackling noise – a bit too buzzy to my taste. I asked him to look around for a new mica diaphragm, but they are hard to come by these days.

We dance and sing along to the new records until dinner time. “Are you dropping by tonight to study for the German test together?” Dani inquires as I see her out.

“I can’t,” I say. “I promised Sytse to help him with something.”

“Okay. If you’re too busy to study I’ll fill you in during our ride to school tomorrow!” she grins.

I feel guilty for lying to her, but I don’t want to tell her about Royce’s strange proposal. Yet. Of course I will tell her, eventually – once Royce has grown tired of me and my LP and goes back to the harbor to pick out his next new and shiny thing, I’ll tell her all about how I forced a Current guy to hang out with me. The Jyoti LP makes me feel powerful. The title of the record is Phoenix, and that’s exactly what I feel like. Indestructible. Rising like a newborn from the flames.

––––––––

By the time I sneak out of the house – I told my family I’d be studying in my room until bedtime – it is almost dark outside. Royce promised to leave a light on outside the cottage, which is a good thing. I thought I could take the bike to Stortum, but I can’t risk veering off the narrow track in the darkness. I don’t have headlights like the Current vehicles, after all. It’s a new moon tonight, so the sky will be pitch-dark later. I will have to walk.

Humming a tune to myself, I go on my way. Actually, I don’t feel that upbeat. I’m mostly singing to myself to calm my nerves. The more I think about it, the more outrageous this whole plan seems to me. I am going to sit down in some obscure cottage with a Current celebrity so we can share an LP. What will we talk about? How am I supposed to behave? He will look at me as if I’m some desperate, Skylger electro-wannabe. Maybe it’s a trap and he’s invited all his friends so they can all mock me for being so gullible.

I freeze mid-stride. Oh, by Freda and Fosta – that must be it. I sink down on a bench by the roadside and rest my head in my hands. The LP drops into my lap. Royce is a sadistic bully and he’s trying to set me up. It’s St. Brandan’s Day – why would he want to meet up with me instead of spending time partying in town with his buddies?

It takes me another ten minutes to pull myself together and continue my walk to Stortum. Because I still want to know. I’ll tiptoe to the window and look inside to see if I’m right. If I am, I get the hell out of there. If I’m wrong about Royce... well, that means I’ll have an exciting, nerve-wracking evening ahead of me.

By the time I march up to the front door, it’s completely dark. I found my way all right because there’s an electric light bulb above it which casts a faint light across the wooden exterior of the little house. The light doesn’t look too inviting. I prefer candlelight and the light of the gas lanterns that our island guards keep burning along the main roads in the small Skylger towns and villages.

I hold my breath as I creep up to the window on the right. The curtains are partly drawn, and I can still peer through the crack.

Royce is sitting in a lazy chair facing the door. He looks like he’s a bit nervous, too. And it also looks like he’s completely alone. By some miraculous turn of events, this guy seems sincere in his wish to share Miss Jyoti’s latest work with me.

I slink back into the shadows and stare ponderingly at the dimly-lit entrance. Do I really want to go in there?

My hand apparently decides I do, because the next thing I know I am rapping at the door. Within seconds, Royce opens it and stares down at me with that strangely piercing gaze in his blue eyes.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” I respond, giving a half-hearted wave with my hand holding the LP.

“Come in, please.” He steps aside to let me in.

My heart skips a beat as I comply with his request. There, I did it – I showed up for a secret date with a hot Current boy. If only Dani knew, she’d laugh her ass off. Or slap my stupid face.

“Nice place,” I comment, surveying the room. The two couches and the lazy chair are all burgundy-colored velvet. The coffee table in the center is made of heavy, dark-brown wood. There are some old family tintypes above the fireplace, and in the far right corner is a piano that doesn’t seem to have a soundboard. It must be electric, then. It’s almost like magic.

The cottage is really cozy, apart from the strangely-looking appliances lining the left wall. One of those things must be the LP player he mentioned. I inch toward it. To my surprise, it looks really similar to a gramophone upon closer inspection.

“You like my turntable?” Royce says, his low voice breaking the silence so suddenly that I give a weird little jump. Whipping around, I take a quick step back since he is closer than I expected. I feel flustered by his presence – not just because it is somehow imposing, but because he seems to make my skin glow.

“Turntable?” I repeat dumbly.

“Yeah. The modern version of the phonograph.” That’s what the Currents call our mechanical music players – I remember now.

“It’s weird.” I take a hesitant step closer, as though the turntable could leap up and maul my leg at any minute. “Where is the soundbox? That tone arm looks so fragile.”

“The tone arm uses an amp,” Royce replies. “And the needle is made of diamond, so it basically lasts forever. It can play both vinyl and shellac.”

It’s like he speaks an advanced form of German I never studied. His words make no sense to me, but I nod seriously, keeping my eyes on the device. “I didn’t know Currents listened to shellac records, too.”

“Well, only collectors,” he says. “Most people buy LPs these days. But I like 78 RPMs. I kept my grandfather’s records when he died.”

My gaze gingerly swerves to his face again. “What kind of music did he like?”

“Glenn Miller. The Andrew Sisters. Marlene Dietrich.”

My eyes widen when I hear the name of one of my favorite artists. For a split second, I feel weirdly jealous because Royce knows her too. Her music should be something I can keep for just me, but I guess in the spirit of sharing music on this weird kind-of-date, I shouldn’t grumble about it.

“So... shall we listen to this?” I suggest, handing him the Phoenix album.

“What a great idea.” He shoots me a lopsided little grin before turning around and pressing a button on the device underneath the turntable. “Have a seat,” he then says, gesturing at the sitting area.

I pick the couch furthest away from the lazy chair, since I suspect he’s going to sit there. My hands feel clammy as I run them over the velvet of the cushions.

When Royce walks over, he slides the LP sleeve across the coffee table and nods at it. “You can pick which side we listen to first.”

“Oh.” I stare blankly at the sleeve, my eyes