Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She was running late that morning, but John was already out in the street, waiting for her.

“C’mon, girl,” he shouted. “You’re late.”

She hated him for being her alarm clock all the fucking time. She checked her mascara on the mirror, put some lip gloss on, grabbed her book-filled satchel and was out. She could still hear him while going down the stairs. She opened the front gate and there he was, lovely in his baggy jeans and yellow t-shirt advertising a 1972 porn movie.

“You can’t spend all this time to get ready in the morning. You know that, right?” he rebuked her while walking to the nearest bus stop. He was pissed off, but she knew it was just a pose. God, she loved him with longer hair.

“Fine! Fine! I know!” She checked the time on her wrist watch. “But today I’m on time. See?”

“All right, then. You’re always right, aren’t you?”.

“Yeah, it’s not my fault,” and stamped a kiss on his cheek.

“Ugh, your lip gloss is so sticky!” and he cleaned it off. “But it tastes good” and kissed her on the mouth, removing the gloss still there.

“You! Make-up ruiner!” and took the clear roll-on tube out of her bag for a touch-up.

“Doing anything special today?” she asked.

“Not really. We’ve got some new paints coming in. Can’t wait to try them.” In the distance he saw his bus arriving. “This is me. See you tonight.” He took his ride and was gone.

She checked the time again. She would take her bus to school in 5 minutes. An eternity under the scorching California sun. She wondered what the weather was like back home, in Chicago. She sometimes missed her life there, the comforts she had at home, her old friends, but this was way better than anything else.
She had moved to Los Angeles two years before, just after graduating from the Shermer High School. Now she was attending a fashion school and working as a window dresser at Bullock’s. She didn't want to be a fashion designer, like most of her classmates, but to make her way in luxury retail. Bullock’s Wilshire was the nearest goal, but who knew what the world had in store for her?
Officially she was on non-speaking terms with her family, but truth was that she had got that job thanks to her mother’s acquaintances. Mom wouldn’t speak to her yet, but sent her a small monthly allowance. She had never been a good mother, but Claire appreciated her for helping out in times of need. She hadn’t spoken to her father since she left home, but she didn’t really care. She knew he would come around, sooner or later.

“He’s up to no good. Always has, always will. You will end up in prison! He will take you to the grave! Mark my words!” he had threatened her when she announced they were together. “And whatever happens, don’t expect money from me! Ever! You’re done with this family. Done!” Her father's words still hurt. But she didn’t want to end up like her mother, stunned by pills and drinks, unable to live outside luxury resorts in the Caribbean and expensive rehabs in New Mexico. This is what her father had in store for her - marrying a rich man, living a loveless life, being a trophy wife. She could have never accepted that.

And then there was John, the reason why she was waiting for the bus to 9th Street in Los Angeles and not shopping in Chicago. All the motivation and the strength she had came from him.
“You’re better than this. You’re better than the Claire your parents want you to be,” he had told her on one night out. “Let’s go away. Together. Away from here. There’s nothing for us here. Surely not for me. Not after what happened last time I spilt paint on the garage floor.” Her heart had skipped a beat, but he was right: if they wanted a life together, it was not going to happen there.
Two months after that conversation, she packed her set of Vuitton suitcases in a hurry, while her parents were at a charity party. She took all her jewellery, fashion books, fancy make-up, and left in John’s old Impala. In her monogrammed bag she had her most prized possession: the admittance letter to the FCI, an affordable Los Angeles fashion school she had paid by emptying her now-defunct personal bank account, her father’s present for her tenth birthday. They didn't have anything else but the address of a small downtown flat. They were lucky runaways, after all: living in a wealthy family meant connections, and she had used them to build her and John a new life on the West Coast.
Her bus was approaching. Once more she checked her make-up in a pocket mirror and jumped on it.

On his ride to work he would invariably think of his life back home. He repeated in his mind his father's words like a litany and still felt bad about it.
“Stupid, worthless, no good, goddamn, freeloading son of a bitch. Retarded, big mouth, know-it-all, asshole, jerk,” words slurred and mixed with alcohol. He knew he had to leave after getting beaten for leaving the fridge open: his head smashed on the wall, his hand repeatedly banged in the fridge door so next time he would “remember to close it.” He had never been to jail and didn't want to go there for killing that piece of shit he called father. All the odds were against him, but he would have rather died than ending up like his parents.

“I can't stay here anymore. It's a kill or die situation. Let's go away. Anywhere but here,” he had told Claire months before, he remembered. And she had accepted.
He had kept his things packed in a plastic bag thrown on the backseat of his car for weeks, until one night she said: “We’re out of here. See you at 9 pm.” The happiness and the liberation he felt while leaving Chicago behind still kept him going.
Los Angeles was not a piece of cake but there were no daily beatings for him here, no death threats, and that was enough to make him feel safe. In life he had achieved nothing but a crappy diploma, more he could have ever imagined. But he was inventive, creative and could stand up for himself.
Once in LA, he started hanging around a Glendale skateboard shop he had often seen mentioned on a magazine his school friends read. He knew they were hiring a delivery boy, so he just happened to be in the right place at the right time. He didn't know anything about that world but was quick at learning and knew when to keep the mouth shut. He made deliveries, in addition to cleaning the shop at the end of the day, keeping the storage room in check and running all types of errands for the owner. He didn't earn much but he loved challenges and didn't stop at nothing.
When Dave, the owner, put a spray can, a box of paints and an old board in his hands (“All this talking about new ideas for this, new ideas for that, new damn designs, is getting on my nerves, so let's see what you can do, big man”), it happened. The blue fanged monster he painted on a pink backdrop, so out of proportion, so disgusting, so ugly, ended up under the feet of Tom Groholski, and that was that.
He was still the delivery guy, but people asked for his designs, too. He would never be good enough for Claire but he earned some extra money now, and that made him feel like a king, as much as having his own place to stay. Their flat was in an industrial building, over a glove factory which always smelt like tanning products and wax; it was small but Claire had her drawing space set up in a corner of the bedroom, which made her happy. He kept his paints in the balcony overlooking the back of the building; it was scalding hot at all times, but it was the first space he'd ever had by himself. They led an almost monastic life but didn't complain: they never went out if not invited where booze and food were free; they didn't have a TV, AC, anything fancy; grocery shopping on a budget once a week (he was a compulsive coupon collector); saving anything they could; no drugs, nothing. He was good at making connections, so advantages - a free meal, a free ride, a free concert ticket, free clothes - could come out of nothing. He grabbed any opportunity he had to put himself to the test, to push his boundaries, to prove others that John Bender from Chicago was not a gutless turd.

Chapter Text

After some months they moved out of their first flat. They couldn't afford anything bigger, but rents were cheaper in the Valley. John could walk to work and Claire didn't mind taking the bus to school. Their new place gave onto a courtyard with swimming pool. He often waited for her outside, so they could enjoy some cool air before spending their evening at home. Claire was exhausted most of the time: she worked her ass off at school and did the impossible to keep her job, too.

“I don't know how long I can keep doing this,” one evening she complained with John, her long floral skirt rolled up, legs in the water, a bitter orange juice in a glass. “And before you start, I can't quit anything. I must keep going until I finish school.”

“I won’t say anything, honey. But I’d like to earn enough money for the both of us,” he replied, while massaging her shoulders.

She snapped: “I haven't moved to LA to be your kept woman. God, you surely know how to piss me off, Bender.”

She never called him by his surname. Bad sign.

“Whoa, whoa, calm down. You're not my trophy anything. What's wrong in wanting more?”

“We’re not our parents, remember?”

“Yeah, I know. Nobody wants to be like those pieces of shit,” and he sat down on a plastic chaise longue.

They remained silent for a while. Ice clinked in Claire’s glass.

“I made us some miso soup and burgers for tonight,” he announced.

“What? What did you say?”

“Miso and burgers. Isn’t it ok?”

She laughed out loud. “Oh my God, honey. Sometimes you're so white trash.”

“White trash eat miso soup? Since when? C’mon, you're still pissed at me, but truth is that you can't wait to eat.”

“Just because I’m hungry,” and laughed again.

He loved when she was this cheerful and honest. He was white trash, he knew it, but he would have done anything to make her happy. She didn't know but the Bones Brigade had commissioned him a three decks. If he could play that card right, maybe he could get her a new pair of earrings. The Criminal who wanted to buy diamonds for the Princess? How bourgeois was that? Mr Vernon would choke at the mere thought of it. But it was the truth: he had spent his reckless rebel quota early in his life; now he just wanted to get Claire something nice. She deserved it. All the insults and punches from his parents, the threats from teachers and schoolmates, the hatred he was so good at attracting to himself, he had left them behind. In LA nobody knew his worst; by starting over, he could give was his best.

The table was already set, but Claire went in to take a shower, leaving him outside. John sat up on the plastic chair and touched his left earlobe. The diamond earring Claire had given him three years before was still there, and was his most prized possession. That March 24th had changed his life forever. He remembered the pride with which he had sported the earring on the following Monday morning. He had fought with most of his friends over it, but he didn't care: someone like Claire was a new hope, a way out of hell.
Now it was time to give back: a month before he had seen a pair of studs at a jewellery near Bullock’s, while waiting for her shift to be over. The price tag read $600; they shone so bright, so perfect. He started skipping lunch at the diner, cutting off small expenses, working overtime when possible, and now the three decks he had to make in a week. His boss had told him they had asked specifically for him: “They saw your ugly devil and now they want you. Don't fuck this up, kid. You know who they are, right? Have you seen their videos? That shit is fire!”
He knew who they were and was ready to give them a good run for their money. His head buzzed with ideas, so he decided to stay up all night to put some of them down.

After dinner, Claire went to her bedroom to complete a design project she had to hand it in two days, and he retreated to his favourite spot: the terrace. It was a bit bigger than the previous one, so he had set a larger cabinet and a larger table on it. Most of their furniture was salvaged, pieces they had bought at garage sales or objects Claire’s colleagues at work gave away for nothing. His table lamp came out of nowhere, but he was grateful for it. He sat down to work: goth music blasted from Claire’s stereo.

“What the hell is this?” he asked the first time she listened to that album.

“It’s an English group. They’re awesome.”

Electronic funeral music, basically. “If you say so…,” he replied.

Weeks after listening to it on repeat, the gloomy music had crept under his skin. It emptied his mind and made him find an easy connection with his creative energies.
The first deck he wanted to work on was neon orange. “This is for Cab. You know? Weird hair,” his boss had told him. What could he want to skate on? Maybe a winged snake-like dragon perched on a skateboard wheel? That could be an idea.
Up next, a black board for the Canadian blonde guy. A skeleton Mountie holding a beaver as a telephone would do.
Last, a sea blue deck for the Birdman. “Please, Bender. Don’t fuck his deck up.” No intention to, just putting a hawk skull on it.
He sketched until 4 am. He needed some sleep before going to work. He collected his drafts, closed the door to the terrace and went to bed, trying not to wake Claire up.

“Sleep tight, honey,” he whispered. “Your new diamonds are getting closer.”

Chapter Text

All types of people hung out at John’s workplace. It was not only a shop, but a spot where skate boys and girls spent their time at, showing off or just hoping to get discounts or news about their favourite deck producers and designers. Now, thanks to his growing clientele, John spent most of his time in the backyard, where Dave had set up a space for him. His mind was constantly buzzing with ideas, colour combinations, references.
Claire was very helpful (the girl had real style), but people he met at the shop were too. Middle school kids who loved hanging out in the backyard saw John as God: he was the one who could make their wild visual pop dreams come to life.

“Hey, Bender, why don't you make a skeleton ripping the deck surface apart?”

“Done that, kid. Try again.”

“Bender, why don't you make a Demogorgon tearing the world into pieces?”

“Do I look like someone who is into D&D shit?”

“But it would be so cool!”

“Calm down. This is not a mail order service.”

“Oh, you guys don't know shit. He should go with Silver Surfer. That is cool, man. That is wild.”

Bender knew Silver Surfer! He had never bought comics (the money he had as a kid and at school was spent on booze and weed), but the quicksilver human shape navigating the waves of existence like a shiny ghost was cool indeed.

“I like it, Danny. Let me see if I can make something out of it,” and threw the boy a can of Coke.

That afternoon the boy went home strong with pride. Bender was cool, he could make anything look cool.

Older kids who went to the shop could be a pain in the ass, though, high-school students who wanted to act wild at all costs. Bender didn't really miss that phase, but he could still feel the pull of it, the enthusiasm of being young and believing you are immortal. He had connected with one of them, who was older than the others. Duncan was different. A black-dressed punk with a buzzcut who played the tough guy.

“How come you haven't dropped out yet? You are a grown man!” John asked jokingly one afternoon. He was taking a break from unboxing shop supplies.

“Listen to Duncan, man. I don't go to school *school*, you know. I go to school detention. It's different. Gives me time to read, draw, do my things. I have no patience with teachers and stuff. Gotta work on my education and waste no time on bullshit.”

John laughed. “That's a way to see things. Detention can be cool.”

“Exactly. See, I’m reading this book right now and I’ve got my mind on it all the time. No way I can go to lesson,” and showed John the cover.

Bender and books were galaxies apart, destined never to meet, but book covers were cool. The one Duncan was showing him had a globe sliced into gradient parallels, a plane flying on its surface.

“You have no idea, man. This is mind-blowing. Reproductive technology? You've got it. Sleep learning? Psychological manipulation? It's all in here. Media conditioning? Yes, sir. Take a look at our world - Turner’s 24-hour cable TV - and it's all true, it's all going to be real.”

“Technology putting its hands on the world, you mean,” John commented, more talking to himself than to Duncan.

“Indeed. All the whole fucking world. Our future drug, you’ll see.”

John took out his notepad and scribbled some notes. “I want to read it. Sounds cool.”

*** 

Later that week, money came in the form of a cheque. It didn't cover the earring budget but it took him closer. “What did they say, Dave? Did they like them?”. It was closing time but he wanted to know.

“Yeah, they did. They loved them. They want more” and patted him on the back. “You're good, kid. You’ll go places with this.”

That was going to be his ticket to heaven and the access key to the swanky jewellery store near Bullock’s. He wanted to keep it secret but spilled it all out when Claire got home.

“This is going to be it, honey. I can feel it.”

“Powell Peralta is great, right?” She didn't know much about skateboarding but a thing or two had stuck with her thanks to Bender. “Maybe they'll take you as collaborator. Wouldn't it be cool?”

“It would be great. Now they need more. I’ll start tonight.”

They kept chatting over a salad bowl, fish fingers and lemonade.

Later that night, before Claire went to bed, John took a look at her work. Clouds of tulle on paper. Wedding dress territory.

“This is so beautiful.”

She was removing her make-up and joined him in their bedroom.

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” He looked at her with curiosity. “Any hidden messages here?”

“What do you mean?” Then she had a moment of realisation. “Ohhhhh. No, it's not a proposal. Don't worry: I don't want to marry you,” she said cheerfully.

He had a serious look on his face, though.

“Hey, John. We’re joking right now, ok?”

“Are you really joking? Because I’d like to marry you, sometime, in the future.”

She took the hair out of his face and kissed him. “I love you, John Bender. I would follow you to the ends of the earth.”

“You can’t imagine what you mean to me. You saved my life. You know my end was written back home.”

“Forget home. Next year I will finish school and will find a new job.” She raised a finger to his lips to stop him from interrupting. “I want to work at Saks or at Neiman Marcus. Mrs. Buttersfield says I should major in fashion buying.”

He kissed her. “You can do anything.”

“Do you remember what you told me that Saturday at detention? You thought we would never walk down the hallways of the school together. Then you told me to bury my head in the sand and wait for my fucking prom.”

He hid his face on her shoulder. “I was such a jerk.”

“You really were. As a matter of fact, we went to that prom together.”

“Oh, I hated that.”

“Me too,” and they laughed together.

He then kissed her again and went to the terrace. Three more decks were due in one week. “If they are happy with them, they will put it in production:” Dave’s words still rang in his ears. Now he knew what the Brigade loved, but instead of sketching for them, he first drafted a pair of hands entering Planet Earth, causing an atomic explosion. Technology putting its hands on the world.

Chapter Text

In May Claire completed her second year, had another conversation with her counsellor and finally decided to take her MA in fashion buying.

“You will intern at Saks this summer. You will work in the buying office, so you can start seeing how things work. It won't be easy, I tell you.”

Claire wanted to ask her something but Mrs. Butterfield anticipated her.
“No, you won't be able to keep your job at Bullock’s.” She paused, but then had an idea: “What about Bullock's Wilshire? Let's keep Saks for next year. Yeah, you’ll go there, so they can rearrange your position there. What do you think?”

Claire sighed and smiled. “I think it's perfect!”

She left her office happier than she had been in a long time. The summer internship usually meant no or a little money, but she would try to keep her afternoon job and do both. School was off, so she could work full-time.

On her way home, she fantasized about the beautiful Art Deco building on Wilshire Boulevard, the luscious interiors, the famed fashion department, the upstairs salons and the impossibly chic Chanel couture room. She could see herself working there, wearing elegant pumps, a sheath dress, a shiny metal name tag and maybe a new accessory, something which could distinguish her from the others. She mentally went through her jewellery and realised most of it was a bit old-fashioned. Then she remembered her mother and her friends raved about a gold cuff-like bracelet. God, she loved that one so much. Maybe, if she sold her diamond earrings and her baby pearl necklace, she could afford a second-hand one. Legit pre-owned pieces were easy to find in LA and she knew exactly where to go. But first she had to ask Bender for his earring. That was not going to be easy.

When she got home, John was waiting for her by the pool, reading. What the hell was that? Was it real or was she dreaming? She went nearer: yes, it was him, and yes, he was reading. She loved how concentrated he looked when he was lost in his own thoughts or just working: long hair covering the sides of his face, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed. She knew that he moved his lips while reading. She had never commented on that habit but she found it cute.

“Honey, I’m home.”

He reacted after some seconds. “I was finishing to read one line.” He put his book down, looked up and smiled at her. She leaned down to kiss him: he smelled like solvent and varnish.

“Am I having visions or is that a real book? And you're reading it?” she said while sitting down on the plastic chaise longue.

He handed her a glass of bitter orange juice and replied: “Hey, missy, there's a new intellectual in town. You’d better watch out. He’s hungry for books.”

That made her laugh. “You just can't stop surprising me, can you? Well, Mr Vernon would be happy to see you like this.”

“That lying piece of shit. He made my life hell.”

“But he also acted as a Cupid for us, so there's at least one good thing he did, right?”

“True that.”

She sipped the juice, then asked: “What are you reading?”

“There's this boy hanging out at the store. Weird punk. It’s his,” and he showed her the cover.

“Good stuff,” she commented.

“Wait, have you read it?”

“Yeah, of course I have. Third-year lit course. You were obviously busy doing something else,” she remarked with a sarcastic tone.

He looked surprised and sad. “I was such a fucker.”

“Yes, you were.”

She waited a while, then popped the question.

“John, listen. I need to ask you a favour.”

“Shoot.”

“Would you get very angry if I asked you back my diamond earring?” She felt so embarrassed.

“Not at all. Here, take it,” and removed it from his left lobe. He handed it out on his palm.

“Here. It’s never been mine, after all.”

“Hey, I’m so sorry for asking you. Do you know this means nothing, right? Nothing changes between us,” Claire tried to reassure him, but he was strangely cool about it.

“No problem. That's ok.”

She got suspicious: his reaction was not what she was expecting. “Don't you ask me why? You’ve worn it for years and now I want it back. Don't you want to know why?”

He was ready to make the emphatic smirk he usually did when he was bored/annoyed, but he faked. “Yes, sorry. What's up?”

“This summer I’ll intern at Bullock’s Wilshire and I want to have something special to wear. I can't afford anything new, but if I sold some pieces of jewellery, I could buy that gold manacle-like bracelet Steve McQueen gave Ali MacGraw.”

“Steve was cool,” he commented. “Would that make you happy?” he asked.

“Yes, very.”

“Go for it, then.”

She smiled. “You're playing so cool tonight. Is it the Huxley effect?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” and started reading again.

The following day, she went to a shop in Santa Monica Boulevard to sell her jewellery. A colleague at work had recommended it as the best place to buy second-hand designer pieces (“I know the owner. They have what you're looking for. I told him you want to sell something. He’ll help you”). Walking on a heavy carpet covering the floor had never sounded so good, so reassuring. She was a bit nervous but John had encouraged her, so there was nothing to be worried about.

“You must be Miss Standish,” a middle-aged man dressed in seersucker greeted her.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Tourneau,” and they shook hands.

“So, I heard you’re ready for Cartier,” he said, taking her to an elegant glass counter. That area of the shop was dimly lit but for single light bulbs elegantly hanging from the ceiling. “Let's see what you’ve got for me first.”

She took two cases out of her bag. The red leather one housed the diamond earrings (“Very beautiful. 0.50 carats each. Perfect princess cut”), while the blue velvet one housed the baby pearl necklace (“Akoya cultured. Unfortunately they haven’t been worn much, and it shows. But still very nice”).

“Lovely pieces you've got here, Miss Standish,” he commented. “I think we’re good to go. They get you covered for the bracelet you want to buy.”

He took a red case from under the counter and opened it. Claire’s heart skipped a beat.

“Aren’t they something?”

“Amazing,” she said.

“Ok, let’s find the right one for you.” He measured her wrist (“You can't wear it too tight or too loose”) and selected one. He took a gold screwdriver to loosen the screws closing it, put the bracelet around her wrist and fastened them back.

“It's a second-hand piece, but barely used. It looks like new. Just perfect, isn’t it?”

“So perfect.” She smiled. “I am a happy woman, Mr Tourneau. I cannot thank you enough for your help.”

“Always glad to help a young woman in need of Cartier, Miss.”

While she was walking away, a red-headed boy entered the shop. He was holding a plastic envelope secured with an elastic band. All his college fund was there. He asked the sales assistant for a pair of diamond earrings which he wanted to give as a gift to his soon-to-be fiancè. Mr Tourneau overheard the conversation.

“I’ve just got something which I’m sure will be perfect for you, Mr…”

“Nelson. I’m Keith Nelson.”

Chapter Text

Two diamonds shone in the red velvet box. How many times had he opened and closed it since buying them? He had lost count. Now he held it in his hands, diamonds finally gone. He only had to look next to him to see them shine. He couldn't wrap his head around what had happened that night. One thing he was sure of, though: Amanda Jones, the most coveted girl at school, the one he had painted a portrait for, the one who had accepted to go on a date with him, the one who had ultimately refused to keep those diamonds, was cool. Her words were still ringing in his ears (“I think you want to give these to someone else”), thus revealing she had always known the truth, even if he had refused to see it. The truth was walking next to him, wearing a chauffeur’s uniform too big for her frame and fringed red leather gloves. He loved Watts and that made everything else clear. Her voice stopped his train of thought.

“You know how much I’ve wanted these, right?”

“Sure I do,” he replied.

“They look ok?” she asked.

“You look good wearing my future,” he replied.

“Too bad these babies are going back in the morning. You're going to art school.”

He grimaced. “Do we really need to talk about this right now?”

“There's nothing to talk about. It's just going to happen. That's all.” Her tone was serious but exhuding happiness. She drew him nearer and kissed him. He embraced her tight.

“Let's celebrate tonight! Let's do something. I don't want to go home!”

“Watts, I’m afraid I’m a bit broke right now.”

She smiled. “I know that, silly. But let's go to Sunset Boulevard. There's a concert. It's free. Duncan will be there.”

“Duncan? We just left him at Hardy’s.” He paused. “Oh God, I don't want to know what's happened after we left.”

“Hardy. That fucker. I hope he got kicked good. C’mon, I’ll be your chauffeur tonight” and she opened the car door for him.

“But I need an Isotta Fraschini to get there,” he commented.

“Sure you do. But you're not Norma fucking Desmond, so a Jaguar will do.”

*** 

In the meantime, in the Valley.

“Claire?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Let's go out tonight.”

She groaned. She was lying in bed under the ceiling fan, in her underwear. She was exhausted: Saturday meant working full time. Her feet hurt and she was just starting to relax.

“Out?”

“Yes, out.” John was practically screaming from the other side of the house, from the terrace. “Do you know that thing that young people do, especially at weekends? They leave home, meet friends, get wasted, trash the city, then quietly crawl back under their rock for another week.”

“Ha ha. Is that supposed to be funny?”

“It is funny,” he said, now in the bedroom. “C’mon,” he begged. “It will be fun. Let's go to Sunset Boulevard. There's a concert. It's free. Duncan will be there.”

“Duncan who?” she asked. “Ohhhh, Duncan the erudite punk.” There she was, Sarcastic Claire.

“Yes, him. He really really likes you.”

She groaned again. “Yes, sure.”

“You can show him your new beauty there,” John pointed his finger to Claire’s bracelet. “He’s into chains, screws, those kinds of things.”

She laughed and got up. “That's the worst excuse I’ve ever heard. Ok, then. Give me 30 minutes and I’m ready.”

They drove into the city at dusk. It was still stifling hot and the gasoline smell permeated the air. There was a small crowd outside the venue, even if the concert had already started. They met Duncan at the door, chatting with a boy wearing an elegant blue shirt. He greeted them as if they were paying him a visit at home.

“Keith, it's my pleasure to introduce you to John Bender, soon-to-be designer at Powell Peralta.”

John shook the boy's hand and dismissed the compliment, even if it sounded so good. “Duncan is an optimist. I just work at a skateboard store and design decks in my free time.”

“Nice to meet you, John.”

“And this is Claire, an extraordinary fashion buyer,” Duncan continued.

John looked at Claire saying hi to Keith. She looked gorgeous, all dressed in black tulle and jersey.

“Still working on it,” she commented, “but that’s the plan.”

“Let's go in,” said Duncan and let them in through the front door.

They had already been at the Stardust, but the thrill and the anticipation of their first visit was still there. The entry hall was pitch dark but the sound of music guided them out of it. It was packed but Duncan took them backstage, where his friends were hanging out with the band crew. As anticipated, there was free food and booze. John knew some of the people there: most of them came from Hermosa Beach but sometimes hanged out in his backyard in Glendale.

“Everybody knows Bender, right?” Duncan asked.

“That Caballero deck was the shit, man,” commented one guy while shaking hands. “Hey, guys, he's the one who designed the Ripper,” and murmurs ensued. “And Silver Surfer doing pogos.”

“Oh, fuck me. That was fantastic,” said another one.

Bender took a can of beer and sat with the boys. Duncan took Claire in the wings to see the show.

“Henry is amazing,” she said in awe. The band singer screaming on stage had a huge radiating sun tattooed on his back. “He looks so good with short hair.”

“This is their last show, you know. It's the end of an era. Times are changing.” He sounded sad. “So I guess it's time for me to finish school,” and sighed.

“You? Are you serious?” asked a blonde girl sitting on a plastic crate.

“You’ll see, Watts. The graduate class of 1988 will go down in history for this exact reason.”

The girl stood up to meet them. “Duncan is not that good at introductions. Hi, I’m Susan.”

Duncan erupted in laughters. “What have my ears just heard? Am I dreaming? Susan???”

“Go to hell, Duncan. That's my name.”

He raised his hands in defeat and went away.

“Hi, I’m Claire.”

“Bender is your boyfriend, right?”

Claire was surprised. “He is. Everybody seems to know him here.”

“Bender is cool,” Watts said smiling.

“But not as cool as your gloves,” Claire commented.

“Do you like them? I’m a drummer, you know, so leather gloves are my thing.”

“And I love your earrings, too. So pretty,” and checked them out as Watts showed Claire her lobes.

“I got them tonight from my boyfriend. Keith. Did Duncan introduce you?”

Claire nodded.

“But tomorrow they’re going back to the shop.”

Claire gasped. How could she say something that outrageous?

“Keith spent all his money on them, but he must go to college, you know. He’s such a good painter.”

Claire was staring at the diamond studs. Princess cut. 1 carat, if she was not mistaken. They looked familiar. The thought stroke her like thunder. Could they be HER earrings?

“That's a shame. They're so beautiful. Where did he buy them?”

“Tourneau in Santa Monica Boulevard.”

Bingo!!! She felt strange, a bit uncomfortable. Her instinct was screaming “Tell her they're yours”, but she didn't want to be rude. “I hope things will work out good. They are really beautiful and look great on you.”

“Thank you. I love them so much. I will hopefully keep them. Fingers crossed,” and winked at Claire.

Keith joined them. “Hi, ladies. Are you enjoying the concert?”

“Henry is damn hot tonight.”

“Indeed,” replied Claire.

“Can I steal my girl for a moment? Do you mind?” Keith asked.

“No problem,” replied Claire. “See you later.”

Duncan joined her in no time. “Smart people, those two, right?”

“Yeah, they’re nice.”

“Listen, girl,” Duncan leaned closer. “Is it true what Bender said? Your wrist. That bracelet. Can I take a look?”

Claire smiled. “Sure you can,” and showed him. “How come you know about Cartier?”

“What can I say? I’m a Renaissance man,” then looked closer. “Sublime closing mechanism. So beautiful. Someday I want to see how you open it. Fascinating.”

Claire looked backstage while Duncan was lusting over her wrist. She met Bender’s look and mouthed “Save me.” The erudite punk was cool but somehow gave her the creeps.

***

On their way home, Claire was still reeling from finding out what had happened to her beloved studs.

“Can you believe that? It almost sounds like a joke. Simply incredible.”

“I don't understand what pisses you off.”

“I’m not pissed off. Just perplexed… Ok, a bit pissed off.”

“Why is that so?”

“I don't know. They're friends, all right, but it won't last. I can feel something's off.”

“Oh, stop it. What should they say about us? What did they say about us? Yet we’re still together.”

She sighed. “You're right. I’m making stupid theories. But I wanted them to go a girl who’s really in love.”

“They're gone, honey. Deal with it.”

Later that year, when Bender surprised her with a new pair of diamond earrings (“Cartier! I can't believe it! It's too much, honey! We can't afford them”), the card he wrote for her read: “To the girl who's really in love.” He knew she was overjoyed, but couldn't really fathom her happiness. Those were love tokens, the first they had exchanged, three years before, and the ones that would forever be symbols of their story. For this reason, Claire carefully removed one stud from its scarlet red box and put it on John's ear.

“There, back where it belongs.”