Chapter Text
You thought it was really weird that a band was playing in the bookstore by your house. You’d never seen a band do that before, and didn’t think that there would be any other band that would do it again, but when you walked into The Burrow after school, clutching your backpack straps with both hands, you were a little less stunned and a little more curious.
The lead singer, a guy you vaguely recognized has having been in your class, sang softly, strumming an acoustic guitar to a song that wasn’t written to be soft. There was another guitarist to his left, and a bassist to his right, with a drummer playing quietly and keeping the beat behind him. They had everyone’s attention.
The evening manager, Vanette, leaned over your shoulder and held out your work apron. You jumped. You hadn’t even noticed her!
“They’re pretty good, huh?” she murmured. You hurried around the front counter and set you bag down beneath the register, tying the apron around your waist. “They’re a local band.”
“We live in L.A., Vanette, most bands are local,” you commented. You wrote down your clock in time after checking your watch. “What do you want me to do?” you asked.
“How long do I have you today?” she mused. She flipped through the schedule on the back counter. “Few hours?”
“Until nine,” you reminded her.
She nodded. “Alright. We got a new shipment that I finished inventorying. If you could work on putting that away, that should get us to your break,” she said.
You took in a deep breath, then got to work. You watched the band – and listened – while you shelved the books by genre, then by author’s last name.
Sunset Curve.
You recognized the name, and, the longer you eyed the band, you started to put names to their faces.
There was Luke Patterson, from English – when he bothered to show up; and Bobby Wilson, who you’d taken driver’s ed with; Alex Mercer was in Trig with you; and the last guy, what was his name?
“I’m Reggie,” came a voice next to you.
You jumped, throwing your hands over your mouth and dropping the stack of paperbacks. He swore a bit, eyes widening, and swooped down to pick them up.
“Way to go, Reginald,” said someone from the other side of the shelf.
Reggie groaned and rolled his eyes. You knelt to help him pick up the books.
“Sorry,” he said, holding out the ones he grabbed. You gingerly took them. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“’s fine,” you replied. You cleared your throat as you stood. “Thank you.” You nodded. “You uh….you play good.”
Reggie popped up to his feet with a brilliant grin. “Thanks.”
“Thanks,” chimed three voices.
Reggie whirled around. You snorted, coughing a bit to cover up your laugh. Reggie turned back to you. “You know, we have another gig tomorrow, at that coffee place down the street,” he said.
Sliding a book between two others, you asked, “Do you normally ask someone on a date before you get their name?”
He stammered. “Not a date,” he said. He leaned on the shelf. You didn’t look up, merely slid the book you were trying to put away along the shelf until he moved. “Just an invitation,” he added as he tripped backwards.
“Before asking my name,” you pointed out again.
“Could you give it to me?” he asked with a smile.
“I can’t stay out after nine-thirty,” you murmured.
“We’re done at nine,” he replied. You saw the band members walk behind him from the corner of your eye, each of them saying how their break was done and they had more to play. Reggie didn’t move. “You’d be home before nine-thirty,” he said. He stumbled back again when he found himself blocking another section you needed. “Starts at five,” he hopefully added.
Vanette groaned your name behind you, “Give the poor kid a chance before he embarrasses literally everyone in the store.”
You flushed.
Reggie whispered your name in two-four time and was already writing the harmony in his head. His smile couldn’t have grown any wider. “Please?” he asked again.
You scratched your jaw.
“Reginald!” called the three boys in the corner.
Your face burned. “Five?” you whispered nervously, “Down the street?”
Reggie stepped back out of the aisle with a cheerful, “Yeah!”
“No promises,” you replied.
The bassist bounded back to the makeshift stage in three leaps and whooped. You ducked your head and continued to shelf the books.