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The customers outside of the store were so loud, Kyoka could hear them well before she could see.
“They’re not gonna have Bach at a record store. That’s so old!”
“Bach’s been a standard for centuries. Most modern music relies on spoken language to inform their audience of the composer’s intent. Classical composers didn’t do that. They relied on patterns, instrumentation, to imply and evoke through sound alone. It’s art!”
“So’s Picasso. Doesn’t mean you’ll find his paintings at Costco.”
“Picasso is a surrealist. That’s a different era. The Baroque Era would be a closer match to the Impressionist Movement, or—“
“—Okay! Okay. Back’s great. But would they have him, either?”
“Bach,” the first girl corrected. “…And I won’t know unless I try.”
The other girl paused. “Can’t you just order it online?”
“But, then I’m not supporting local commerce!”
Kyoka turned and faced the storefront, and the would-be customers just outside the glass. She knew them. Or, rather, she knew of them. After all, they were in the same class. Momo Yaoyorozu was the top student in their year—kind, studious, polished, borderline untouchable and undeniably out of touch.
Kyoka didn’t have a problem with Momo, specifically. From how considerate she was, it was hard to find a problem to have. She doubted Momo knew that Kyoka existed. If she did, it was doubtful she’d recognize Kyoka. When Kyoka worked the counter, she dressed casually. Between her face mask, leather jacket, and the store logo, she might as well have been a different person entirely.
Momo cupped her hand over her eyes, blocking the sunshine’s glare. She paused enough to face her friend. “You really don’t want to go in? I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
Her friend’s shoulders shrunk in. “I have homework…”
It wasn’t a refusal, but it was the closest thing. Momo nodded like a bow. “That’s fine. You should go.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Don’t let me stop you from being responsible.”
Her friend lowered her head, her doubt sneaking in. She scuffed her shoe on the sidewalk. “If you’re sure…”
“Of course. I’ll see you at school.”
Her friend’s tension broke, leaving a smile behind. She exhaled in relief. “Sure, see you tomorrow. Good luck with your back!”
“Bach,” Momo corrected.
Her friend nodded. “Right!”
Momo opened the door. She surveyed the store like a crow searching a haystack for a needle, focused, undaunted, and sharper than anyone expected them to be.
“They’ll be organized by genre, but stores don’t consider eras to be distinct categories, so it would be listed as either foreign or classical,” Momo said to herself. As quiet as her voice could have been, it was plenty loud enough to hear.
Kyoka leaned across the counter, observing from a distance. In her focus on the store, Momo didn’t notice.
Her hand cupped under her chin, her brow creasing as she looked through the ‘Imported’ section. There was a section for Latin music and another for Korean. She looked between the two, considering. “Hm… Could it be listed as American?”
“Which American?” Kyoka asked without thinking.
“Michael Murray,” Momo answered, undisturbed.
“Michael Myers? Like, Halloween?” Try as she might, it was the only thing Kyoka could picture. The picture was wrong.
“Not a movie. A conductor,” Momo corrected. “I’m looking for ‘Bach in LA’. From the organ at the First Congregational Church in Los Angeles, 1990.”
“That’s …specific.”
“It’s the finest recording of Toccata and Fugue in D minor in modern history,” Momo said, as if she had the authority to know that. From the way Momo held herself, Kyoka had surprisingly little doubt that she did.
“1990 is modern?”
The emphatic “yes,” that Momo answered made Kyoka feel her own question that much more.
“You think Nirvana is modern?”
When Momo was talking about orchestral music, there was a fair chance she would.
“Of course not. Nirvana is eternal.” Momo placed her hand over her heart. Between the rigidly proper posture and the restraint in her expression, Kyoka couldn’t help but let her own shoulders fall.
“I don’t think we mean the same Nirvana.”
“There’s more than one?” Momo’s brow creased in thought. “I suppose, peace wouldn’t be identical for each soul. What constitutes Nirvana could be different for everyone…”
“It’s not peace. It’s a band,” Kyoka corrected.
Momo finally faced Kyoka clearly. Kyoka could only guess what she was thinking. Most of those guesses weren’t good. To a proper girl, Kyoka would have looked strange, or at the very least, scruffy. Her torn jeans and baggy hoodie were the definition of a punk, at the cusp of what a rich girl might think a delinquent would be.
Whatever expectations Kyoka had, they didn’t match the look Momo was giving her. Where Momo could have been afraid, she only seemed to understand.
Momo raised her hand like she was in class. When she was sure she caught Kyoka’s eye, only then did she ask. “Excuse me. Do you know where the classic section would be?”
Kyoka could feel what Momo expected. She shook her head just the same. “You’re in it. It’s mixed in. Always is. Future classics are everywhere.”
Kyoka turned to the other side of the store. She pointed towards the other side of the store. “You’re not gonna find Bach in LA, here. But, if you’re open to Bach in other places, we’ve got part of it.”
The shine in Momo’s eyes turned to curiosity. “A part of it? How?”
Kyoka flipped through the CDs. In the English language imports, between the Ms and Ns, she found what she was looking for. The white and orange cover of the Origin of Symmetry stood out instantly. Kyoka turned the album around to show the track list.
“Track 5. Plug in Baby. It’s got a sample of Toccata in Fugue in the guitar solo.”
Momo tilted her head to the side, all that much more confused. “On guitar? Toccata in Fugue was composed for an organ.”
From the context of the conversation, Kyoka knew exactly what Momo meant. From the context of why they were there, Kyoka shrugged it off. “Ears are organs. The composition evolved.”
However Kyoka meant to say it, Momo looked at her as if she’d tried to yodel her words, instead.
“I was looking for that specific recording,” Momo explained. “It’s supposed to be the best representation of the arrangement. Bach’s easy to study to. I can’t imagine I’d get the same effect from a guitar.”
Momo said the words so naturally, she made it sound as if there was no room or reason to question it. Kyoka did.
“That’s what you think music’s for? To study?”
The idea was so strange, Kyoka couldn’t help but watch in suspicion.
Momo missed the suspicion. “Of course not. It’s enlightening.”
If it was any other subject, this would have felt pushy. With music, Kyoka didn’t mind pushing. She offered the CD, instead. “The notes are the same, but the instruments change the meaning completely. It’s not what you asked for, but it might be what you want.”
It wasn’t until Kyoka stopped speaking that she noticed she’d reached close enough to touch her.
The contact passed quickly, bare skin on skin. Momo’s was so soft, it drew Kyoka’s focus, even when she hadn’t meant to. The graze of Momo’s touch was so gentle, it made the callouses on Kyoka’s fingers scratch that much more.
Momo pulled back. She looked down. “You’re an excellent salesman.”
However sincerely Momo meant those words, Kyoka couldn’t help but notice the flaw.
“Not that great. You didn’t buy the song.”
Momo tilted farther. “Well… not yet. How much is it?”
“9,000 yen.”
It was a pretty high price, but all imports were. Most of their stock was special edition, vintage, or rare. It was the kind of pricing that would have made most high schoolers run out into the street and never look their way again.
Momo kept her head down. She didn’t move. “Oh. Oh, that’s not bad…” Somehow, she meant it. The complete lack of sarcasm made Kyoka wonder what the heck kind of price Momo expected.
Kyoka leaned against the counter, thinking again. “You said Murray, right? Bach in LA?”
The question made Momo shoot up. “Yes!”
The shimmer in her eyes was so striking, Kyoka had to turn away.
“I’ll put a call in to our importers,” Kyoka told her. “If we can find it, I’ll order it in. Do you have a price point?”
“Yes, of course. I could go up to 30,000!”
Kyoka knew what she expected. It was what she expected. What she was a lot less sure of was how someone else hadn’t heard this request and found a way to rip Momo off. Fortunately for Momo, Kyoka was as good at business as Momo was with cash.
Kyoka ripped off a piece of receipt paper. She passed that and a pen across the counter.
“Here. Give me your number,” Kyoka told her. “If I find it, I’ll call.”
“Thank you! You—“ Momo reached for the pen. Instead, she took Kyoka’s hand. A flood of realization washed across her. Her cheeks flushed, her posture freezing, if only for the moment it took to recognize what she’d done.
Just as quickly, Momo let go. She hid her face in a bow.
“Really. Thank you,” Momo spoke down, her words far meeker than before. “You’re a life saver.”
“Not yet. I haven’t found anything.”
Momo tapped the pen across the page. She wrote a number. What it said, Kyoka hadn’t seen. There would be plenty of moments when she could read the numbers off the page. Only now could she watch Momo fail to hide her smile.
“Well. Regardless. You’re the first store where someone listened to me.”
There could have been a tone of judgment in those words. That tone wasn’t there. Where most people would be sarcastic, Momo was sincere.
Kyoka faced her the same way. She held out the same CD. “Then, listen to me, too. Try this. Don’t translate. Hear it. Let the sound be sound. You’ll be surprised.”
Momo’s shoulders shifted. She laughed. “I don’t doubt it!”
“So, you’ll take it?”
Momo wrapped her hand around her arm, the tension building. She nodded.
Kyoka rang the CD up. She focused so much on checking Momo out, she didn’t notice Momo checking her out, too.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Yaoyorozu Momo.”
“I know,” Kyoka said, without thinking. It wasn’t until the words left her that Kyoka realized why that was wrong.
“You know?” Momo blinked, understandably confused. As far as Momo knew what was happening around her, Kyoka was a stranger, and a strangely dressed one at that.
Kyoka held her composure on the outside. Her tension bottled up and in. She put her hand over the note on the countertop.
“You wrote it down. With the order,” Kyoka covered the page, blocking any evidence to the contrary.
“Oh. Of course,” Momo agreed, accepting it without question. As far as Momo saw the world, there was no reason to doubt a stranger.
There was something so beautiful about seeing the world through that lens, Kyoka couldn’t help but stare back at her, too.
Momo sank into a bow. The waves in her hair curled over her shoulder, the reflection of the fluorescent lights leaving streaks like the sun would hit waves on the shore.
“Thank you very much,” Momo said sincerely. “Your help means more than you know.”
What that meaning was, Kyoka didn’t ask. She wondered why her stomach kept churning long after Momo was gone.
Kyoka was so consumed with watching the door, and the memory of who had been there, she hadn’t noticed her dad join her until he was directly behind her back.
“Who was that?”
Kyoka shrank into her shoulders. She rushed to look away, and pretend that whatever she was thinking wasn’t worth the effort to talk about or cover up. “She’s from school…”
“A girl from school gave you her number?” Kyoka’s dad looked closer. “You found a friend? Or—?”
“Not like that. It’s for the store.”
Kyoka put her hand down, covering the number. At least, she started to. Her hand slipped off the page as her dad scooped her up into a hug.
Kyoka’s feet pulled off the floor. She stretched out, trying to find her footing. She failed. All she managed was to wiggle. “Put me down!”
With a few, precise squirms, Kyoka slipped free. Her hand slid from the order form, too. Momo’s note stared back, the numbers crisp and clear.
Kyoka told herself to look away. She told herself not to care. It wasn’t her business. This store had never been her business.
But, she knew who’s business it was.
“Hey, dad?” Kyoka asked, suddenly hopeful.
Her dad pointed back at himself, beaming proudly. “Yep. I’m sure dad!”
Whatever laugh he was going for, Kyoka didn’t give it. “You still know that guy? The one in Portland.”
The second Kyoka spoke, he perked up. “The sound tech?”
“No. The conductor.” Kyoka put her hand over the number, covering the note. She faced her dad, and her thoughts, and decided. “There’s something I’m looking for.”
There was no guarantee Kyoka could find it. She didn’t know if it was possible. Hell, she wasn’t even sure it was a good idea to try. All Kyoka knew was that it was clear how much Momo cared about that recording. It wasn’t Kyoka’s kind of classic, but any music that could touch someone else that way was worth finding. If she could help, it was the right thing to do.
“She could be a good customer,” Kyoka added. “But, first, we’ve got to find her song.”
_______
Kyoka sat in class, alone as always. She kept her headphones on and her head down. For once, her music wasn’t on.
Momo and one of her friends were at the front of the classroom. Most days, Kyoka wouldn’t have noticed. She pretended it was most days.
“Sooo… how’d the recorder store go yesterday? Was it as sketchy as it looked?” Momo’s friend asked. As far as Kyoka heard, the question was borderline incomprehensible. Momo understood.
“They didn’t have it in stock.”
“Of course not. Who would?” Momo’s friend was so focused on what she’d planned, she didn’t notice Momo was speaking, too.
“It was worth stopping, regardless. The clerk was so helpful. He said he’d keep looking for me. I left my number so he could call.”
However calm Momo was when speaking, her friend wasn’t.
“...You left your number?”
“Of course.”
“You left your number with a guy?”
“It’s the most convenient way to contact me.”
“You? Like a boy?”
“Why wouldn’t I? He was perfectly pleasant to—“
Momo’s friend grabbed the desk on either side. She shook it, and herself, in shock.
“Oh, my god! You like a–!”
Halfway through the statement, Momo finally understood.She turned red.
“I mean, I left my number at the store!”
“Oh my gosh. It’s your spring!”
“It’s December.”
“Even better! Winter has Christmas, too! That’s perfect for crushes!”
Momo’s friend reached across her desk. She took Momo by the shoulders and shook her. “What’s he like? Tell me, tell me!”
“Well…” Momo raised her fingers, counting down. “He’s a bit shorter than me. Very stylish, in a scruffy way. His shirt was torn, but not frayed. Combat boots…”
“Ah! Bad boy?” Her friend said, a glint in her eye.
Momo shook her head. “Not at all. He seemed appropriate. Although I suppose his boots would be fairly loud on wood floors, I can’t imagine he wouldn’t take them off when not in public.”
From the way Momo’s tone drifted off with her gaze, it was as if she’d wandered somewhere else completely. “He was open minded. He didn’t laugh at me, unlike some people. He just considered what I asked, and made suggestions accordingly.”
“Like what?”
Momo turned her phone over. There was a song on the screen.
Kyoka told herself not to look. She could have guessed what was on that screen. She was right.
“Mew Sue?” Momo’s friend repeated, as confused as she was wrong. “Never heard of her.”
The choice of pronoun was proof of that.
Kyoka held back a sigh and her judgement. Momo nodded.
“Neither had I. It’s a bit too loud to study with. But, the more I’ve listened to it, the less it’s like anything I’ve heard before. The contrast in their chords is striking. It lends a unique depth to the sound. Some of it’s quite beautiful.”
Momo’s friend shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You could. Here.” Momo took out one earbud and offered it to her friend.
Kyoka hadn’t meant to see the track list. From how far back she was, she wasn’t sure. From the length of the title, and the English letter at the front, Kyoka knew which song it was.
It was a completely different album. The same band, but a new sound. Starlight wasn’t the song Kyoka recommended, but she couldn’t disagree.
It took a second of processing for Kyoka to connect why that was strange. Momo’s phone wasn’t on a streaming service. It was the default music app. Any CDs listed there were downloaded straight to Momo’s phone.
How many albums had she downloaded in one night?
Momo’s friend looked closer, equally skeptical for an entirely different reason. “You’re sure?”
Momo offered her headphones to her friend. “Of course.”
The other girl slipped them on. She cupped them to her ears. “Is it on? I can’t hear.”
Momo turned the volume up. Her friend held the music closer. Her brow creased, her focus turning. When she finally seemed to reach a conclusion, she was all the more confused. “Huh. Your taste’s kinda sad.”
Momo looked up. “What do you mean?”
The music picked up, the volume doubling, then more, as the guitar solo kicked in. The friend raised her chin. Her voice raised with her. “I said, you like sad stuff!”
Momo’s shoulders pulled back. Her posture shifted, confused. “The clerk wasn’t sad.”
“Not the boy! The music!” Momo’s friend shouted back.
Kyoka heard the song, and the chatter. Then, she heard her phone.
A notification flashed on the screen. A text from her dad came through.
“The conductor in Portland found a friend with your Bach. They can ship it.”
Kyoka felt her pulse jump. She swallowed it down.
“Thanks.”
She had barely finished texting when an answer popped on screen.
“Congratulations!” Her dad’s text popped on the screen. A spray of confetti burst with it.
Kyoka looked at Momo. Her eyes fell to her phone.
If Kyoka sent a text to that contact, she could have made Momo smile. All she had to do was say they’d found her recording, and Momo could light up with a glow. Kyoka could take it away just as easily if Kyoka told her the guy at the store wasn’t a guy in the first place.
Kyoka pictured both of the outcomes. Her finger hovered on the screen. She closed the app, and put her headphones on, instead.
The audio quality on YouTube wasn’t great, but it was accessible. Kyoka had already found the track. She checked the year, and the name on the album. Bach in LA was completely outside of her algorithm. Still, Kyoka pressed play.
Kyoka leaned against her desk, to make sure no one would look her way. If they did, her arms would have blocked the screen. Her foot tapped under the desk, finding the rhythm in it. The same solo sounded so different through the organ than by guitar. Her mind drifted in understanding. Where the recordings she’d heard before demanded your attention, she really could have studied to this.
Kyoka’s thoughts kept drifting. Her gaze drifted with it. Before she knew where she was looking, she’d caught a glimpse of the last person she should have watched for.
Momo pressed into her hand. Her focus drifted, too. “I wonder if he likes concerts. I could get tickets.”
Her friend shook her head. “And you could get a restraining order! You can’t just ask someone out. You have to get them to ask you!”
Momo turned to face them, genuinely concerned and confused. “How would I do that?”
“I don’t know. Make him like you!”
Momo faced her friend with clear confusion. She tucked her hand under her chin. “I can’t make him do anything. He has free will. At most, I could suggest it subtly.”
“Not literally make him! I meant, be cute! Dress up! Ask him for coffee!”
Momo’s brow creased, her concern stuck. She tapped her chin. “Would he have coffee? He worked at a record shop, not a cafe. I don’t think I could expect him to—“
Her friend struggled not to groan. “To go for coffee!”
Well, that could be a problem.
Kyoka turned the music up. She put her hand over her phone, her palm covering the screen.
It was the kind of problem that Kyoka could avoid, if she wanted to. Staying out of Momo’s focus was as simple as never calling her back. It worked in theory, if only that theory didn’t keep Momo from getting the song she was looking for.
The more Kyoka watched Momo, the more sure she was that Momo deserved to have this song.
The song picked up momentum. Kyoka leaned in. She pressed her earbud against her cheek, and settled into the sound. Her breathing slowed to match the melody, measured and subtle, until each inhale and the music felt like one.
If Momo knew who she was talking about, and who Kyoka really was, then the thought of her wouldn’t make Momo blush. Kyoka was sure. A girl like Momo was from the kind of family that didn’t raise kids with a silver spoon because they had gold ones. There’s no way she’d consider dating another girl, let alone have feelings for one. That’s the problem.
Kyoka tapped her foot against the floor. She saw Momo, considering. Momo pinched her hair, clearly fussing. At the end, she shook her head to complain. “I need a new conditioner.”
Kyoka couldn’t help but think Momo didn’t. She thought it so loud, the words must have left her mouth, because Momo was looking at her.
“Huh…”
The way that Momo spoke drew out the sound long enough for Kyoka to speak, too.
“Your hair’s fine to me.”
“Thank you…” Momo raked her fingers through her hair. She looked down. “It feels like it’s curling. It gets frizz when it rains.”
The concern in Momo’s tone made Kyoka that much more confused. “But, it’s not raining.”
“It will, tomorrow,” Momo said. “I feel it.”
If the world was as Kyoka expected, Momo would have left it at that.
It wasn’t how Kyoka expected. Momo didn’t leave.
“Excuse me? Have we met?” Momo leaned in. She looked closer, as if searching for a reason they were so familiar.
“We must have,” Kyoka deflected. “We’re in the same class.”
Momo’s eyes popped open. She pulled back. “Of course. My apologies. It’s more, you look so familiar…”
From the way Momo’s voice trailed off, it was clear she couldn’t place why. It was in Kyoka’s better interest that Momo didn’t find that place.
Kyoka stood up. “It’s fine,” she said. “You don’t have to.”
Kyoka meant to leave. She turned her back to do just that. She turned so quickly, she almost forgot her phone. The screen stayed on the table, the light shining.
“Was that Bach?” Momo asked.
“Back to what?”
Kyoka stepped in front of her desk. Her hand covered her phone. Between her body and the screen, she blocked the path to see what was there.
Momo faced her, considering something. Whatever the thought would have been, it passed. “Oh, nevermind.”
But, she would. Whatever Momo told Kyoka to do, Kyoka minded all too much. If there was any problem with this, it was how much her mind stuck.
Kyoka stood in place, and held herself still. She kept the same position, hiding the screen, until Momo left the room completely.
The door shut. Kyoka burned. Her blood rushed through her cheeks, a flood of a blush coming over her. She put down her phone to cover herself. Her hands shook against her cheeks, a flood of adrenaline shaking her that much more. She was so focused on holding herself, she forgot her earbuds were still in.
The song on Kyoka’s phone never stopped playing. The melody crossed through, the music reaching a crescendo. The sudden swell was so striking, it reset her heartbeat, too.
It must have been the music.