When Vinyl Vibes, page 17
I swallowed, the weight of her words settling in.
twenty
Lena
I surprised myself by considering Caleb and my virtue in the same conversation. That had never been a concern before, never even a passing thought. But with him, my mind went to surprising places, not just to how he looked at me. His hands steadied me when I wobbled on skates, always backing me up like I was someone precious. He made me feel seen, wanted and cherished. And that, more than anything, was what drew me to him like a moth to a flame. The way he cared. The way he paid attention to the little things, the way he made space for me instead of asking me to shrink.
And maybe that’s why I was so willing to ignore Marcus’s warnings. I had never ignored Marcus before. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, he was wrong, that Caleb wasn’t just some reckless choice I needed to avoid.
But even as my heart tangled around Caleb, I couldn’t shake the guilt pressing against my ribs. I was supposed to spend real time with Roxy, not just in stolen moments between Velvet Vixen plans or rink practices. We hadn’t had a real one-on-one since she got the bad news about her parents’ finances. And here I was, obsessing over Caleb instead of being a good friend.
For a brief moment, I was tempted to ask her for advice, to spill my feelings and let her help me untangle them. But then I hesitated. Because to do that, I’d have to open the door to the inner workings of her relationship with Marcus. And some things? Some things were better left alone.
It had been my idea for Roxy to stick to her same routine, just on a budget. She was used to turning heads, stepping out in something new for every big event, and the end-of-the-year carnival was no exception. Just because money was tight didn’t mean she had to stop being Roxy. So, I agreed to take her to a go-to thrift store with the best vintage finds.
Momma tagged along as our chaperone, though she stayed in the car, parked near the entrance, flipping through her Bible in the warm afternoon light. She wasn’t hovering, but she was watching, protective.
The moment we stepped inside, the smell of aged fabric, leather, and something faintly musky hit us. The store was cluttered but inviting, racks packed tight with bell-bottom jeans, floral maxi dresses, and sequined tops that had lived whole lives before ending up here. Vinyl crates sat near the register, alongside a glass case of costume jewelry, while a beaded curtain in the back led to the fitting rooms.
Roxy was ahead of me, flipping through a rack of sequined blouses like she had somewhere fancy to be. Her laughter from earlier had fizzled to quiet hums. I could see it in her posture. Her shoulders sunk low, and how her hands stilled too long on a single hanger.
She didn’t say anything at first. But when I rounded the aisle, she stood there, clutching a gold knit top to her chest like it might hold her together. “This used to be fun,” she said, her voice thin. “Picking outfits. Planning hairstyles. Getting ready for something that felt big.”
I stepped closer but didn’t interrupt.
Roxy swallowed hard. “Now, it just feels like math. What’s the cheapest thing I can buy that still makes me feel like me?” Her lip trembled, and she blinked fast. “And I know—people have it worse. I do. But it’s exhausting pretending like I’m not scared.”
It wasn’t a breakdown. It was a release, a little tear in her glitter armor. And for once, she let it show.
I didn’t say anything right away. Just reached for her hand and held it, a quiet promise that even in a thrift store aisle, she wasn’t doing this alone.
Roxy turned and ran her fingers along a rack of suede jackets, sighing dramatically. "I don’t know, Lena. What if I run into someone from school? Looking poor isn’t cute."
I rolled my eyes. "It’s not about looking poor, it’s about being smart. Besides, you can try things on here."
She looked genuinely surprised. "Wait, you can try them on?"
"Yes," I smirked. "Most locations don't have that perk."
Roxy tossed her hair, pretending she hadn’t just learned something new. "Well, whatever. While we’re here, you should find something for the competition."
I hesitated, flipping through a rack of peasant blouses. "Maybe. It’s not like I've talked about color schemes with him."
"Then take the lead," Roxy said, holding up a fringed vest before shaking her head and returning it.
I chewed my lip, then shrugged. "My daddy met my mom at this carnival as a teenager."
Roxy paused, arching a brow. "For real?"
I nodded, smiling a little. "Yeah. She was selling tickets, and he swears she gave him extra on purpose."
Roxy scoffed but grinned. "Your momma? Please. She probably made him work for it."
"She still does." I laughed, but I saw how her fingers lingered on a velvet dress as I glanced at her. Her shoulders weren’t quite as sharp as she wanted them to be. She was acting haughty, but she was secretly grateful. And for once, I didn’t call her on it.
Because sometimes, you just let people keep their pride.
Roxy sighed, running her fingers over a rack of corduroy skirts but not really seeing them. She wasn’t shopping anymore, she was thinking. "It feels like I’m escaping a burning building," she said suddenly.
I glanced at her. "What?"
She let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "College. Leaving. It feels like I’m running away while everything at home goes up in flames."
I didn’t know what to say, so I let her talk.
"My dad’s having the worst time finding something new. He’s either too experienced, too expensive, or," she hesitated, dropping her voice. "Not the right kind of hire."
I swallowed hard.
"And my mom, she’s trying, but we’ve got bills piling up. My little sisters need things, and it’s like," She exhaled sharply, gripping a hanger too tightly before forcing herself to let go. "How am I supposed to leave them behind? Go off to college like everything’s fine?"
I hesitated. "But college is your way out."
She gave me a sharp look. "Is it? Or is it just me abandoning them when they need me most?"
I shook my head, my chest tightening. "Roxy, I don’t think it’s that simple."
She let out another sigh, rubbing her temples. "I’m thinking about not going. Just getting a job. Something that’ll help."
I stared at her. The girl who had spent years dreaming about campus life, who talked about college like it was the first taste of absolute freedom was surprising. "You’d do that?" I asked quietly.
She shrugged, but it was forced. "I don’t know. Maybe."
I searched for the right words, and some perfect answer to fix it, but I didn’t have one. I wasn’t sure there was a right answer. So instead, I reached out and took her hand, squeezing it once before letting go. Sometimes, all you could do was stand in the fire with someone.
Roxy gasped dramatically, snatching a hanger from the rack like she’d just unearthed treasure. "Oh. My. Lord. Lena, look at this."
She held up a deep emerald-green jumpsuit, with wide bell-bottom legs that flared out like drama itself. The fabric shimmered subtly under the store lights, catching every movement. It was bold, confident, effortlessly glamorous, just like Roxy. Before I could say anything, she practically floated over to a dusty thrift store mirror, holding the jumpsuit against herself and striking a pose.
"Girl, do you see this?" she said, turning slightly to catch her reflection at all angles. "Do you see how this was made for me?"
I raised a brow. "You’re gonna strut into the carnival in that, huh?"
"You bet your entire record collection I am," she said, flipping her hair. "I may be broke, but I refuse to look it." She clutched the jumpsuit to her chest like it was the last sip of a milkshake.
I sighed, sifting through the racks. "I just need something for the skating competition."
Roxy rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh, and it needs to be cute. Lucky for you, I’m here."
The thrift store was small but packed. Every corner held forgotten treasures. A crackly old radio in the corner played Aretha Franklin’s "Rock Steady," blending with the soft rustling of clothes and the occasional murmur of other shoppers. Behind the counter, a clerk in high-waisted jeans and a paisley blouse flipped through a fashion magazine, lazily chewing gum.
After a few minutes, I found something that made me pause, a soft, butter-yellow wrap top with delicate embroidered flowers along the sleeves. Paired with a high-waisted white tennis skirt with just the right swing, it felt… right. Breezy, simple, but still me. "This’ll do," I said, holding it up.
Roxy eyed it and nodded. "Okay, okay. You might actually look like you know what you’re doing out there."
I rolled my eyes, but before I could respond, she disappeared into another aisle and returned with something draped over her arm.
"And this," she said, wiggling her eyebrows, "is for after you win. No one at the carnival will recognize you."
I narrowed my eyes. "What is it?"
She smirked. "Just trust me."
I tried to grab it, but she yanked it back, holding it behind her like it was a state secret.
"Nope. You’ll see it when you’re supposed to."
I groaned. "Roxy."
She just grinned. "I know what I’m doing, Lena. Consider it my gift to you."
I huffed, crossing my arms. Roxy’s fashion instincts were rarely wrong, but Lord help me, I wasn’t sure I trusted her with this.
"At least give me a hint," I tried.
She tapped a manicured finger against her lips, pretending to think. "Fine. It’s modest, but sexy."
I groaned. "Those words don’t even go together."
"They do when I say them."
I sighed, shaking my head. She was impossible. But as I watched her bounce toward the register, shoulders lighter than they’d been all week, I knew one thing for sure, she needed this, a little normalcy. If letting her play stylist for me helped, I’d just have to deal with the mystery.
twenty-one
Lena
My parents had been teasing me all afternoon about the competition. Daddy kept dropping hints about "clearing his schedule." Momma had the nerve to start humming a victory tune whenever I walked past. I made them swear they wouldn’t come, and while they’d promised, I wasn’t entirely sure I believed them.
At least Momma helped me with my hair before I left, carefully pinning it back so the curls framed my face just right. It was one of those rare moments where she didn’t fuss, didn’t give a long speech about looking presentable. She just did it, like she wanted me to feel my best.
Dustin rolled up in his ride, honking the horn twice. When we stepped outside, he leaned out the window, flashing a grin that could’ve sold bad decisions by the bottle.
"Y’all ready to make history?" he called.
Marcus scoffed, but I was momentarily distracted by Caleb stepping out of the passenger seat.
Gorgeous. He was wearing a fitted navy button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms, tucked into a pair of tan bell-bottoms that sat right. The Rustwood Saints vest hung open over it, like he hadn’t even thought about how good he looked, like it just happened.
I forced myself to look away before embarrassing myself, but not before Caleb’s gaze swept over me, lingering for a second too long.
"You look nice," he said casually, like it was just a fact. Heat rose to my cheeks. His voice was too steady, too even, which meant he was trying not to give something away.
Marcus was already sliding into the front seat, distracted enough by the competition that he wasn’t even paying attention to me and Caleb. Small blessings.
"You too," I murmured, climbing into the car before I could say something stupid. I tugged at my butter-yellow wrap top, feeling the soft embroidered flowers beneath my fingers. The fabric felt light against my skin, but I could still feel the daisy dukes my mom had insisted I wear underneath my white tennis skirt. “Just in case,” she had said, handing me a pair of sheer tights to go with it. I had rolled my eyes, but I hadn’t argued.
The ride was short, but my nerves twisted tighter with every mile. I kept picturing myself falling, making a fool out of myself in front of the entire rink. What if I froze? What if I couldn’t keep up with Caleb? The stakes felt real now, too real.
Marcus glanced back at me just before we pulled into the lot as if he could sense it. "You sure about this, kid?"
I squared my shoulders, forcing a breath. Backing out wasn’t an option. Not now. "Yeah," I said, more confident than I felt.
We pulled up to the rink, and the energy hit me immediately. Laughter spilled into the parking lot, groups of teens hanging around the entrance, hyping each other up. The arcade machines inside blinked and beeped through the open doors, and the faint sound of a microphone test buzzed over the speakers.
Inside, the announcer’s voice boomed over the sound system. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the biggest night of the year! Who’s ready to see some magic on wheels?"
Cheers erupted from inside.
The roller rink had been completely transformed for the competition, and it was obvious from the moment we stepped inside. Colorful streamers hung from the ceiling, twisting like ribbons above the polished floor. The usual dull glow of the overhead lights had been replaced by rotating disco balls, casting speckles of gold and purple across the crowd. A large vinyl banner stretched across the DJ booth, reading "SKATE GROOVE ‘77." The judges' table was set up near the rink’s edge, where three officials sat with clipboards, watching every move.
The energy in the room was electric. Teens milled around in their competition outfits, some stretching, others adjusting their skates. A few people practiced quick steps along the outer edges, their nerves showed how they fidgeted with their clothes or bit their lips.
The Video Vixens were already inside, gathered near the skate rentals. They were easy to spot, every single one had on matching, glittering bodysuits in shades of pink and red, cut just modest enough to keep from getting kicked out but tight enough to remind people why they ran the rink. Tammy stood at the center, arms crossed, scanning the crowd like she was sizing up the competition.
I spotted a couple practicing on the rink floor from the corner of my eye. They were good. Real good. Moving in perfect sync, gliding like they’d been doing this together since birth. My stomach flipped, nerves tangling tight.
"I can’t do this," I muttered under my breath, fingers gripping the hem of my skirt.
I remembered how Caleb almost backed out before. He looked me in the eye and told me it didn’t matter. That the competition wasn’t worth it. For a second, I wondered if he had been right.
But then, I felt his hand on my back. Warm, steady. A simple touch, but it grounded me. "You good?" His voice was softer this time, less teasing, more real.
I nodded, swallowing hard.
Caleb leaned in just a little, his breath warm against my ear. "You look beautiful."
My cheeks burned, but this time, I let the words settle. I let them hold me up instead of unravel me. I swallowed, nerves fluttering in my stomach.
I could do this.
I would do this.
Tammy strutted over, her glittering red bodysuit catching the light with every step. She gave me a once-over, then nodded in approval. "Okay, Miss Lena, I see you," she said, flicking the embroidered sleeve of my wrap top. "This little number is cute. And the skirt? Competition-worthy."
"Thanks," I murmured, smoothing my hands over the fabric. It felt good to be noticed, especially by someone who always had the sharpest eye for style.
Before I could say anything else, a guy, tall, broad-shouldered, definitely one of the regulars at the rink, strode up beside her, leaning in with an easy smirk. "Tammy, hey, was hoping to get a dance in with you later," he said, confidence dripping from his voice.
Tammy didn’t even blink. "Not happening, sweetheart," she said, her tone light but firm. The guy barely had time to react before she turned her attention back to me, like he hadn’t spoken.
I raised a brow, surprised. Tammy would’ve dragged that moment out in the past, let the poor guy chase her just long enough for Dustin to notice. She had perfected the art of making Dustin jealous, not because she wanted the other guys, but because she wanted to remind Dustin that she could have them. But tonight? She shut it down instantly.
I wasn’t sure what had changed, but something had.
The speakers crackled, and the DJ’s voice boomed across the rink, cutting through the chatter and laughter. "Alright, alright, listen up, y’all! It’s that time, competition rules are in effect, so pay attention!"
This was it. Showtime.
"First up, this is a couple's competition! No solos, no switching partners once we start. You ride or die with the one you signed up with."
A few cheers rang out, mainly from the Video Vixens, hyping each other up.
"Second, there are two rounds. Round One is your choreographed routine. You picked the song, you planned the moves, now it’s time to show us what you got."
I glanced at Caleb. His arms were crossed, head tilted slightly, like he was already running through the routine.
"Only the top ten couples move on to Round Two," the DJ continued. "And here’s the twist, no pre-planned routine. The live band plays, and y’all gotta feel the music, make it up as you go. That’s where the real skaters shine."
My stomach twisted. I was already nervous about Round One, now I had to survive an improv round too?
"Scoring is simple," the DJ went on. "Creativity, synchronization, showmanship, and skill. You got the moves? You got the energy? Then give us a show!"
Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd, the energy shifting from playful to focused.
"And last but not least, the themes. Tonight, we’re splitting routines into three categories." He paused for effect. "Funky Town, for all my disco lovers. Soul Train Grooves, is for those who like it smooth. And finally, Saturday Night Lights, if you’re bringing the drama, the romance, that fire, this is your category."
