Page 7 of The Sound of Us

“What about your talent? What about the fact that you come alive on stage?”

“I haven’t truly felt alive since I lost my family, Jules.”

At least not until tonight.

I wasn’t surprised to see Noah Cornell at his desk when I arrived at the station shortly before midnight. As station manager, Noah lived and breathed WJPK. Within five years of taking over, he had turned the middling station into one of the most popular college radio stations in the country, amplifying voices and issues that are often underrepresented in mainstream media.

When podcasting started to gain in popularity, he added podcasts to the schedule but kept the focus on traditional radio programming. He’d understood what others in the industry hadn’t—that radio audience figures remained stable year after year because listeners still wanted the immediate connection and engagement that came only from radio, allowing for a community experience that brought listeners to WJPK from all over the world. He was highly respected in the world of independent radio, and the only other person I’d met who understood music the way I did—at least until I met Skye.

“What’s keeping you so late this time?” I walked into Noah’s office, careful not to step on the piles of papers, albums, and boxes scattered across the green carpet. Noah was a great station manager, but he was a hoarder of anything to do with music. Band posters. Memorabilia. Vinyl. CDs. 8-track tapes. T-shirts. Buttons. Between the disaster of his office and his retro fashion look, people often underestimated Noah, but he was a card-carrying member of Mensa, the society for certified geniuses. He was alsohighly intuitive, keenly observant, and he carried more trivia in his head than the bestJeopardy!player.

“It’s my fault.” Nick Chan stuck his head out from behind a pile of boxes. “Noah just bought a vintage Gloria Jones vinyl on eBay, and I made the mistake of asking to hear it after my show. He’s been cleaning it for the last hour.”

Tall and lanky, with a thatch of black hair, Nick was an economics major who DJ’d the jazz and blues shows at the station. He was a music virtuoso and could play the saxophone, guitar, trumpet, piano, and he’d just learned how to play the trombone. Despite the late hour of my show, he always seemed to be around to help with my sound check, and I’d caught him sleeping on the couch in the lounge a few times when I was done. When I’d mentioned it to Noah, he’d waved it off. He said he wasn’t about to raise the issue in case Nick had nowhere else to go.

“You shouldn’t have tempted him.” I leaned against the doorway. “Does he know we have an accounting test tomorrow?” Nick and I had several classes together, and he always came to sit with me, chatting away as if we were friends, inviting me out for drinks, or to group study sessions at the library. I didn’t understand it. We weren’t friends. I didn’t have time for friends. And yet, Nick was always there, no matter how many times I turned him down.

“Are you guys ready to hear the original version of ‘Tainted Love’?” Noah held up the record, one finger in the center to keep it pristine.

“Would you consider trading it for Gloria Gaynor’s albumNever Can Say Goodbye?” Noah’s vinyl addiction was worse than mine and it wasn’t the only thing we had in common. He’d also wound up busking on the street at the lowest point in his life and had been given a second chance by the then-manager of WJPK. I was eighteen years old when Noah saved me. Devastated by Sasha’s death and the truth of my mother’s accident, I’d disowned my family and had been living on the street for two years when he offered me the same deal the former station manager had given him—a job at the station, a place to live, and support to finish school and clean up my life.

Noah snorted as he walked over to one of three turntables he had set up in his office. With his shoulder-length straight blond hair, pink shirts, tight black jeans, and silver bolo ties, he looked like he’d stepped straight out of the eighties. “Don’t make me laugh. That’s almost as bad as the time you tried to convince me to give you Tommy Johnson’s ‘Alcohol and Jake Blues’ in exchange for a first pressing of Bob Dylan’sThe Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan.”

Nick and I found places to lean—Noah’s chairs were always full of junk—and we gave him the courtesy of listening to the title track of his new treasure.

“I heard a scratch.” Noah peered down at the spinning record. “I can see it. Goddamn it. That’s why it’s always better to buy local.”

Noah rarely used swear words, so I knew something was wrong, and it was more than a scratch on vintage vinyl. “What’s going on?”

He glanced at Nick, the meaning clear. “It’s nothing.”

Nick took the hint and made his way to the door. “I think I’ll head out and spend the night processing the greatness that is Gloria Jones. See you in class.”

After he’d gone, Noah sighed. “Things aren’t looking good for the station. The university just turned down our annual request for funding. I’ve been swamped preparing grant applications and making lists of potential donors. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’ve been up late every night, sometimes all night, trying to find a way to keep the station going.”

I’d noticed Noah had lost weight—his skinny jeans weren’t so skinny—and his face had become pale and lined. I’d thought it was too many late nights listening to music and watching his favorite reruns, but Noah didn’t lie and the tension in his voice was almost palpable.

“I’ve heard rumors the new CFO wants to repurpose our space for a revenue-generating business,” he continued. “If we can’t show we’re a viable nonprofit, they’ll have an excuse to shut us down.”

I stared at him in shock. “Are you serious?”

“Nonprofit isn’t good business.” Noah shrugged. “I’ve been going through the books to see where we can cut costs. Things aregoing to be very tight this year. No new equipment, no free snacks in the lounge, less promo, fewer parties, staff reductions… I’ll be askingallthe volunteers”—his gaze cut to me, his meaning clear—“to help take up the slack.” He carefully removed the album from the turntable and slid it into its sleeve. “I don’t suppose they offer a class on fundraising for nonprofits at Havencrest…?”

“I’ll ask around.”

There was very little I wouldn’t do for Noah. Eight years ago, when I’d gone into a downward spiral after my sister’s death, he’d given me a reason to go on living. But that was Noah; he was the kind of guy who picked up strays. When the previous WJPK station manager retired, Noah had bought his run-down house in Forest Glen and filled it with rescues—two cats and three dogs, and later on, me.

“What have you got planned for the show tonight?” He returned to his desk and refilled his cup from the ancient coffee maker beside the window. Noah had a three-pot-a-day habit and was totally unaffected by caffeine. He could drink a triple espresso and fall asleep in two minutes flat.

“I got in some demos from a couple of new indie bands that I want to showcase, then a bit of pirate metal…”

“Be careful if you’re planning to play Alestorm.” Noah knew even the most obscure bands that I dug up for my show. “We got warnings about the language from the higher-ups last time.”

“That’s the point of pirate metal.”

Noah laughed. “How about some baby metal instead?”

“I’m feeling the need for some hardcore catharsis.” I hesitated, but the words tumbled out before I could stop them. “I met this girl—”

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