Page 4 of With a Little Luck

My mom walks in a second later with my two youngest sisters, Penny and Eleanor, in tow. No Lucy—which isn’t all that surprising. She has a busier social life than either Pru or I had whenwewere freshmen, and she has other plans most weekends. Plans that do not include hanging out in a musty old record store with her parents.

Ellie runs to Dad and throws herself into his arms. She immediately starts telling him about the macaroni craft project they made in kindergarten that day.

I walk over to Penny and drape an arm over her shoulders. “Did you bring your violin?” I ask, nodding toward the stage. “This could be the night you wow us all.”10

Penny frowns at me. I’ve been urging her to sign up for open mic night since the beginning, but she always says the same thing. “I am not playing in front of all these strangers.”

“You play in front of strangers all the time at your recitals.”

“Yeah, but with the stage lights on, I can’t even see the people in the auditorium, so it’s easy to pretend they’re not there. Plus, I’m with the rest of the orchestra.” She shudders. “I could never perform alone at something like this.”

I know I’m not one to talk—it’s not likeI’mever going to get up on that stage. We do keep my old acoustic guitar around, just in case anyone gets inspired to perform and didn’t bring their own instrument. But that’s never going to be me. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d do awesome.”

Penny flashes me an appreciative smile, before Mom pulls her away to claim the last two seats in the back row. Ellie plops down on Mom’s lap. I head behind the counter to ring up a sale—a guy with a mean sunburn buying two Broadway musical soundtracks. As he walks away, I spy Pru making her way around the crowd with Ari’s clipboard in hand, reminding everyone about the store’s open mic night discounts. That’s our Pru—always with a sales pitch.

“Ari!” I stage-whisper. She glances over at me, and I tap an imaginary watch on my wrist.

Ari grabs her guitar and bounds up to the stage. She taps the mic. “Hello, hello! Thank you all so much for coming tonight.” She beams at the crowd, waving to some of the familiar faces.

When she first started hosting these, months ago, she always started the evening a little nervous and unsure, but that initial stage fright has ebbed with time. Now she seems like a natural, completely in her element. I’ve always been a little jealous of Ari for the way she isn’t afraid to embrace her own quirks, all her charming eccentricities—whether that’s talking out loud to herself when she’s trying to figure out a new lyric, or showing Ellie how to do cartwheels down the store aisles on days when we’re slow, or dancing unabashedly along the boardwalk, never caring11who might be watching. Ari doesn’t mind it when people notice her—something that I find utterly remarkable.

Ari sits down on the provided stool and pulls a clip from her hair, releasing the bun. A waterfall of wavy dark hair tumbles over one shoulder. “I’m Araceli, and I’m the host of our open mic nights here at Ventures Vinyl. To get us warmed up, I’m going to sing a cover of one of my favorite romantic ballads. This is ‘Romeo and Juliet’ by Dire Straits.”

The hair clip, it turns out, is actually a guitar capo. Ari clasps it to the neck of her guitar and starts to play, her fingers plucking at the strings to create a soft, almost hypnotic melody. Even though I’ve heard Ari sing a thousand times, there’s something about her voice that always makes me smile. She doesn’t have apowerfulvoice, exactly, but there’s something comforting about the way she sings. It’s like … like that feeling you get when you’ve spent the whole day at the beach, and you’re wiped out and sunburned and hungry, but then you lie down on your sun-warmed beach towel and the whole world fades away and you feel every muscle in your body relax and you can’t remember ever feeling more content.

“Great turnout tonight,” Pru whispers, sidling up to the counter, Quint beside her. Quint offers me a fist bump, the action a lot less awkward now than it was when they first started dating eight months ago.

While most people are listening raptly to Ari, Pru is studying the crowd like a scientist studies a specimen. “If we kill it on Record Store Day, then pull crowds like this through tourist season, we’ll be in a good place come the fall.”

Quint and I trade a look.

I know I shouldn’t tease her for her business acumen, though. Pru has done as much for the record store as anyone these last few months, and she’s not even on the payroll. In between school work and volunteering with Quint at the sea animal rescue center, which is owned and run by Quint’s mom, Pru has been on a mission to revitalize Ventures Vinyl, a mission that she completely doubled down on once our parents announced their plan to buy the building. It was Pru’s idea to transform the exterior storefront with a fresh music-themed mural, and12the week I spent planning and painting it was easily the most fun I’ve had since I started working here. Pru also spearheaded our new social media accounts, which are now full of curated photos of the store and its merchandise—mostly taken by Quint, who has an eye for that sort of thing. Pru has spent whole afternoons passing out promotional coupons on the boardwalk, ordering specialty Ventures Vinyl merchandise to sell, and even inviting journalists from as far as L.A. to do write-ups on how the store is a landmark business in Fortuna Beach. One travel magazine called us “a refreshing blend of hipster cool and nostalgic comfort—a necessary stop for any music lover traveling the coastal freeway.” Pru had the article framed and hung up behind the counter.

All her efforts have made a big difference. Combined with a growth in local tourism and a resurgence in the popularity of vinyl records (which have started outselling CDs for the first time in decades), the store has seen some of its biggest profits lately. Which is good, because—again, exorbitant mortgage payment.

“Ari sounds great,” says Quint. “As per usual.”

Ari’s eyes are closed as she sings, lost in the serenade of a lovestruck Romeo. I know Ari doesn’t want to be asinger—her dream has always been to be behind the scenes. The songwriter who creates the music and hands it off to the performers to do what they do best. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s mesmerizing to watch when she plays, her hair shining under our hastily constructed stage lights, her fingers at one with the guitar.

And—okay, I know I shouldn’t say this. I know I shouldn’tfeelthis. But there is something about watching Ari in her element that always gives me this constricted, almost painful feeling in my chest. Like I never want to look away.

But don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t feelthat wayabout Ari. Those feelings—those intense, all-encompassing, romantic-type feelings—are reserved wholly and completely for another girl.

A man in a suit comes up to the counter to buy a Nirvana album, and Pru and Quint step aside. Just as I’ve finished ringing him up, Ari’s song13ends to avid applause. I give her a loud whistle, and she meets my gaze, a grin on her face.

“Thank you,” she says. “We’ve got a great list tonight, and I can’t wait to hear you all. I might be back later to play one of my original songs. But for now, let me call to the stage our first performer …”

As soon as Ari has summoned the next act, she comes back to join us at the counter, her cheeks a little flushed.

“You were fantastic!” says Pru.

“Thanks?” says Ari, in that way she has of making every thank-you sound like a question.

We fall quiet, listening to the guy onstage as he covers an Ed Sheeran song. He’s really into it, singing from his heart. Or diaphragm, or whatever people sing from that makes them sound really good.

A handful of performers follow him. A guy in board shorts comes up to buy a Ventures Vinyl T-shirt, but no actual vinyl. After he walks away, I take in the store. Two women are performing a song they wrote together—one plays ukulele, the other is on bongo drums. People are tapping their feet along to the music. A handful of guests are browsing the shelves while they listen.

I grab my pencil and start mindlessly doodling on the flyer again. I’m annoyed that I haven’t been able to think of a good name for this temple yet, when the entire campaign is built around it. I look around, searching for inspiration, tapping the eraser against the paper.

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