Chapter 4
Kiss Me, I Dare You
Outside, her 1971 Pontiac Ventura sat under a tarp beside a stack of cinderblocks and a deflated basketball. She bought it brand new off the showroom floor — the first big thing she bought after mustering out of the Army. It came with a 350 V8 because the 400 wouldn’t ship for another week, and she wasn’t about to wait to prove people wrong. The salesman tried to talk her into something ‘more manageable.’ She responded by peeling out of the lot with the windows down and Aretha Franklin blasting on the radio. It looked angry just sitting there beside a stack of cinderblocks and a deflated basketball.
“Truck’s got soul,” Vic said. “1950 Ford F1. Flathead V8, three-speed manual, built when steel was thicker and men didn’t cry out loud, anyway. She’s reliable.”
“Car’s got fight,” Frankie countered. “And she’ll bite you if you flinch.”
Lucia turned to me. “So. Which are you?”
I had no idea. But I knew I couldn’t afford either.
I sighed. “Even if I picked one, there’s no way I can pay for it.”
Lucia stopped walking and faced me, arms crossed. “Then get a job.”
“I’ve tried. The arcade said I’m ‘too chatty,’ and Mr. Sloan at the hardware store still thinks I’m the kid who broke the nail display.”
“Reilly,” she said flatly, “you need to stop whimpering about what you can’t do and do something. Anything.”
“Like what?”
She smiled — the kind of smile that dared you to jump off a cliff. “Kiss me.”
“What?”
“Kiss me. I dare you.”
I blinked. My mouth opened, then closed.
She held up a hand, stifling a grin. “Relax. Not now. But that’s the energy you need. That’s the attitude. So, you want a job?”
I nodded slowly.
“I know just the place.”
That’s how we ended up at Happy’s Record & Bookstore.
Happy’s smelled like patchouli, old paper, and a dash of something that might’ve been curry or regret. It was the kind of place that felt older than time and cooler than anything MTV could bottle. Posters of Prince, Joni Mitchell, Bowie, and The Clash wallpapered the ceiling like musical saints. The floor creaked with the ghosts of mixtapes past.
Lucia turned to me at the entrance, serious as a funeral for a Walkman.
“Okay. This is Happy’s. You speak only when spoken to. You do not touch the bootlegs. You do not confuse The Cure with Joy Division. And if you say your favorite band is Starship, I’m leaving you here without a ride home.”
“What if I said Jefferson Airplane?” I asked.
“Then you’d better be holding a draft card and wearing fringe.”
We stepped through the door. Wind chimes made from guitar strings clinked above us. A Black Sabbath T-shirted mannequin guarded the aisle labeled “True Rock.” Velvet curtains separated the jazz section like it needed privacy.
At the back, beside a turntable humming something like Nina Simone, stood Rupert and Maeve.
Rupert was a bald Black man with a salt-and-pepper beard, suspenders over a worn Curtis Mayfield tee, and an aura like jazz made flesh. Maeve, an Asian woman with silver hair pinned up by a pencil, wore horn-rimmed glasses on a chain and a James Gang T-shirt that looked older than me.
They turned to face us with the unified energy of people who’d once debated music with Hendrix and won.
“This the boy?” Rupert asked, voice smooth like slow bass.
“He looks like he listens to Foreigner and means it,” Maeve added.
Lucia smirked. “He cried during Private Eyes. Give him a shot.”
“Respectable,” Rupert nodded.
Maeve pointed toward a crate of records. “Test time. Three questions. No lifelines. This is sacred ground.”
“There’s a test?” I croaked.
“I barely passed mine,” Lucia whispered.
“Question One,” Rupert began. “Lou Reed or David Byrne — who narrates your life?”
“Uh… Reed. Definitely. Like, narrating with leather and cigarettes.”
Maeve tilted her head. “Plausible.”
“Question Two,” Maeve fired off. “Save one: Purple Rain or London Calling.”
My stomach flipped. “Prince changed the rules, but The Clash burned them. I gotta go London Calling.”
“He has taste,” Rupert said.
“Last one,” Maeve leaned in. “You’re heartbroken. Totally wrecked. What record do you play to feel better about being sad?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Blue. Joni Mitchell.”
A pause. Rupert and Maeve exchanged a look.
“Let the boy in,” Maeve said.
She paused, then turned back to me with a sly look. “Follow-up question. When did Gilmour join Pink Floyd, and what happened?”
I blinked. “Uh… 1968. He joined to cover for Syd Barrett when he started spacing out. Eventually, he was replaced completely.”
Rupert cringed like he’d just heard a snare off-beat. “The boy answered the questions, Maeve.”
“Every dog has its day,” she muttered, still watching me like I owed her royalties.
Then she fired again. “Jazz. Sixties. Name three albums that changed the game.”
I blinked. “Uh… A Love Supreme — Coltrane. Kind of Blue — Miles Davis. Out to Lunch! — Eric Dolphy.”
Rupert let out a low whistle. “He didn’t even flinch.”
Maeve raised one eyebrow. “Hmph. Must’ve read the liner notes.”
Lucia grinned. “You’re officially allowed to exist.”
“Barely,” Maeve added.
Later, as we walked out with a dog-eared Talking Heads LP and a bootleg cassette Lucia insisted was vital to my education, I turned to her.
“So… did I pass?”
“You didn’t get kicked out or slapped with a Miles Davis record, so yeah. You passed.”
“What now?” I asked.
She grinned that grin that meant trouble. “We’re going back to Vic and Frankie. If you want one of those cars, you’re gonna need a job. Or guts. Preferably both.”
But we didn’t head there just yet. First, we had to walk off the weight of the past — hers, mine, maybe both.
“You planned this whole day, didn’t you?”
“Please. You think you’re the only one being tested?”
She got quiet then — rare for Lucia. We kept walking for a moment, our steps crunching on the sidewalk like a badly looped drum sample.
“My dad and I built our car together,” she said suddenly, her voice steady but soft. “Started with a busted frame and a pile of dreams. It took two summers, a thousand fights, and every weekend covered in grease.”
I looked over, unsure if I should say anything. She didn’t give me the chance.
“He was good at hiding it, but something stayed with him after the war. Nightmares. Silence that stuck too long. One day, he just… didn’t show up for breakfast.”
Her fingers fidgeted with the cassette case in her hand.
“I miss working on that car. Not because it runs — because it was the one place he didn’t have to pretend he was okay.”
She looked at me then. Not the usual sarcastic glint — just real, raw, and too old for our age.
“So no, you’re not the only one trying to fix something you didn’t break.”
I swallowed. Words felt too small, too clumsy for what she just shared.
“Let’s build them together,” I said quietly.
She blinked. “What?”
“The truck. The Ventura. Whatever we end up with. Let’s fix it together. For your dad. For you. For us.”
Lucia didn’t smile, not right away. But she nodded, once, sharp and real.
Then she exhaled, like she’d been holding something heavier than air.
She looked at me again, this time with her guard lowered just enough to slip a dare through.
“Hug me. Kiss me. Do something,” she said, voice barely above a whisper — like the words might run if she said them too loud.
I froze.
Not because I didn’t want to — but because, for the first time, it felt real. Not like a dare. Not like a joke.
It felt like permission.
And that scared me more than failing the test.
I whispered to myself, “I’m not afraid… I’m not afraid.”
Then I pulled Lucia to me — slowly, gently.
How long will fear outweigh courage? Her expression told me everything: my actions had tipped the scales.
Our foreheads touched. We were barely breathing. Our breathing was almost easy.
And then I kissed her. Not like a movie. Not like a joke.
I kissed Lucia in a serious way — the kind of kiss that says I mean it.
She returned it the same way.
Like she meant it, too.
A voice cut through the moment like a cymbal crash.
“Did you hear that?” Aunt Frankie stood in the shadows near the garage, arms crossed and smirking. “His balls just dropped.”
We jumped apart like we’d been electrocuted.
Then we chuckled — half-embarrassed, half-relieved — because somehow, of course, she saw it all.