Fred Aiken Writing

I told her I liked *NSYNC, but she knew I was lying. Vanessa had this way of seeing through the thin veils people tried to wrap around themselves. It was late spring, and the cicadas were tuning up for their summer symphony, filling the sticky air with their song. We sat on the front porch of my grandparents’ old house, the wooden planks creaking beneath our weight.

Vanessa was my neighbor, two years older and infinitely wiser. She had this cool, detached way about her, like she’d seen everything and judged it all to be mildly amusing at best. Her hair was a tangle of dark curls, always just a little wild, and her eyes were a sharp, piercing blue that seemed to notice everything.

“So, if you don’t like *NSYNC,” she said, smirking as she twisted a lock of hair around her finger, “what do you like?”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I don’t know. A bit of everything, I guess.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied, clearly unimpressed. “You don’t strike me as a boy-band kind of guy.”

She was right, of course. I had a secret stash of old rock CDs I’d borrowed from my dad, a collection of Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and The Doors that I played late at night with the volume turned low. I even had a collection of Jim Morrison’s poems. But I wasn’t about to tell her that.

She leaned back, looking up at the sky. “You know, you don’t have to pretend with me. I’m not like the other girls at school.”

“I know,” I said, and I did know. Vanessa was different, and that was part of why I liked her so much. She was the kind of girl who read thick books in the back of the library and listened to music on vinyl because it sounded better. She was the kind of girl who made you want to be more interesting, more honest.

“So, what are you really into?” she asked again, and this time her voice was softer, more genuine.

I took a deep breath, deciding to take a leap. “Music, mostly. The old stuff. Classic rock.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really? Like what?”

“Led Zeppelin, mostly,” I admitted. “But I like a lot of different bands.”

She smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. “Now we’re talking. Have you ever heard Physical Graffiti on vinyl? It’s like a whole different experience.”

I shook my head. “I’ve only got CDs.”

“Well,” she said, standing up and brushing off her jeans, “come on, then. My dad’s got a record player. Let’s see if we can find some Zeppelin.”

I followed her across the yard to her house, feeling like I was about to step into another world. Inside, her house was cool and dim, the air filled with the scent of old books and something spicy I couldn’t quite place. She led me to the living room, where a vintage turntable sat atop a wooden cabinet.

“Here we go,” she said, flipping through a stack of records. “Found it.” She pulled out a well-worn copy of Physical Graffiti, the cover frayed at the edges but still vibrant.

She placed the record on the turntable with the care of someone handling a rare artifact. The needle dropped, and the room filled with the opening chords of “Custard Pie.” Vanessa flopped down on the couch and patted the spot next to her. I sat, feeling the music wash over me, richer and deeper than I’d ever heard it before.

“This is amazing,” I said, more to myself than to her.

She nodded, eyes closed, lost in the music. “Told you. There’s just something about vinyl.”

I didn’t know enough to know that she was full of it. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have said a word.

We sat there for what felt like hours, listening to the album from start to finish. It was like discovering a new world, one where everything was sharper, more intense. Vanessa didn’t say much, but she didn’t need to. Her presence was enough, a silent confirmation that this moment mattered.

As the final notes of “Sick Again” faded into silence, she turned to me, her eyes serious. “Thanks for being honest with me.”

I shrugged, trying to downplay the significance of it. “No big deal.”

But it was a big deal. It felt like opening a door I hadn’t even known was there, stepping into a place where I could be myself without fear of judgment. Vanessa had given me that, and in return, I’d given her my trust.

We spent the rest of the summer like that, sharing music and secrets, slowly unraveling the layers of who we were. I never told her how I felt—how could I, when she seemed so far out of reach? But in those quiet moments, with the music spinning and the cicadas singing outside, it felt like she understood anyway.

Years later, I would look back on that summer as the one that changed everything. It was the summer I learned to be honest, the summer I discovered the power of music, the summer I fell for a girl who saw right through me. And even though Vanessa eventually moved away, the lessons she taught me stayed.

I still listen to Physical Graffiti, but mostly on Spotify, or whenever I can find the CD that seems to magically transport all over my car. And every time, I think of Vanessa, and the summer we spent spinning wheels and spinning records, learning to see the world—and ourselves—a little more clearly.