Author’s Note: This is a short story I wrote for my MFA thesis. It’s part of my new Rejects series, featuring pieces I couldn’t get published. The Rate of Exchange was rejected by roughly 27 lit journals.

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Alex struggled to get her grandmother’s old turntable going. She had to swivel the arm a few times before it finally dropped. But once it did, the record played perfectly. No scratches. No skips. Stevie’s ever-shifting voice filled Alex’s small apartment, first husky and smoky, then silky and smooth. Alex lay on her living room floor, where it was slightly cooler in the humid afternoon. She closed her eyes and imagined the band assembled in the corner. She began to feel like she was spinning up and off the floor, all the way to the ceiling, the room dissolving into some ethereal space.

Her roommate Carrie walked in. “My god, who’s this?”

“Stevie Nicks.”

“Tell her she sucks.”

“She’s the Queen of Rock and Roll.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s good.”

*          *          *

“I love the record,” Alex told Matt the next time he came to the coffee shop. “I knew who she was, but I never knew what she sounded like.”

“I had a feeling you’d like her,” he said.

“If only I could play guitar, maybe I could be the next Stevie,” Alex joked.

“Hey, you never know, Blue Eyes. You’re looking at a teacher, you ever want a lesson.”

“Oh yeah, maybe,” Alex said, averting her eyes to the coffee-stained counter.

She’d met Matt not long after leaving her parents’ and starting at The Bean. He worked at the pawnshop down the street and was, according to her boss Gary, “their number one customer.” He showed up while Gary was reteaching her to steam milk because she, apparently, wasn’t doing it right.

“Wand in the middle, Alex,” Gary had said. “You want the milk to swirl, not bubble.” His cell phone buzzed. He quickly dipped into his office.

A pit of dread grew in her stomach as she poured the milk. Matt would be expecting her to fail now. To make his drink too frothy, too bitter. She braced herself as Matt took a sip, expecting him to complain.

But he only pointed to her Bob Dylan t-shirt. “You’ve got good taste for a girl your age,” he said. “What’s your favorite song?”

It made her feel finally at ease. Grateful, even, that someone was taking an interest in her for a change. She so often felt trapped behind the counter, a receptacle for customers’ hopes, fears, tirades. So she gave him that first mocha on the house. She certainly didn’t expect him to bring her anything. But the next day, he set a record next to the register. Moody Blues.

“People bring in old records all the time,” he’d said. “Can’t sell ’em for more than a couple of bucks.”

Since then, she’d grown to enjoy Matt’s daily visits, but she was reluctant to see him outside these syrup-splattered walls, to even stand before him without the counter between them, no matter how desperately she wanted guitar lessons.

It’s not that Matt was bad looking, but he was way too old for her. She was barely out of high school, dreaming of escaping the dull suburbs of Chicago. She didn’t know how old he was exactly, but he was nearing forty if he wasn’t already, rooted too deep in their godforsaken town to get out.

*          *          *

 There’d been no customers in what felt like forever. Alex scrolled through Gary’s iPod and put on Bob Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.” She hopped on the counter, tapping the heels of her bleach-stained chucks against the cabinets. Her dark ponytail swayed to the glossy harmonica, the lilting guitar. Alone, she felt brave enough to close her eyes and sing when it got to her favorite part. She imagined the earth turned upside down, knocking her headfirst into the rippling sky.

Gary emerged from his office, looking irritated. “Alex, could you clear the syrup pumps? I couldn’t get the raspberry out for a latte this morning.” A latte for himself, she knew. None of their regulars ordered raspberry anything.

She’d made it through half the syrup bottles before any customers showed. Even then, it was only Carrie.

She wrinkled her nose as Alex extracted another sticky syrup pump, hazelnut streaming into the sink. “Thank god I don’t have to deal with nasty stuff at my job.”

Alex sighed. Carrie took great pride in working at the local dance shop. She acted like it wasn’t another crappy service job, like they weren’t both barely scraping by because they didn’t want to live with their parents and were too poor to go to college. 

“Guess what?” Carrie leaned over the counter, blond curls falling in her face. “Cute college guy finally asked me out. He’s taking me to a party in the city.”

Alex started steaming nonfat milk for the latte she knew Carrie expected. She focused on making it swirl in the silver pitcher, wondering what it was like to live in a dorm, surrounded by people your own age who were all brimming with potential, their futures bright and wide open.

The door jingled. Matt appeared, his voice filling the room. “Hey, Blue Eyes. Just got a turntable and receiver at the shop. Practically new.”

“Oh my god, that’s so sweet!” Carrie said. “Isn’t that sweet, Alex? She loves those records you give her.” 

“It’s too much,” Alex said, giving Carrie the side eye.

“It’s nothing,” Matt said. “No one wants to buy expensive stuff at pawnshops. Stuff like this, it just sits and sits.”

“Don’t be rude, Alex,” Carrie said. “Just take the gift. I mean for Christ’s sake, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it.” She smiled at Matt.

“I can’t carry it all the way home,” Alex said.

“I can pick you up after your shift,” Matt said.

Before Alex could think of another excuse, Carrie said, “That’s perfect!”

After Matt left, Alex turned on her. “What are you doing?”

 “That’s the guy?” Carrie looked incredulous. “I thought he was gonna be some gross old creep. What is he? Thirty-five, forty?”

 “He’s practically my dad’s age,” Alex said. 

 “God he’s in great shape. And he’s got this great jaw. You ever notice how all the guys around here have saggy chins?”

Alex hadn’t noticed his jaw before. What she had noticed was his crooked teeth. The deep creases bookending his eyes. Thinning hair that he tried to hide with a baseball cap.

She gripped the counter while she still could.

*          *          *

There were a million things piled in the backseat of Matt’s truck—ceramic cherubs, whittled figurines, mismatched mugs, bowls, plates.

“What’s all this?” she said.

“Stuff for the pawnshop.” 

“Don’t people bring it to your store?”

“Nosy aren’t ya?” He dropped a hand on her shoulder. It was heavy, like a great big paw. It felt like it would push her down, right through the ground.

He insisted on carrying the turntable and receiver upstairs. He set them on her living room floor, panting slightly from the effort.

“You sure no one’s gonna want this?” Alex said. “Seems like you could get a good chunk of change.”

Matt shrugged. “Who needs it more than you?” He winked.

A breeze came through the window, blowing a lock of dark hair across her face. She flinched as calloused fingertips stroked her cheek, pushing the hair behind her ear.

If she told him no, he’d call her a little tease, maybe even wrestle her to the ground like Ian Peters the summer she spent swimming behind his house. They’d swum to the dock in the middle of the lake. He rolled on top of her before she could stop him. His body pinned hers to the wooden slats, his tongue like a giant slug.

She should be better at saying no.

Matt withdrew his hand suddenly, his whole demeanor changing, shrinking, shriveling. “I’ll see you later,” he said.

She knew she had to be clear with him before she found herself, once again, pinned to the ground. 

*          *          *

The next time Matt came to The Bean, Alex started wiping down the counter with intense focus, even though there was nothing to clean off or soak up.

He dangled a necklace in front of her. A long yellow-gold chain with a large gemstone pendant, little diamonds clustered around the edges. She knew Carrie would call it gaudy, but Alex touched it right away, forgetting what mixed signal she might be sending.  

 “My grandmother had a necklace like this,” she said. The only difference was this gemstone was sapphire; her grandmother’s was black. It surprised Alex when she saw the necklace on her grandmother at the wake. She’d been sure her parents would hock it for video games, designer clothes, narcotics. “They buried her with it,” she told Matt now.

“Seems mighty selfish, the dead hoarding things they got no use for,” he said.

She dropped the rag in the bleach bucket, the smell clinging to her hands.

Once, her grandmother asked if Alex wanted to come live with her. You want to leave your momma? her mother had said, accusatory. Alex had no choice but to say, Of course not.

Matt held the pendant close to his face, scrutinizing it. “Best piece of jewelry I’ve gotten in a long time.”

It was way more expensive than anything on the menu, even more expensive than the record player, Alex knew. She told herself she wouldn’t accept it. She wouldn’t waver.

“Think Carrie would like it?” he said.

“Carrie?” she said, failing to mask her surprise. “You don’t even know her.”

“Yeah, well.” He gave a small smile and shrugged. “Mind giving it to her?”

Here was her way out. She should’ve been relieved. So why did she feel disappointed? She forced a smile. “No problem.”

At home, she hid the necklace in a shoebox and shoved it to the farthest corner of her closet. She’d done the same thing in high school after her parents kept taking her babysitting money. She’d been saving for her choir trip. Don’t be ungrateful, they said. We give you a roof over your head, a bed to sleep in. You know how many kids don’t have a bed to sleep in? You’re lucky we don’t make you pay rent.

*          *          *

Later that week, Alex came home to find Carrie and Matt together on the tattered couch, rolling a joint on the coffee table Alex had rescued from the curb. A pot boiled on the stove.

“What are you doing here?” Alex said.

“It’s so crazy,” Carrie said. “I went to the pawnshop looking for lamps and ran into Matt. I invited him over for mac and cheese.”

 “Hey, Blue Eyes,” he said. “Come take a hit.”

“I’m kind of tired,” Alex told them. “I think I’ll just lay down for a bit.”

“Come on, Alex. Stop being such a wet blanket,” Carrie said.

“Yeah, Alex. Dry blankets are better.” Matt grinned. He extended the joint. “It’ll help you sleep.”

She felt some invisible force pushing her toward the couch, making her sit beside Matt and take the joint even though she wanted to go to her room. 

She tried not to breathe too deep, but still she coughed. Her parents used to make fun of her for it. They’d coax her to smoke with them—Just do it!—then laugh at how she nosedived into a rabbit hole of paranoia, twitching at every loud sound, convinced the neighbors had called the police, they were going to jail, she’d never get another job.

Alex passed the joint to Carrie, anxiously waiting for the paranoia to hit.

“Meant to ask, Carrie,” Matt said. “How do you like the necklace?” 

“I forgot to tell you,” Alex said quickly, leg twitching. “I forgot it at work and the next day, it was gone. I’m so careless.”

Matt smirked. 

“You got me something?” Carrie said.

“It was nothing,” Matt said.

Carrie glared at Alex, but Alex refused to meet her eyes. She worried Carrie would push it, but she didn’t. Instead, she got up and played some painfully redundant Taylor Swift song. She danced in the middle of the room, her old high school routine. Alex remembered watching it from the bleachers during halftime. Back then, it made Alex wish she could dance, with all its twirls and flips. Now though, it just looked showy and stupid. Carrie wasn’t even playing the right song, so the steps were out of sync with the beat.

“Looking good, Curly,” Matt said. Alex looked at him with surprise, but he only looked at Carrie, smiling like she was so damn cute and pretty and interesting. His teeth didn’t look as crooked as Alex remembered. When he placed his baseball cap on the table and ruffled his hair, it didn’t seem as thin.

Matt passed her the joint a second time, and she took it willingly, barely noticing when she coughed. She felt herself softening, like her skin was melting right off, opening her up.

*          *          *

The next time Matt came over, he brought a bag lined with white powder. He made three neat little rows on the coffee table with a credit card, just the way her parents used to.

“Alex won’t do it,” Carrie said. “She’s practically straight edge.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Alex said.

“Oh well excuse me.” Carrie looked at Matt conspiratorially. “I’ve only known the girl since she was ten. Little baby’s growing up I guess.”

“Whatever happened to college guy?” Alex said, staring Carrie down. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Who’s this?” Matt asked.

“Carrie’s boyfriend.”

“We went on like, two dates,” Carried said. “A date isn’t a relationship, Alex. You’d know that if you weren’t so prude.” Another smirk. Carrie bent confidently over the table, plugging one nostril, dragging the other along a white row.

Matt inhaled the next line. He and Carrie both sniffed and wiped their noses, laughing and looking at each other for far too long.

Alex steeled herself. She plugged her left nostril the way she saw Carrie do it, hovering the right one above the line—just do it!—then she did it, inhaling sharp and hard.

At first she didn’t feel anything. Then she felt jittery. She stood up and walked around the living room in circles and lines and circles and triangles and she felt like she was buzzing, literally buzzing, her skin vibrating, her lips vibrating, even her eyelashes vibrating. She was so light she was floating. They were both watching her but she didn’t care, she didn’t care at all, because she was great and no one could tell her she wasn’t and if they told her she wasn’t then forget them, and, hey, they should all scale the water tower, no! They should go to Third Lake, no! They should go to Highland Lake, the one with the dock in the middle and swim to the bottom because she’d never swum to the bottom of a lake before and wouldn’t that be amazing? They could see all the fish and fauna and what was fauna anyway, and holy crap what if there were bodies at the bottom of the lake! And he was laughing and smiling and laughing and smiling and she zoomed right over and sat on his lap and kissed him hard. She felt her vibrating lips merging with his big soft pillowy lips, and Carrie was somewhere far away saying, “You guys are gonna make me sick.” Then they came unglued and his lips stretched across his whole face, saying, “Poor Carrie, we didn’t mean to leave you out, did we?”

“Of course we did.”

*          *          *

It was nearly a month before she saw his place. Even then, they only “swung by” because he’d forgotten his wallet. Matt lived in the same one-story ranch he’d grown up in. He inherited it from his late mother, but still, Alex couldn’t get over how strange it was to be dating someone with a house.

“You can’t walk for all the pawnshop junk,” he always said. It was, of course, an exaggeration, but not a huge one. You could walk, but only through narrow pathways carved by old stereos, TVs, crates of DVDs, records, books. Boxes of jewelry and tchotchkes covered nearly every surface inside the small ranch.

 “I warned ya, didn’t I?” He looked embarrassed, head slightly bowed, like he actually cared what she thought.

She followed him carefully into the kitchen, where his wallet sat on the counter. Beside it was a small porcelain mermaid. It was topless but nippleless, with flowing honey hair, gaze fixed on a bright pearl nestled in a shell. Alex ran a finger along the green fin. It was exactly the kind of kitschy thing she liked.

“Keep it,” Matt said.  “It always reminded me of you.”

“How come?”

He shrugged. “I wanted to give it to you before, but I thought it would scare you off.”

She wondered if it that was true. Probably, she decided. She worried too much. She knew she did. She hugged the mermaid to her chest and kissed him on the cheek.

“You never explained to me why you have all this stuff,” she said. “Why people don’t just bring it to your store.” She carefully wound her way through the maze of boxes, but still, she tripped.

Matt caught her before she fell. “I get a lot of stuff from older folks who can’t drive,” he said. 

“Isn’t that a hassle?”

He shrugged. “I like seeing where people live. It’s interesting.”

She remembered wandering pawnshops with her parents as a kid, grieving all the stuff she couldn’t have.

“Maybe I can come with you, sometime,” she said.

“That’s okay, Blue Eyes. I like going by myself.”

*          *          *

They were curled up on the couch, listening to the Stevie Nicks record he’d given her months ago. Carrie was off with a new boyfriend in the city.

Earlier that night, Matt had tried teaching Alex “Bad Moon Rising” on guitar, saying CCR’s chord progressions were simple enough for beginners. She focused on contorting her fingers for a D chord, transitioning to an A, then G, moving faster every time. She didn’t even bother to strum. She became so consumed with the task she didn’t even notice the time. Suddenly, it was ten p.m., and Matt was gently pulling her to the couch.  

They kissed softly at first, then more intense, his tongue finding its way between her lips, arms pulling her in tighter and tighter, like he was trying break the barrier of skin and bone between them. He searched her face as he ran a hand slowly up her thigh. She forced herself to smile, knowing she couldn’t keep telling him goodnight.

She’d only done it once with Shane Damon her senior year. He’d poked and scraped her with his finger until he finally found his way inside. “You like that, don’t you,” he smirked, like he was the king of finger banging. She couldn’t say no, or she would’ve been the asshole.

Matt didn’t poke her. Instead, his fingers gently grazed her underwear. “Talk to Me” played in the background, the synth-chimes soothing and sweet, Stevie’s voice smoky and intoxicating.

Then he was peeling off her pants, sticking his head beneath her underwear. She propped herself up on her elbows. “We can just, you know, do it,” she said.

“Relax.”

But she couldn’t, embarrassed by what it must look like. Smell like. Taste like.

Stevie’s voice grew loud and grating. The chorus started looping as much as any Taylor Swift song. The keyboards and drums gave way to a smooth jazz saxophone, like they were in one of those cheesy romcoms from the eighties her mom watched incessantly.

“Can we try something else? Please?”

Matt lifted his head. Light from the streetlamps seeped through the curtains, casting shadows across his face that made him look older, the wrinkles around his eyes deep dangerous caverns. 

He gave her a joint.

Soon, she felt herself softening. The lines on his face seeming less like markers of age, more like rivulets for microscopic fish. She imagined what they looked like until her mind started to quieten.

*          *          *

It was a mild autumn for the Midwest, but chilly enough that she would have preferred to be inside. She was wearing only a skirt and sweater at Carrie’s prompting, no jacket.

She shivered and crossed her arms tightly as she reluctantly followed Matt into the woods behind the high school. He led her deeper and deeper into the trees, where they grew so dense you could barely tell it was day. She pushed branches out of the way, but still they scratched through her sleeves and tights.

Finally, they reached a clearing and the sun broke through. There was a pond surrounded by cattails. A floating dock in the middle. An old rowboat tied to a pier.

“Ta da!” he said, throwing out his arms.

“I had no idea this was here,” she said. “My whole life, I never knew this was here.”

He led her to the boat and rowed them out to the dock. They sat on a blanket, bobbing slightly on the water, a breeze numbing her fingers and cheeks.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to give you,” he said. He dangled a necklace in front of her. It had a long yellow-gold chain. A black gemstone pendant. Little diamonds on the sides. “Since you liked that other necklace so much.”

The one still tucked away in her closet. She took the necklace and examined it. This one looked exactly like her grandmother’s, the one she was buried with. But he couldn’t have. There was no way he could have. Could he have? She smelled something putrid. She dropped it.

“Careful!” he said, catching it.

Her hands were shaking. Her whole body was shaking. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“It’s been sitting in my shop since last year,” he said.

“But they buried her with it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My grandmother’s necklace. They buried her with it.”

“What are you saying, Alex?”

She wrapped her arms around her legs, the hard, wooden slats boring into her tailbone. She imagined him digging up not just her grandmother’s grave, but all kinds of graves, turning over the town’s cemetery for things he could sell at his pawnshop without having to buy them first, things that might accumulate in his house and truck before he could take them to the store.

“You know what your problem is, Alex?”

She braced herself for his anger, for him to yell at her for being an ungrateful little bitch.

But he said, “You think you don’t deserve to be happy. You want to push me away, because you think you don’t deserve someone who’s nice to you for a change.”

He still held the necklace. Even though it was black, the gemstone sparkled in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. She let him clasp the chain around her neck, the pendant falling hard against her chest. She rubbed it between her fingers.

Maybe her parents had snatched it from her grandmother’s casket after the wake. Maybe she was remembering wrong.

The wind was picking up, whipping hair across her eyes. He moved beside her, swaying the dock so water lapped the edges. She could let herself fall in. Plunge deep and finally see what lurked beneath. The sun fell lower in the sky. It dropped below the tree line, turning the water dark, an impenetrable black.