Lovestruck Summer by Melissa Walker (best management books of all time txt) 📕

then copied it onto a tape for my car, I realize. It would be thoughtful if it weren’t kind of presumptuous. I don’t know if I want a mix from Russ. I turn the CD cover over in my hand. Russ’s writing is really messy. It’s like boys are incapa- ble of good penmanship because their hands are so energetic and spazzy. Not that my own writ- ing was ever any good—but I’m having to work really hard to read this. I recognize half the song names, but the artists aren’t ones I know. Then on the second half of the tape, there are some great bands doing songs I’ve never heard of. I realize that it must be country singers covering indie songs, and vice versa. A mix. Way to be heavy-handed, I think, as I walk

142 over to the couch and open my laptop. When I click PLAY, I hear the familiar chords of a Sure Loser song, except it’s being done in a different style. A style I’ve always been turned off by. It still doesn’t sound great to me, but I’m going to prove Russ wrong. I do give music a chance, and I am going to sit here and listen to the whole thing, song by song. Even if I hate it. And I am not putting this mix on my iPod until I’ve heard at least a few songs. No need giving up precious memory to stuff I probably won’t like. I press PAUSE and make myself a cup of coffee, because I think I’ll need it. Miss Tiara scratches at the door, so I let her back in and she jumps up on the couch to join me as I settle back into the cushions. Then I press PLAY. By the third song, I’m getting into it. Kind of. I mean, I’m not a hundred percent into the way there’s a male singer doing a Chihuahua Chicks song—it just seems wrong. When track six comes on, I have to admit that I’m hearing an excellent version of “Pretty in Black.”I’m not saying it’s better than the original, but it might be just as good. Not that I’d tell Russ that. When Penny comes down for breakfast, I’m

143 on the last song—it’s The Walters doing an old country tune called “Waltz Across Texas.”And it’s excellent. I may have to look up the original version. “I thought you didn’t like country music,”Penny says sleepily as she walks past me and into the kitchen. “I didn’t,”I say as I copy the mix onto my iPod. I spend all of Saturday with the mix, and I even convince Penny to ride in my car when we make a pet store run to get Miss Tiara’s special toothpaste so I can check out the cassette tape too. There’s something about the voices—lilting and soft, then booming and angst-filled—that reminds me of what I love about indie rock. By the fourth play, I find myself humming along to the choruses—country style. I’m still not ready to say that these songs are new favorites, but I am surprised by them. They’re not terrible. When I wake up on Sunday morning, I feel like I have a music hangover. I reach over to the coffee table to pick up my phone, and I see a text from Jade. “Derby?”it says. I have no

144 clue what she’s talking about, but when I text her back I fi nd out that she’s proposing we go see some girls on roller skates kicking ass, which sounds okay to me. Jade tells me she just wanted a girls’day out, and I’m all for that after this weird, music-fi lled weekend. She picks me up around eleven A.M. and we drive to a small stadium with a rink sur- rounded by banners that say TEXAS ROLLER- GIRLS. The teams have names like Texecutioners and Hotrod Honeys, and the women who are gearing up in pads and helmets are also dressed in amazing clothes—gingham shirts and denim skirts, or full-color jumpers. Some have braids in their hair, others wear striped knee socks. “This is hot,”I say to Jade as we take our seats near the edge of the rink. “Wait till someone collides with you,”says Jade. “You may go home with a black-eye souvenir.”I look at her and wonder if she’s kidding, but she seems serious. Jade explains to me that roller derby started in the 1930s, but kind of became a glitter-and- spandex fest in the eighties before it died out.

145 Then, a few years ago, a group of rocker girls in Austin decided to bring back the sport, com- plete with bands at the games. “It’s like a cross between a mosh pit and a burlesque show,”she says. “You know a lot about it,”I say, impressed. “I’m gonna join the league soon,”says Jade. “I hope.”I watch the players race around the track, trying to pass one another and avoid fl ying elbows and shoulders that their competitors throw to block them. “I can see why they need pads,”I say. “Go, Box-Out Betty!”shouts Jade at the top of her lungs, standing up and raising a fi st in the air. She sits back down and stares at the track. “Aren’t those girls just beautifully badass?”she says wistfully. “They really are,”I say, wondering if I could ever take the knocking and bruising with such ease. I’m kind of a wimp. When I see one of the women get a bloody nose all over her rhinestone halter, I have to look away. “Wanna get a snack?”I ask.

146 “Sure,”Jade says, walking with me to the concession stand, but not taking her eyes off the rink. “So how do you feel about seeing Rick on Monday?”I ask when we get out of the loud section of the stadium. “Okay,”she says. “I mean, better than I did Friday night when I had that crying jag.”I give her a sympathetic look. “Ugh, sorry about that,”she continues. “I acted like such a tool.”“Nah,”I