Page 70 of Chasing Stardust

My mom wrote her name somewhere in this room.

“No.” Dash smirks and leads me through the store like a tour guide. “This is John Varvatos. They supposedly left most of the walls the way they were when the place was still CBGB but scrubbed away decades of filth and sticky floors.”

The sandalwood notes of an expensive cologne waft through the air as I shift my tote to my other shoulder and gaze up at Dash. “This place is seriously cool.”

He nods, admiring a vintage guitar behind glass.

“Even the clothes have attitude.” I run my fingers over a rack of crisp shirts and pluck out a bluish-gray short-sleeved button-down from the bunch. “This one reminds me of you.”

His cheeks flush. “I may have one similar to that.”

“Hmm.” Keeping Dash in sight, I tuck the shirt back where I found it and move to the next display. A table covered in rows of jeans draws me in, and I hold up a dark-washed pair. “And these?”

“Possibly.” He chuckles, as if he’s not wearing an almost identical pair.

My preoccupation with Dash’s clothes temporarily satisfied, I shift my attention to the graffitied walls, tracing the different names with my finger, hoping to find even a hint of Mom. So much history. And yet, so much of it is buried behind racks of clothes or covered by framed photos, concert tickets, and other assorted memorabilia.

Tempted to pick at the old stickers to uncover what’s hidden beneath, a wave of disappointment washes through me. “I could spend an entire day sifting through every inch of this place and still never find what I’m looking for.”

Dash slips his fingers through mine and squeezes.

“It really is amazing, though.” My heart clenches as I glance at the man folding shirts in the back. “But I seriously doubt they’d be cool with me tossing a handful of ashes into the air.”

“Probably not.” Dash smiles. “But we can get some pictures?”

Grinning, I hand him my phone. “So many pictures.”

Dash plays photographer while I dance around the room like a kid in a toy store, posing in front of as many relics as I can without getting kicked out. I pick up a red guitar and pretend to play, then grab a stack of records and hold them up like Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. I pretend to write my name on a heavy section of graffiti, making animated faces while Dash clicks away.

“Come with me.” Dash drags me outside and snaps a few pictures of me under the black John Varvatos awning, in the same spot Mom posed when the awning was white with the CBGB logo.

Afterward, we take a few selfies of the two of us—my head on his shoulder, his lips on my cheek, and one of us kissing—before saying goodbye to the ghosts of CBGB and heading to Central Park.

“She could’ve been a little more specific about which tree she wrote her name on.” Even with the intoxicating aroma of fresh-cut grass and sunshine soaking into my pores, I stare into the vast park with an overwhelming sense of defeat.

For all I know, Mom’s tree was turned into firewood decades ago, but I’m not about to let that stop me. “How will I ever find it?”

“Let’s think about this logically.” Dash scans the surrounding trees, then points to the high-rise looming behind us. “You said your grandma wanted your mom’s name to be visible from those windows.”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s a finite number of trees directly facing that building, and anything big enough to climb thirty years ago would be even taller now, so we can rule out all the small trees.” Dash’s enthusiasm is contagious. He seems almost as invested in finding Mom’s name as I am.

“So we should focus on big trees.” I gaze into the lush green canopy overhead.

“As far as I can tell, we have three options.” He ambles toward the smallest of the three and rests his hand against the trunk. “Let’s start with this one. Just make it quick and don’t draw too much attention to yourself. It’s illegal to climb the trees in the park.”

I laugh but his stiff expression doesn’t crack. “You’re not kidding?”

“No.”

My stomach clenches as I set my tote against the base of the tree. I haven’t been tree climbing since I was twelve, but if it means finding even a tiny bit of Mom, I’m all in. “That’s a stupid rule.”

“True.” Dash nods, and his lips twitch. “But stupid or not, with your luck, we’ll get arrested.”

“Awesome.” I place my hands against the trunk. “That’s just super.”

Dash rolls his eyes, but his smile tells me he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything. “And I thought we were done with the superhero jokes.”