Exile (10 page)

Keep it together! I shout at myself. Gotta stay professional. And professional me knows that these two sound amazing together and the future of this band just changed radically for the better.

So I get my phone and post:

They transition into what seems to be a bridge, but a wicked scream of feedback explodes from Jon’s amp. Everything crashes to a halt.

“Shit, sorry.” Jon bends over his pedal board. “I just gotta rearrange the chain.”

Val shakes her head. “You don’t need pedals to rock,” she says.

Jon looks up and replies in a surly, Liam Neeson–style Irish accent: “I’ll not have yer insolence, Miss Valerie.”

Val smiles at this, sort of. I begrudgingly take note of this, too. Val is going to be an ally in keeping Jon’s sci-fi-sound tendencies in check.

“How was that harmony?” Caleb asks Val. He sounds uncertain, like he wants to be sure she liked it.

“Pretty close,” she says. “Maybe a little too parallel in spots.”

“Ah,” says Caleb, apparently understanding what she means. “So a little more counter movement.”

“I think so? Tone was good, though.”

“The sort of distant thing?”

“Exactly. I’m the soft. You bring the edge.”

“Cool. Got it.”

I listen to this, an instant shorthand between them, and it makes me burn.

“So, what did you think?” I find Caleb looking at me. I frown, trying to say to him, that’s a question for private,
and the fact that he’s asked in public means there’s only one answer he wants from me.

I could be mad about this, I could tuck it away to talk about with him later, but, really, I know that what’s happening here is serendipitous and perfect. “It’s totally going to work.”

Val picks up the tunes fast and adds another of hers to the mix, and practice is pretty great. I sit on the couch soaking it in, and whenever I need to take my mind off Val I attend to band business: posting candids to Pinboard, updating the BandSpace forum which right now only has three fans but should grow, sending the band’s updated set list to my blogger friend
Bronyfriendkillkill
who’s making photo collages inspired by the song titles. I also email Blaire Nolan, a talented filmmaker in the junior class about shooting a video, which reminds me that we need to talk about that as a band.

At the next song break, I bring it up. “Caleb, did you guys think any more about a single for the video?”

“Oh,” he says, “yeah, well”—he glances at Val even though I feel like she shouldn’t get a say, but then I remind myself that if she’s going to be in this, she should—“we were thinking that ‘Knew You Before’ would be good.”

Val thinks. Nods. “That’s a good one.”

“Did you show them the
other
one?” I ask Caleb.

“Oh, er, no.” Of course he knows what song I mean.

“What other one?” asks Matt.

“Just this song . . . ,” says Caleb.

“It’s called ‘On My Sleeve,’” I say. “It’s the first song I heard Caleb play.”

I can see Caleb’s nerves tightening up. It still surprises me that he gets shy. “It’s not ready,” he says.

“Liar. It’s more than ready.”

“Don’t get shy now, C.D.,” says Val. Really? She’s shortening his name after an hour? “I didn’t drive through the traffic vortex of hell to have you wuss out on your secret hit.”

“It’s not a se—”

“PLAY IT,” we all say.

“Okay, fine.” Caleb sighs but it’s just theatrics. He moves the capo up the neck of his acoustic, and I see his fingers fidgeting in a way that they haven’t up until now. He sits down on his amp and takes a minute to adjust the mic. Everything about how he’s moving says he’s nervous.

“Ready?” He seems to be asking himself, and then he takes a deep breath and starts to strum slow chords, his acoustic ringing. Despite the thump of drums invading through all the walls, the acoustic seems to create a delicate balloon of space, almost more captivating in its simple metallic jangle than when the whole band is in.

He glances up. “It’s called ‘On My Sleeve.’”

He sings:

He’s far off inside when he sings this, eyes closed or checking the chords. Every once in a while he looks up, and it almost looks like he’s making sure of where he is. And then once he’s sure of time and space, he’s gone again.

Would you be here . .
.

As the chords come back around, Jon begins to spin a spiderweb of silken guitar notes that feel breeze blown. Matt makes the kick drum pulse on each quarter note, and starts a chimey pattern on the open hi-hat and cymbal. Val makes the bass roll like thick fluid. They are all eyes closed, heads down, feet tapping, searching, finding . . .

As Caleb hits the chorus again, I feel like I unstick, gravity suspended.

MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 1s
Can’t . . . breathe . . . #dangerheart #O #M #G

Matt moves to the toms, adds the snare. Jon’s notes make a whirlwind around us. Val’s bass starts to sprint. Caleb, head up but with eyes still closed, starts to sing high
oooh
s, fragile and chipped, like leaves somersaulting over frosted grass. This song is an autumn dawn, the air crisp and scented with decay, the light angled and faint.

They create this huge sound, we are all in it, and finally Caleb’s eyes open; he checks with everyone, and they end on a huge unison ringing chord. As it fades away, they trade glances. Everyone knows.

“Dude . . . ,” breathes Jon. “I can’t wait to see those BandSpace girls freak out about that.”

“It’s good,” says Val. “Really, annoyingly good.”

“Thanks,” says Caleb.

“That’s the single,” I say. “I mean, right?”

Caleb eyes me seriously. “I still have a hard time imagining playing that in front of a bunch of our drunk classmates.”

“Can you imagine playing it in front of ten thousand screaming fans?” asks Jon.

Caleb chuckles. “Yeah. That’s easy.”

I hear Val sigh. “‘On My Sleeve’ it is. Are we done?” She drops to her knees to put her bass in its case. “I gotta go. It’s a long way back down south for me.”

“Sure,” says Caleb. “So, you’re in the band, right?”

Val glances up at him. “When’s the next practice?”

Afterward, Caleb and I head to Tina’s again. It’s Caleb’s idea, and I am glad for how refreshingly not Ethan this choice is. All his choices really. Ethan only ever wanted to go to Whimsy Cafe, the kind of place where you felt like you had to order a painstakingly prepared espresso beverage, and the person who made it for you would perpetually sneer around a lock of maroon hair, likely because of how uncomfortable their pencil jeans were. The kind of barista who would literally die if she saw you ladle an extra scoop of peanut butter cups onto tropical bubblegum fro-yo like I did just now.

“So, tell me I was right about ‘On My Sleeve,’” I say once we’re sitting with our bowls. Both of us went with the large size, and added extra toppings. I was just feeling hungry, but it’s probably also stress eating because of proximity to a show.

“You were right,” says Caleb, smiling.

“Val is good, too,” I say after a bite. I feel a spike of nerves saying this. She’s obviously what I wanted to talk about most. But I don’t want it to seem like jealousy. “Is it weird, though? This girl just showing up, a fan of yours?”

Caleb shrugs. “She doesn’t act like a fan. And she can totally play. I just feel like we got lucky. We need someone like her, who’s . . .”

“Please don’t say hot.”

Caleb reaches over and rubs my arm. “I don’t think she’s hot.”

“Not even the singing part?” I say.

“Okay, that’s a little hot. Our voices sound good together.”

I nod. “Like—”

“Ear lube,” we say together, and somehow this is the key. For the rest of the yogurt time, and then for a significant period of time sitting in the car before driving home (I take a ride this time), it’s just us.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 5h
Hey world, whatcha doing tonight? Coming to see Dangerheart’s big premiere at the Trial by Fire, right? #ifyourenothereyoushouldbe #trialbyfire

The next Friday night, I find myself watching a boy with a whipped-cream smiley face painted on his bare chest try to walk across a rope, an inflatable doll hanging on to his shoulders.

Below stretches a trench of molten fire, bubbling.

Surrounding: a horde of wet, sandy, flower-adorned, similarly creamed onlookers.

They chant: “Ha-ka-la-ka! Ha-ka-la-ka!”

The voices swell as the boy makes his was across the undulating wire. Legs wobble. Lava boils.

“HA KA LA KA—”

He lurches, the doll slips free. The boy lunges to grab
it and plunges to his doom.

The crowd explodes.

He emerges from the red-lit trough soaked and slicked. The “lava” smells like vegetable oil and cherries and, at this point, who-knows-what-else.

“BadASS!” Ari Fletcher shouts through a megaphone. His nose is zinced white and he’s wearing a straw hat and Hawaiian shirt. He’s standing on a stepladder, made sinister by plumes from the nearby bonfire. “Next up we have Vivien!”

“These are not my people,” Val says under her breath. She’s almost always scowling, but this look is nearly fearful. “Why do I feel like if they turn and see us, they’re going to eat us?”

“If we pour punch all over ourselves,” I say, “it may hide our scent.” Val and I share a glance, our first moment of actual bonding.

I put down the two drum cases I’ve just carried down a winding sand path and catch my breath. Here we are: the wide beach, the raging bonfire, the glimpse of surf, the Fletchers’ glittering house above and behind us. And again I have that feeling of going in circles, and wonder if I’m the stupid mouse that walks right back into the same trap. By bringing Dangerheart here, I have opened myself to the possibility of losing my band again. I gaze warily around the crowd, wondering if the sharks are already here. One shark in particular . . .

The next couple hours will be no picnic. I’ve dressed a little for the occasion, as much as I could stand. Wrap skirt I got in Hawaii and a flower-print T-shirt. Looking around, I see that to really fit in I should be wearing a bikini top, despite the chilly evening breeze.

The band is lucky; they get to be on the stage. And they don’t have to worry about costumes. Val is in her usual T-shirt, slouchy jeans, and sweatbands, though she’s done up her hair with fresh green stripes. The rest of the band just looks like themselves.

Caleb arrives beside me. “Yikes,” he says. The bonfire light flickers in his eyes and he grins. “This is insane.” It’s not a full grin though. Fret Face is tugging at the corners.

I rub his arm. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m okay.”

“Liar.”

Caleb’s been tense. The week has been totally focused on getting gig-ready. We’ve barely spoken about the letter, only to report to each other that, after searching interviews and articles online, we’ve both come up empty on any more clues as to what Eli might have been up to. The show has been a welcome distraction, but it’s still pressure: first gig with a new band, it doesn’t matter how talented you are. And Caleb wants it, bad.

And he also doesn’t want to talk about how badly he wants it, so I move on. “Some scene, huh?”

There are at least a hundred kids congregating around
the lava pit, where the next sacrificial soul is hoisting herself up onto the rope, this time holding a boy inflatable doll. Others swarm around the grass hut where drinks are being served, or near the giant bonfire. Everyone’s dressed for the tiki theme, from grass skirts and surf shorts all the way to very unfortunate “native” attire. Many are already stumbling. A few of the drinks that are leaving the bar are in coconuts and aflame.

“Wow.
Lord of the Flies
meets Abercrombie and Fitch,” says Jon, arriving beside us. He scans the crowd. “Yep, none of these girls are going to be into me.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “You’re the lead guitarist in this crowd’s favorite band.”

“Nobody’s even heard us,” says Jon.

“Not yet.”

“Watch out!”

We all look up to the sound of dull thudding, and see Matt’s bass drum case thundering down the path like a runaway boulder, Matt chasing it. We scatter as it thumps to a stop. A nearby herd of girls sees this and giggles in eerie unison.

“Sorry,” Matt says breathlessly, frowning as he notices the laughter.