Exile (21 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 3m
We have entered the Red Zone. #ROCKreferencenotJOCKreference

It’s Monday before I see Caleb again. I have my cousin Mike’s birthday on Saturday night, and Caleb is busy Sunday doing a day of house projects with his mom. We’ve texted enough since the failed Friday date that everything seems cool, and I guess it is, but I’ve still been avoiding him. I’m going to have to tell him what I found out about Val, both the serious facts and the suspicions, and I can’t shake this worry that he’s not going to listen to the second part. So, I’ve been holding back, wondering when the right time to tell him is.

I enter the Hive churning about that, and also wondering how I’m going to deal with Val herself, how I’ll keep my mouth shut when she gives me her usual scowl, but when I
walk into the room, I realize that none of it matters, because we’ve entered the Red Zone.

There is something delicate about the week before a show. Any slight conflict can get totally blown out of proportion and lead to someone either bailing on the gig, or playing poorly, or worse, quitting altogether. The day after a gig? Great time to talk about anything complicated, as there’s still success right there in the short-term memory, keeping everything in perspective. But right before is the most dangerous time. If you’re lucky, everyone in the group senses the Red Zone, and sets aside their annoyances, mistrusts, and fears. I can feel the eggshells when I arrive, and hear the short, quick cadence of everyone’s voices. So, all these things I’ve been fretting about? Post-gig.

Practice is usually a wave form, oscillating from funny highs with jokes and great takes of songs, to intense lows when parts aren’t working or somebody’s just off. But tonight, everything is tight. For Caleb, the pressure must be double. Not only is there the gig, and the desire to make amends for what happened at the Trial, but there’s also the anticipation of what we might find in San Fran. So I do my best to stay out of the waves. When Matt still isn’t quite there with the beat on “Chem Lab,” I decide not to mention it.

Unfortunately, Val does. The bass suddenly drops out midway through the song. “Can you straighten out the chorus?” she asks with typical Val severity.

Matt flashes a glance at me, then sends his gaze to its
usual space by the kick drum. “I did.”

“Maybe, but it’s still busy and it’s losing me. What does everyone else think?”

“I hadn’t noticed one way or the other,” says Caleb. “I’m still trying to make sure I’ve got the lyrics.”

“Still trying to get my delay right,” says Jon.

Both classic Red Zone answers.

Val looks at me and asks with her eyebrows.

“Well,” I say carefully, “I mean, I think maybe you could try it a little more straightforward.”

“You could just say,
Matt, you suck
, already,” Matt suddenly snaps at me.

Shit.

“Matt, that’s not at all what I’m saying.”

But Matt is getting up. “I need a soda.” He storms out.

“Well then,” says Jon, and fiddles with his knobs.

“I’ll get him,” I say.

I find Matt at the machine one floor down, slamming the Fanta button. “Why is there always no fucking Fanta?” he says.

“Listen,” I say as calmly as I can, “you have to remember that Val says everything with claws out—”

Matt slams the machine and a Sprite rolls out. He just stares at it for a second, as if that Sprite sums up the indifferent nature of the entire universe. “It’s not what Val said.”

Great. So this is still about me. “Hey, you know I think you’re a great drummer.”

He sighs. “You think I’m your little brother. You think I’m cute.”

“Matt, what does this have to do with—”

“The night I came up with that drum part, the first thing I thought about was how it might impress you. And then when I changed it after you didn’t like it, the first thing I thought was that you’d be really impressed at how I changed it. But . . . you never even commented.”

I rack my memory. Did I really not comment on the fix? I meant to, but there’s been so much going on. “I thought I said the song was sounding great,” I try.

“But you still didn’t think the beat was good enough, obviously.”

“Matt, there are like ten songs, and we are talking about one beat. I don’t think it’s a big deal.”

Matt’s eyes meet mine for a split second. “Fine. Then it’s not.” He starts back up the stairs.

“Then are we cool?” I ask from behind him.

He turns. “Do you think Val is right that I should straighten it out?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then I will.”

Matt doesn’t even look at me the rest of practice, but given that it’s the Red Zone, it could be worse. All that matters is that we’re still a band and the gig is not in jeopardy.

“He just loves you, that’s all,” says Caleb after practice,
as we scoop week-of-the-gig-plus-secret-songs-plus-high-stakes-lying-level toppings onto our frozen yogurt.

“I know. I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Maybe you should accidentally make out with him on tour.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “That would be okay with you?”

“Not at all.”

“Yeah, me neither. Besides, the last thing he needs is hope.” Though we’re joking, I do have a flash of when Caleb didn’t know what to do about Val, but let her get almost-make-out close. I remind myself that the situations are different. I do wish there was some way I could help Matt, but I don’t know what it would be other than to just keep being honest with him.

And besides, I’ve been waiting all night to ask Caleb about Val. I do my best to sound casual: “So, how was having Val stay over?”

“Fine,” Caleb says into his yogurt. “She was actually there all weekend.” His eyes flash to me and away.

Remain calm
. I let him continue.

“Well, not really. We didn’t, like, hang out. But she stayed over Saturday and Sunday. My mom made up the basement couch for her, and then kept inviting her to meals and stuff. They actually really get along. Val thinks Mom’s counseling work is cool, her cases—”

“Caleb.” I just want him to stop sounding so guilty. “It’s okay.”

“You sure?”

I’m not, but at least during the Red Zone, I can focus on the fact that Val needs safe haven. “Yes, unless you’re going to tell me that you two accidentally ran into each other in the bathroom and shirts came off and toothpaste went everywhere or something.”

Caleb’s face is stone serious . . . then Fret Face cracks into a smile. “No, no, nothing like that.”

I smile too, but add, “Did she try?”

“Summer, no! I’m pretty sure it’s not like that.”

“Pretty sure?”

“It’s NOT.”

“Okay.” Then I say, “Listen, I did some research and . . . she’s actually a runaway.” I’d been debating when or how to tell Caleb what I’d found, given the Red Zone.

But Caleb says, “I know.”

“You do?”

Caleb kind of shrugs. “It was one of the first things she told me. That she ran away from home in New Jersey. Then to her stepdad out here. Her mom’s ex. She swore me to secrecy but I was planning to tell you, I swear. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” I say, and I probably do. It doesn’t excuse Val rubbing his knee or arm or trying to make a clearly exclusive connection, but it does complicate Caleb’s response to that. “She dumped a lot on you.”

“Yeah.”

“But I don’t think there’s even a stepdad. Did she tell you her name was Cassie?”

“What? No.” Caleb’s face tightens. “If there’s no stepdad, where is she living?”

“I don’t know. Friend? Car?”

“She didn’t tell me that.”

I consider bringing up the trust thing, the coincidence of her showing up right when we’re finding out about Eli’s songs, her mom’s connection, but it feels like too much. Instead, I kiss him and shift to school-day drama, and try to just be easy.

The week goes by. I walk the eggshells at home and with the band, hoping this will all go okay. Catherine is in full effect in school and around the house. Part of my act involves seeming almost disappointed that I have to go to the opera instead of the colleges. Jeanine’s plan worked perfectly, my dad not only agreeing that high culture could trump the visits, but also glad to see me bonding with the sister he worries too much about.

Meanwhile, Summer is working the social media overtime, and making sure everyone survives practice, and researching the whereabouts of Daisy, or the backstory of Cassie, if there is one. . . .

It’s not until Thursday, between econ and calculus homework, that I finally find a lead on Carter and Daisy.

In an obituary.

He died of lung cancer a year and a half ago. I find this remembrance in a music zine, and it says Carter’s
famed record collection, along with its faithful watchdog Daisy, will now be housed in the Vault at Space Panda
. A search reveals that Space Panda is a club, owned by a DJ named Claro, and the Vault is an ultra-hip vinyl listening room. Images of the Vault reveal that Daisy is indeed there: stuffed, and keeping watch over the door. It’s a ritual to pet her on the way in.

If we needed to talk to Carter to get that tape, then we’re screwed. But if the tape is hidden in the vinyl, like the last clue, then we still have a chance.

And then much later that night, after I pack my bag with gig clothes hidden beneath the shimmery black opera-dress decoy, my phone buzzes with a text.

It’s Maya.

      I reply: Anything else?

Worry creeps up my spine. Add to Val’s coincidental arrival that her mom was not only connected to Allegiance to North directly, but engaged to the person in the band who hated Eli the most, who tried to sue Eli for all that money.

Innocent until . . . more evidence. Could Val really be after the songs? Did she know the drama from her mother? Is she hoping the songs can get her out of her situation? Or . . . is her mom somehow involved in this? What if the running away is a lie, and she’s actually a plant for Kellen, Candy Shell, even Jason? Could that actually be possible? Or am I completely insane to be thinking of these things? The police report, and the little time I’ve spent with Val do not point to such an elaborate conspiracy. I’m taking it way too far . . . unless it’s true.

I want to call Caleb, want to tell him all this, and yet . . . Red Zone. More than anything, this band needs to play this next show. And we need to find those tapes. Derailing the whole thing now just can’t happen. Have to just survive one more night. And yet this night just spins on and on, the questions like moths in my brain.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 1h
The road. THE ROAD!!

Friday drags, everything in slow motion.

“Excited?” Caleb asks as we finally meet up after school.

“If by excited you mean are all of my molecules spinning too fast and are my palms oddly cool and damp? Yes.”

We drive to Caleb’s, debating the finer points of the Modest Mouse discography. We’re both trying to keep things meaningless and light, but I feel like we’re just filling time until hours from now, when we may have answers.

We find the back doors to Randy’s van wide open. All of his painting supplies are strewn haphazardly across the driveway, and he’s trying to shove a couch into the back.

“Um,” says Caleb, “that’s not at all going to fit.”

“But it’s so ROCK”—he shoves the couch—“AND”—shoves again—“ROLL to have a couch in the van!” He slumps against it, sighing in defeat.

“Why don’t we just take the cushions?” I say.

Randy considers it. “Less rock, but also less roll for you in the back. Deal.”

Soon, everyone has arrived, we’ve piled in, and we’re off. As we wind over to the 405 and merge onto the highway, I feel the inevitable flutter of guilt, the lie to my parents, even though it’s aunt-approved. Still, I can’t help but wish there was another way, that I had parents who understood me, that I could just be who I really want to be around them.

And I’m basically avoiding all eye contact with Val. I can’t look at her without total distrust. It makes me dig my fingernails into my palms. Luckily, she’s not looking at me either.

Still, all the worries do get briefly swept away as we leave the city limits: by the hum of tires on highway, the glare of afternoon sun in our eyes, even the worrisome creaking and vibrations of Randy’s van as he careens through traffic. For four years, maybe for my whole life, I have dreamed of actually being out on the road, on tour with a band, with
my
band, and this is it! We are going! Out into the unknown to do our thing. All of us are buoyant, fired up. Behind us is what we were, somewhere ahead of us is where we’re headed, and right now, we’re free and on
our way. It feels like this van could be going anywhere, it almost doesn’t matter. But it does. We’re on the road to play a show. On a mission.

Everyone takes turns swapping their playlists on the stereo, and at one point Caleb and Jon get out their guitars and there’s an impromptu run-through of the set. We all sing along in golden afternoon light. It sounds like freedom.

The miles of vacant central valley slide by, cooling orange sun lighting the tops of row after row of almond trees. After a stop for an ill-conceived mash-up of all the available rest-area snack genres that leaves the van smelling like Cool Ranch and mint, I recount my findings about Space Panda and Daisy.