Exile (22 page)

“Stuffing a dog is barbaric,” Val mutters. It’s the first thing she’s said in over an hour.

Jon asks, “So do we actually think the tape is even there?”

“It’s all about the vinyl,” says Caleb.

“Yeah, but,” I say, “Carter’s record collection is massive, and now it’s been added to an even more massive collection. How will we know where to start?”

“What did the letter say again?” Randy asks.

Caleb reaches into his jacket pocket and unfolds the paper. I didn’t know he’d been keeping with him. Was it just for this trip? Or has he had it along every day since he found it? “‘Get a kiss from Daisy and search for a hidden yesterday,’” he reads.

“Hmmm . . . ,” says Randy. “That almost sounds familiar, but . . . I don’t know.”

“Space Panda is twenty-one and over,” Jon reports from his phone.

“Sounds like a solo mission for me,” says Randy.

“I can go, too,” says Val.

We all look at her. She’s typing busily into Caleb’s phone, which she asked to borrow. “I have a fake ID.”

“Cool,” says Matt.

I resist the urge to comment on this, that it doesn’t surprise me, that her whole ID is actually fake, or isn’t it, or what? But I remind myself,
Get through the gig, get through the gig
.

Except I can’t resist asking, “Who are you texting?”

Val’s eyes don’t leave the screen. “A friend of mine who’s coming to the show. Weezil. He goes to Berkeley.”

“Cool,” says Caleb, probably thinking like I am that we’ll need every head we can get in that club tonight. It’s just too bad I don’t even remotely believe her.

The sun slips behind the mountains, and the sky darkens. Quiet settles over the van. With each mileage sign, our anticipation builds.

Then, Randy says, “This is déjà vu, like being on tour all over again.”

I think of my own feelings of circular motion. Randy’s comment sounds like an open door. “Did you tour up here a lot?” I ask.

“Only once. Should have happened a thousand more times, but . . . something always screwed it up.”

“How was it?” Jon asks.

“So amazing,” says Randy. “Junior year of high school, Savage Halos opened for Allegiance to North, actually. They were just about to blow up, it was right before they signed with Candy Shell. It was the first time Eli and I had really gotten to hang out since Poison Pen broke up.”

“That was your band with Eli?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

What were you guys like?” Caleb asks.

“We were pretty good. Our lead singer was a guy named Zane. He went Ozzy, though, like literally brought a mouse to a gig and bit its head off.”

“You’re kidding,” I say.

“I wish. Hormones, man. Anyway, that band fell apart. I kinda thought Eli and I would put a new band together, but . . . he’d met Kellen and their songwriting styles were really perfect for each other, at least at the beginning. Eli and I were compatible players, but not writers.”

“Savage Halos were better, anyway,” says Val, not looking up. “
Sear My Face
rules.”

“You found our album?” Randy asks.

“Sure did,” says Val.

“Well, thanks.” Randy sounds sincerely touched. “But, no way. Allegiance was so great. And Eli’s songs ruled. But anyway, we toured up the coast with them that spring, and
we got to play the Fillmore, opening for the Dave Matthews Band.”

“That must have been huge,” says Jon. “Those guys can play.”

“They overplay,” says Caleb.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Jon replies like a stodgy Englishman.

“It was a sick show,” says Randy. “I remember standing on stage at soundcheck, and Eli and I were both testing guitars, and we looked out at the room. I mean, this was a place where Hendrix, the Doors, Cream, the Who—they all played, and we used to geek out about all those classic bands, man, back when guys really played rock, not just rehashed it, and there we were. . . .”

Randy trails off. A second of silence. I wonder where he’s gone . . . then he’s back.

“And Eli, he was always thinking big, such an idealist. He was like,
We’ll headline here someday
. And I was like,
Maybe
we’ll
headline
. And he said,
You guys will open for us
. He meant it as a joke, except that’s kinda how it turned out.”

“You guys opened for them at the Fillmore?” Caleb asks.

“Well, no. Other places, but not there. Savage Halos was never exactly mainstream. Eli promised me he’d get us an opening slot on that last tour, and I’m sure he tried . . .” I sense some doubt in whether Randy actually believes that. “. . . but Candy Shell had up-and-comers they wanted on
board, and you know, a promise in the music business is rarely a real promise.”

Caleb and I share a look. Randy’s putting fifteen years of perspective on it, but we can still hear the hurt.

“That’s too bad,” says Val. “Record labels are bastards.”

Randy shrugs. “Sometimes. Anyway, like I said, Eli was a dreamer. He said a lot of things, just, idealizing, that was what he did, thinking of what would be awesome. Start his own label, write three albums a year, open a rock club in London . . .” Randy trails off. After a pause, he adds, “Everybody always knew better than to believe him, but, you kinda couldn’t help it.”

The car returns to silence.

“There it is,” says Matt from the front seat a little while later. We all look up and get our first glimpse of the San Francisco skyline.

“Here,” Caleb says, handing his phone to Randy. “Put this on.”

The song that comes on is Allegiance to North, the big hit off their first album, a song we’ve all heard a billion times called “Excuses in Technicolor.”

“Nice,” says Randy, rolling down the windows.

He cranks it ear-bleeding loud.

Jon grabs his guitar and calls out chords, as we all start to sing:

It’s all black and . .
.

“A!” calls Jon.

whiiiiiite with you, And when I . .
.

“E!”

tryyyy to prove, That I’m . .
.

“G, B minor, E!”

different and debonaire

“G, B minor, D!”

In my tuxedo and greased-back hair

“Hits on E!”

The PER. FECT. Gen-tle-MAN
.

“F sharp minor!”

But oh no, Just when I

“A!”

thought that I knew

“G, B minor, E!”

Your excuses in technicolor, Make me blue

“F-sharp minor!”

Oh no, No matter what I do

“G, B minor, E!”

Your excuses in technicolor, Paint it new

“D to E!”

Your excuses are mixing me u-uuupp!

“This is going to be awesome,” Caleb shouts over the guitar solo. A minute later, I feel my phone buzz. A text from Caleb:

I feel a thrill at reading this, and flash him a quick smile before singing along with the next song.

We light into the Mission, buzzing, free, alive, far from home and ready for anything—

Until Randy pulls up at Tea & Crumpets.

“This is it?” says Jon. Before us is a tan brick building, a Masonic Temple. Dead fluorescent light spills out the front door. There is a gathering of people visible inside, milling around. They all look old.

“It’s in the basement,” I say. “Petunia said to go in around back. It could still be cool.” But inside I’m knotting up with worry. There is nothing worse than showing up for a gig and finding out it’s lame. Especially when you’ve driven six hours and spun lies to get there.

There’s a back door down concrete steps. A handmade sign announces the TEA & CRUMPETS ALL AGES SALON. It’s exquisitely made with lace doilies and script letters hand cut from gold foil paper. There is a teacup on one side, and a unicorn reading
Alice in Wonderland
on the other.

“Danger,” says Jon. “This is not looking very rock ’n’ roll.”

“It’s supposed to be a good crowd,” I say weakly.

We enter into a storage area that’s dank and smells like old towels. Through the next door, we find ourselves in a low-ceilinged basement with cement poles here and there. There are speakers and mics, a crooked house drum kit,
and frayed amps set up beneath two harsh yellow lights in the corner.

“Ouch,” says Matt, eyeing the drums like he just witnessed someone wiping out in the school hallway. “Good thing I brought my own cymbals.”

Across an empty sea of concrete floor, lit only by strands of multicolored holiday lights strung around the poles, is a little sitting area, thrift-store furniture and floor lamps arranged on a patchwork of threadbare oriental rugs. Past that is a counter with a popcorn machine and a cooler of sodas and fruit.

There are five people sitting in the chairs. A wideframed girl stands up. She’s wearing a magenta polyester dress that is straining to fit her. “Hey, you must be Dangerheart,” she says. She’s got thick glasses with pointed rims, like something a grandmother in the fifties would wear. She has a triangular green handbag that matches. Her friends are a collection of sweaters, polyester pants, hipster sneakers, more thick glasses, and retro hairstyles.

“Hi,” says Caleb.

“I’m Petunia. You guys can unload by the stage and when you’re done, we have tea sandwiches and Dandelion made her signature crumpets.”

“That sounds adorable,” says Val with a spoonful of sarcasm, except I probably agree with her.

We drop our stuff, get our paper plates of crumpets, which are dry and made from whole wheat and likely flax and
who-knows-what-else, and then sit on the couches. We take up two, and Petunia and Dandelion and their other friends sit on their side and it feels like the worst social event ever.

“So glad you guys could make it up,” says Petunia.

“You’re from LA,” says Dandelion. She’s dressed in a similarly retro lime-green housedress, with a thick strand of costume pearls. “Do you know the Lapels?”

“Oh, not really,” I say, “are they new?”

This seems to offend one of the boys, causing him to get up for more tea.

Petunia is about to answer when there is a huge sound from above, like twenty cases of grapefruits just got dumped on the floor. Then there is a long scrape, followed by another chorus of thumps.

“Oh God, they’re at it again,” says Dandelion.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“There’s a monthly African dance class in the church hall.”

The sound of hundreds of feet thumping and sliding continues over the next hour, as the first band of the showcase, New Erasers, plays. It’s a three-person band in matching black V-necked sweaters, two boys and a girl, drums, bass, and accordion, and they are all equally hunched in half as they play. The girl whisper-sings her lyrics and the drummer plays with brushes and it is barely possible to decipher their songs with the dancing horde from above.

Halfway through the set, Val springs up from the
couches and hugs a tall, pencil-thin guy with frizzy hair who just entered. So, Weezil exists.

By the time New Erasers finishes, there are only about fifteen people in the room, just enough for it to feel even more empty. They stand in clumps, far back from the stage. Dangerheart starts to unpack, and I begin to feel the sinking certainty that this is so lame, and what are we doing here? Why did I think this was a good idea? And I can see the same solemn disappointment on the band members’ faces. They’re all staring quietly into space as they swap places with New Erasers. So, so disappointed.

And then I hear a clap of hands from behind us. A slow, sarcastic clap.

Jon turns, and squints. I hear footsteps striding toward us.

“Isn’t that Ari’s brother?” Matt wonders.

Oh no
. I turn, and before he even steps into the stage light, I can see the pro teeth, gleaming from behind their predatory smirk.

“There they are!”

“Shit,” I mutter to myself.

“Hello, Dangerheart. Jason Fletcher, associate talent scout for Candy Shell Records. I’m sure Summer’s told you all about me.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 20m
Amazing night so far at #TeaAndCrumpets in SFO! Things are about to heat up as #Dangerheart prepares to take the stage!

“She hasn’t, actually,” Val says immediately.

“Oh no? Ah, no big deal.” Jason smiles broadly. “Well,” he says, “I didn’t realize you’d scored such a cool gig.” He looks directly at me. “Now it makes sense.”

The band looks at me quizzically, but Jason is on it before I can even speak.

“I saw your set at my brother’s party. Not bad. I told Summer, with a little polish, you guys could really be something.”

“Summer didn’t mention that,” says Val. I can feel the glare.

“No? Well, it probably slipped her mind.”

“What do you want?” I ask him. “They’re just about to go on.”

“Just came by to say good luck.” Jason looks around at the sparse crowd. “I get it. You guys want to keep your indie cred. Start small . . .” I can hear it coming, and I’m thinking,
Don’t say it, don’t say it
, but I understand that of course, he’s going to. Of course this was when he was planning on telling them all along. “That crowd I would’ve had you in front of tonight is at least five hundred, but, I suppose that’s
selling out
, or something. Also, no crumpets.”

“What crowd?” Caleb asks.

Jason’s smile is enormous, and all I can do now is watch.

“You know,” he says, “opening for Sundays on Mars over at the Rickshaw Stop? I wanted you guys, but . . . like I said, I get it. And it worked out anyway. Your pals Freak Show were available.”

Unbelievable. He brought in Freak Show? That had to be just so he could twist this knife. I want to scream at him. I want to cry. Both feel impossible. I’m frozen.

And the band’s eyes have all turned to me.

“Ooh.” Jason is checking his watch. “Gotta get back. Anyway, good luck.” He looks pointedly at Caleb. “Summer’s got my number if you guys want to come by the club after the set. I put you on the list. We could talk about the future. I’ve always got more dates.” He takes one more theatrical look around the basement. “Adorable.” Then he turns and strides away, leaving us in stunned silence.