Encore to an Empty Room (10 page)

“Thanks,” I say.

And another cup of coffee goes by.

And another.

Time becomes blurry. I listen to two short-order cooks talk about their best New Year's kisses. I listen to a married couple bicker about how the corner pool of ketchup on the fries' plate exceeded its borders, and now there is sogginess, and always with him there is sogginess, and disappointment, and also did he just make eyes at that waitress?

It's starting to feel like we are the last island of people awake in the universe. Like Canter's is a spaceship and we are off in the deep, a ragtag collective of Reuben-eaters, no one quite ready to return to earth, to have to admit that it's a new year. Like if we keep moving at light speed, stay awake, we can keep the calendar from turning forever.

And now it's four a.m.

Vic looms over me again. “You want my advice?”

“Um.”

“Nobody in the real world wants to hear your feel-good story about learning or self-discovery or whatever. Nobody wants to hear how happy you are, because anyone that happy is obviously faking it. What people want to hear about is your pain and where you are with it. Pick the topic that feels most painful and write some stuff, and when you're done, be honest with me about whether you are awake enough to drive, because a cab will be on the house tonight.”

I look back at the list with this in mind. And maybe it's Vic, or the obscene tired of this night, or the sound of that
nearby couple escalating to a full-on argument—thirty-two years of soggy fries and ogling waitresses, and always the shitty way she dismisses him at parties—or just my general state of worry about everything . . . I'm not even sure which question I'm going to answer until I finally start to write.

I sit back. Sip now-cold coffee.

Look at the words and sort of wonder what that was.

They swim a little.

Outside it is nearly light.

I take the cab. Leave Vic my car keys to move it to the employee spaces.

“Come on, Caleb.”

We walk out and squint at the predawn. “Why did sleep make me more tired?” Caleb wonders, before immediately conking back out in the cab.

I kiss his forehead, and feel a surge of guilt. I don't know what that essay was but there is a possibility that it is the rocket booster of the cosmic ship that will take me away from him.

Or maybe it will get a good, pitying laugh in the admissions offices and keep me in Mount Hope. Either way, it will do something.

I slump against the cool vinyl in my own corner of the cab and stare vacantly out the window at the empty streets, the sunlit hilltops, and the distant glimmer of snow on the San Gabriels.

The essay is done. When I get home, I'll finish the rest of the common application and hit send, and the fates can commence their gambit.

It is a new year.

And after a few miles I find myself smiling at the dawn world outside and it hits me that here, in this cab, in this moment, I am actually content. Perfectly? Maybe. And I think that it sure would be nice if, before I die, I could figure out what that means.

It's Monday and we are back in school and into the long, formless month that is January. Caleb and I have different classes until biology lab fourth period, where we have taken the severed leg of a frog, skinned it, and stretched it vertically so that we can shock it with electricity and watch the muscles react. This is supposed to be telling us something about how muscles work.

That the electrocution of flesh makes it twitch?

I'm pretty sure I knew this from the movies.

“So, we're going to have to ask soon,” says Caleb. “Do you think our parents will go for it?”

I am bent over the lab table, threading a hook through the top of the frog's cream-colored gastrocnemius muscle. “Ah.” The hook slips and tears free of the muscle. The little leg splats to the table.

“Just ditch the gloves,” says Caleb, who has been handling the raw-chicken-feeling frog parts without the required latex.

“I think,” I say, “that they will go for it, but it's going to take the right touch. My parents will think that driving to Denver and back to play a show is the most impractical thing ever. But, we're eighteen, we'll have Randy with us, and there's nothing else to do on February break, anyway.”

I snap off the gloves, pinch the cold, moist leg, and spear it with the hook again. “And if we actually find the tape, it will be worth it.”

“Even if we do have to play a set with Postcards,” Caleb says. He's not thrilled with the idea, but to his credit, he hasn't made any jealous comments about Ethan. Not that he should. But I'd understand if he did.

“How's Val?” I ask.

“Good, as far as I can tell,” says Caleb. “She's been more mellow since New Year's. I think with every day that goes by when there's no word from her mom, she feels a little safer.”

“And no sign of . . .”

“No, haven't seen her drinking or acting like she's
drinking. She's been studying nonstop for the GED. The math is pissing her off but she's working with Matt a lot and it seems like she's finally taking his advice. I think she's more motivated than ever.”

There is a squeal from beside us, and we look over to see Callie and Jenna, my former friends, jumping back from their twitching leg. They are making the kind of horrified faces that would easily get you cast on a Disney Channel show.

Caleb readies the wires and we both bend near to our gleaming leg, with its breath-shortening odor of formaldehyde.

“It's so cute.”

“It's a severed leg. From a dead animal that no longer has its legs.”

“Yeah, but still.”

Caleb zaps it, and we watch the twitching.

As we are cleaning up, I sneak a glance at my phone and see that I have a new email. I slip the phone out beneath the table and read:

“Whoa.” The message makes my heart gallop.

“What is it?” Caleb asks.

“Stanford interview.” I try not to sound too excited. I don't even know if I am excited. Except my pulse feels like it just shot off the charts.

“Oh, cool.” Caleb says. I can hear him trying to strike a casual tone but he doesn't quite pull it off. Since New Year's, the topic of college has been a giant non-topic. You can practically hear us
not
talking about it.

I write Andre back during lunch and we agree to meet this Friday, just four days from now. It's sooner than I'd hoped, but he is apparently about to start a big new case. I wonder if it's a coincidence that he's a lawyer.

“That means they have their eye on you for the pre-law program,” says Dad at dinner, firmly on the overly optimistic side. “It's definitely a sign that they are considering you seriously.”

I'm not so sure about that, or I don't want to be so sure.
After all, my only stated interest in pre-law was a check box on the application. And I still mistrust the idea that I could get into Stanford or any school based on a four a.m. essay written in a diner. But of course there are transcripts and recommendations and all those were basically excellent. Coach wrote me a killer letter, too. And I've gotten confirmations from Colorado and Pomona that they received my applications and they're complete, and that I'll be contacted about interviews soon.

When I said I was going to listen to the fates, I guess I just assumed they would deal more in bad news. It is looking less like that now.

While this conversation is making my pulse spike, hearing Dad's optimism makes me realize that a perfect opportunity has arrived. “I hope so,” I agree, channeling Catherine, and then add: “Hey, so, um . . . a show came up for Dangerheart in February . . .”

I watch my parents' faces twitch as I explain that I want to leave on the Saturday of February break, drive to Denver for a Monday night gig, and then drive back.

“That's such a long way to go for a show,” Dad says, right from the script. “Is it really worth it?”

I swallow hard and press on. “Well, I mean, yes and no. It's a good gig, but more importantly, it's this amazing chance for a road trip. To see some miles of the country I've never seen. And Randy will be with us.”

When they are still silent, I add what I know is going to hit them hard. Part of how I know is the lump I get in my throat as I go to say it: “Besides, as of September, I'll be off on my own doing who-knows-what, right?”

Mom smiles and also gets teary. “Please don't bring that up. I just like to imagine you studying quietly in a dorm for four straight years.”

They go silent again and I wonder: Am I crazy to be asking them for this road trip? But I've thought about it from every angle and I feel like they should be okay with it. They've let me go on school trips, and also last year they denied oh-so-many of these very requests. Hopefully this is one of those moments when, with the future seeming luminous in the distance, and their pride about the Stanford interview outshining their worry, they'll go along with it.

“Are you going to have a plan for where you'll be staying?” Dad asks. “Locations and contact information you can give us?”

“Yes.”

Mom and Dad share a look.

“We'll discuss it later.”

Before I leave for practice, they give me the verdict.

The Hive is packed. I navigate the smoke-filled entryway, the stairs still puddled with bleach from a New Year's cleaning, and the thrumming hallway. When I knock, the last person I expect to greet me at Dangerheart's door is Maya.

“Oh, hey,” I say. Matt never brings her to practice.

“Hi, Summer.” She's smiling but nervous.

And when I step inside I see why.

Matt's not the one who brought her.

“There she is, finally.”

I can't hide my surprise at seeing Jason Fletcher standing in the middle of the room. And it's not the good kind of surprise. He's grinning in that shark-like way, and after hearing Ethan's tales about Postcards, I hate the sight of him more than ever.

His curls are professionally sprouting from beneath a black military-style hat. He's wearing a black sweater, jeans, and black boots.

“What are you doing here?” I ask and I glance at Maya because I'm thinking of how I told her about Jet City, but no, she's already shaking her head at me as if to say that this wasn't her idea. And I'm glancing at Caleb because is this about the songs? But he just shrugs at me.

“Happy holidays to you, too, Summer,” Jason says. “I was telling the band that you guys made quite a bit of noise with that blog post before the break. And I heard that the noise traveled all the way to Seattle.”

I glance at Caleb again, then Val, trying to determine
what our strategy here is.

“Relax,” says Jason. “Jet City Records offered you a deal. I heard all about it. I know people there. But that's the reason I'm here now, on behalf of Candy Shell.”

“Why is that?” I ask.

“To counter. It's no secret we've had our eye on you guys, and we don't want to let you slip away.”

That is such BS, I feel like telling him. And yet at the same time, I can't help being short of breath anticipating what he's about to say.

“Okay, here's the deal.” Jason reads from his phone. “We can offer you our industry standard term with North American distribution and an exclusive option for our Asian and European partners. Standard royalty rates, a budget for your first EP, and . . .” Jason lets the moment hang. “You may retain the services of your manager, Ms. Carlson, as long as she is willing to keep me informed of her plans and be a team player.”

Team player.
The phrase makes me squirm. But I acknowledge this with a curt nod because I suppose on some level, it should matter to me that in a year I have gone from afterthought to someone worth keeping in Candy Shell's eyes. Still, I can't help my urge to be wary of this. “JCR is offering us the indie fifty-fifty split on royalties,” I say, though maybe just so that I sound knowledgeable.

“I'm sure they are,” says Jason. “How else are you going to get any money? Oh, I forgot to mention one more
perk of the deal: we're prepared to offer an advance to the band. To be recouped against royalties of course.”

“Okay . . . ,” I say.

Jason grins. “Now, I can't give you the All Hail Minions! deal. You're not getting quite the same kind of buzz. But I believe you have huge potential.”

He doesn't continue.

“So?” I finally say.

“Soooo,” Jason says theatrically. “Ask me how much.”

“Ugh, really?” I say. “We're not going to—”

“How much?” Jon asks.

And Jason delivers the kill bite. “A half million dollars. Two fifty now, the other half on the record's release.”

The number goes off like a bomb in my head. Everyone else is silent, too. Shell-shocked. It's like the bands through the walls have stopped playing, too.

Our eyes flash around the room.

Money. A lot of it.

Oh, this is going to be complicated.

“Them's the terms,” says Jason. “I asked Maya to come along, because we both know her, and I thought we could appoint her as our liaison while you're mulling it over. I prefer to spend as little time in the Hive as possible.” He wipes at his coat while saying this.

As he heads for the door, he looks at me. “We can do this right, this time, Summer. Think it over.”

I just nod at him. Once he's gone my tongue is heavy
with the snappy retorts about how he's treated Postcards. But I'm glad I held them back. No matter what I think of Jason, this is still a record deal offer. And a huge one. Even in this modern age, it matters.

The neighboring bands bleed back through the walls: metal to our left, prog rock to our right, and thumping hip-hop from above.

“I'm not sure I'm doing the math right,” says Jon, “but I'm pretty sure a half million dollars is like, a ton of money.”

“A ton,” says Val.

“That is the offer,” says Maya from the couch, awestruck. “It's pretty rare for a high school band to get an advance like that. Okay, super rare.” She gets up and throws her bag over her shoulder. “I have to go intern, but I'm sure you guys have a lot to discuss.” She steps over to the drums, and though it's completely obvious she's going for a kiss good-bye from Matt, he doesn't stand up. When she says, “Call me after?” and has leaned so far over the cymbals that it looks like she might fall on her face, he finally leans up and gives her a quick peck.

“Sure,” he mumbles, almost like he doesn't want us to hear.

“Bye, guys,” Maya says, and as she's turning I can see her willing away a shadow of doubt caused by Matt's behavior and I feel like smacking him. I don't know if this is related to me or what, but he needs to stop being a dick.

As soon as the door closes, Caleb asks me: “What do you think?”

“I—” have no idea what to say. “Um, I think it sounds amazing, I mean I guess, except . . . the way they've treated Postcards . . .”

“Which part, exactly?” says Jon immediately. “Paying for their recording, sending them on tour, bringing in Dr. Hans? How bad does that really sound?”

I guess we know where Jon stands on this. “I mean,” I say, trying to stay calm, “the part where they are postponing shows and losing members and floundering.”

“Sure,” says Jon, “but look at Minions. Did you see the setup they had for that video shoot on New Year's? Totally insane. I mean, for that kind of money . . . I'm not even sure we'd need to find Eli's songs. Caleb, you could just put that behind you.”

Caleb stares at the floor. I see the cloud passing over his face, tightening his mouth. “It's never going to just be
behind
me. He was my dad. And now that I know he might have . . . killed himself, I need to know why.”

“And finding the songs would make that advance money go a lot further,” says Matt.

“Not if it kills the deal because we make Candy Shell mad,” Jon snaps.

Caleb looks up, his gaze at Jon lethal. “It's not your call.”