Encore to an Empty Room (9 page)

“I can't believe that Mitchell is going for that,” I say, referring to their lead guitarist, who was always the most defiantly anticorporate. He almost walked away from the band over the Candy Shell deal.

Ethan shrugs. “Actually, he's out.”

“Oh. Really?” I'm not totally surprised, but Mitchell and Ethan were tight. They were in the same bands all through high school.

“Yeah.” Ethan shrugs. “You know, he and I fought a lot, anyway. When the Dr. Hans thing came along, he decided that was it. So, we're regrouping on that front, too.”

Maya taps my arm. “I have to stop by Hair-Brained before we go,” she says, still pointedly talking only to me. Her eyes meet mine like
Time's up!

“You go,” I say. “I'll catch up.”

“Okay . . .” Maya waves her hand for me to come closer and she leans in my ear. “Are you sure you're not having a
relapse? Because according to the girlfriend codebook if I suspect that you are having a relapse I am authorized to use deadly force plus ice-cream sandwiches.”

“Ha, yum.” I'm glad for Maya right now. And it makes me feel a fresh surge of guilt for keeping things from her. “But come on, no. Relapse danger is at absolute zero. I'll catch up with you in a minute.”

Maya frowns at me but nods. “Okay. I will trust you.”

“Thanks.” She leaves and I turn back to Ethan.

“Gotta go?” he says.

“Yeah, but I have a sec.”

“Cool.” He smiles, and the late afternoon sun catches his eyes. I try to ignore these things. To just stand there, hands in my pockets. He's probably already getting the wrong idea by me sticking around to talk to him. And I am feeling exposed and weird and maybe nauseous. Come on, Summer! Just focus. You know what you're doing.

“I'm sorry it's been hard,” I say, and though I don't like the sympathetic tone coming out of my face, I do legitimately feel bad for the fact that a good band like Postcards from Ariel that had everything going for it—lead singer's jerky tendencies aside—is flailing.

“Thanks, it's okay,” says Ethan. “Like I said, you called it. Anyway, the one gig Jason let us keep is Needlefest in New York in February. I had to practically beg him, but getting an invite to that is a big deal, as you probably remember.”

“Definitely,” I say. It would be awesome to play Needlefest. “Congrats.” I actually already knew they had that show from their website. That's part of why I'm still talking to him.

“Yeah, a little positive light in the otherwise darkness. Of course, he says there's no budget to fly us there, and so I'm going to have to build a tour out that way myself . . .”

My first thought is:
the otherwise darkness
? Does Ethan even realize that he just quoted his own song lyrics? Ugh.

But this is the moment I've stuck around for: “When's the Needlefest date?”

“It's like the twentieth of February, or something? Whatever that weekend is.”

“Huh. So . . . hey, is there any chance you guys would be looking for a show in Denver that week?”

“Why . . . are you?”

“Well, we sorta have one, but the show needs a headliner.”

“Oh, cool,” says Ethan. “You have a new band?”

“Yeah, Dangerheart.” We should note the time. Eight minutes before he even thought to ask me what I was up to, and then it was only because it involved him. Classic Ethan. I feel the shields top off at maximum strength.

“Cool,” says Ethan. “I'm sure you still have good taste in bands. What's the gig in Denver?”

“It's a house party,” I say, moving on and ignoring the compliment. “But it's a well-known series. Probably a step
below you guys, but it's a pretty big promoter in town. I'm sure they'd love to have you. I could send you the link. . . .”

“Yeah, do that.”

“Same email?”

“Just text me,” says Ethan. “Same number.”

“Oh . . .”—
awkward
—“I deleted it.” Check that: awkward but also satisfying to tell him.

“Ah, sure.” He maybe misses a beat, but barely. “I still have yours,” he says, getting out his phone. “Here. Just sent you my contact.”

I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. “Okay. Cool. I'll send you info.”

“Awesome.” Ethan grins. “I'll run it by the guys. We'll need a guitarist but we have time.”

“Cool.” It feels like the conversation should end. Any more and it's going to feel chummy.

“I'm glad I ran into you,” he says. “I'll have to come check out Dangerheart sometime.”

“I think you'd dig them,” I say. My next sentence could be
There's a show tonight . . .
but I keep quiet and take my first step away. Time to catch up with Maya. “Let me know about Denver.”

“Will do.” Ethan gives me a little salute. A move I remember so well. It bounces right off the shields . . . but not without causing an old echo of hurt.

I turn and get moving.

“How was that?” Maya asks when I find her.

“Fine,” I say. “Annoying mostly. But maybe useful.”

For the next hour, though, I'm kind of distracted and out of whack. Life is easier when I can just pretend that nothing before August really existed. That there never was an Ethan Myers. I think of myself as being so far from that time; so different from that person . . . I don't like having him back around now.

Then why ask him to a gig? Why on earth would you do that?

Because the gig is in seven weeks and we are desperate. Plain and simple. And there was no bigger band that I could have found.

Still, I spend the afternoon wondering if I've just made a huge mistake.

Seven hours later, I'm holding Val's head over a toilet in the girls' bathroom of Haven, when I first hear Jon and Caleb shouting.

“Huu—” Val lurches and more sour fluid pours from her mouth.

“It's okay,” I say, “just get it out.”

I keep her steady, trying just to ignore my sense of smell, and listen again for Caleb and Jon. I'm pretty sure it was them. But now all I hear is the thump of music from the stage, where All Hail Minions! are playing the headlining slot, which includes the countdown to midnight.

That slot was supposed to be ours.

When we booked the gig, we were the headliner, but Felix and Samaya, the student producers, decided to make a change. We didn't know until we arrived and saw the switch on the sign.

Their reason? “The Minions are shooting live concert footage tonight to promote their debut single,” Samaya told us. “There's a major film crew coming and they want to get the New Year's countdown because they think it will have great optics. It's awesome exposure for PopArts and the school and Coach said it was okay.”

By “Coach” she means Mr. Anderson, who's in charge of PopArts, but, no, that still doesn't make it okay.

“So you're saying that Candy Shell basically bought out our slot,” I said. “I think that's kinda crap.”

“Oh, it's not that big a deal,” Felix said dismissively. “We'd do the same thing for you.”

“Yeah, right,” Jon muttered.

Val lifts her head and gulps in a breath. “I think I'm done.”

“What were you drinking?” I ask as I drag her back to the greenroom. This whole space is alcohol free since it's all ages.

“Cassie Fowler doesn't drink,” she slurs. Then adds, “I brought schnapps.”

“From where? Randy didn't buy it for you, did he?”

“No . . .” Val shakes her head woozily. “From Charity's supply. Peppermint. It's in the back and she never drinks it. I put it in a water bottle.”

I help her to a couch. Jon's and Caleb's voices rise again. Where are they? “Here,” I say to Val, handing her the water bottle. “Should I ask why you did this tonight?”

Val shakes her head, her eyes lolling shut. “Just stop shouting . . .”

Great. I noticed she was a little sloppy during the set, a couple bad notes, which is really unusual for her, but I didn't expect this. “Drink that water and I'll be back in a few.”

Val responds in an unintelligible mumble.

Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. Val's been on edge since Christmas. I
think
this is the first time she's resorted to getting drunk. But I can't be sure.

I head back out into the hall and listen for Caleb and Jon. After a second I pinpoint their voices and push through the boys' bathroom door.

“That's not going to help!” Caleb is saying. He's leaning against the wall, Jon against the sink.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“He's mad because a girl hit on me,” says Caleb.

“Who?” I ask, hoping I sound curious and don't show the fiery spike of jealousy I feel shoot through me.

Caleb huffs. “Some sophomore. Don't worry, I didn't encourage her.”

“No,” says Jon, “but you came over and interrupted
even though you could clearly see that I was talking to her.”

“I was trying to be polite,” says Caleb. “She was a fan of the band and she waved at me.”

“Wait,” I say, “are we fighting over a girl? Really?”

“No!” Jon spits. “That's not—” He sighs and throws up his hands. “It's just another sign of how this whole thing is going to go.”

“What are you talking about?” says Caleb.

He waves his hand. “All of this. And you know what? When All Hail Minions! are done we should totally call Molly out for stealing our slot tonight.”

“Wait . . .” Jon is making my head spin. How did we get from a girl to the Minions? “Let's not. It's never a good idea to make band enemies—”

“This is bullshit, man!” Jon slams the sink. “It's not okay!”

“Jon, whoa,” says Caleb, “listen, you're right. But . . .”

“No! Of course. God forbid!” says Jon. “We can't make enemies! Can't tell anyone about Caleb's dad! Can't take a record deal! What's the point of this band if we're not going to
do
anything?”

I don't know how to respond. I've never seen him like this before.

Caleb looks like he's about to say more, but I catch his eye and try to say
Leave it alone.
“How's Val doing?” he asks me instead.

“Wasted,” I say. “She had a good barfing, though, so
hopefully she'll feel a little better soon. Jon, please don't freak out on the Minions, okay? It's not even really their fault. I mean, they just took what they were offered. As to the girl thing . . .”

“Forget it. Whatever.” Jon starts toward the door, eyes on the ground. “Happy New Year and all that. See you guys at practice.”

“Jon, we're your ride,” says Caleb. “We came in the van, remember?”

“Just—fine! I'll be out watching the set.” He slams the door.

“What was that?” Caleb wonders to the air.

The door opens again and a boy walks in, sees me, looks perplexed at the sign . . .

“Sorry,” I say, and Caleb and I head back to the greenroom, where Val is snoring.

“Do you know . . . ,” I say quietly. “If this has been a regular thing with her?”

“Not that I've noticed. Then again, she's home mostly alone all day, and she's definitely been in a funk since that package arrived.”

“We should probably stay with her.”

We sit down beside her in the stale light. Caleb's hand slips into mine. I rub my thumb on the back of his hand.

“Weird night,” says Caleb.

“The set was good, though,” I say.

Over the dull thumping of the Minions we hear a shout.

“Ten! Nine!”

Caleb and I smile at each other. I put my arm around him. “Seven,” we say quietly beneath Val's snoring. “Six, five . . .”

And down to a kiss. “Happy New Year,” I say in Caleb's ear.

We kiss some more.

“Gross,” Val mumbles, eyes still closed.

A few minutes later, Randy hurries in. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks Val.

“Peachy.”

Randy's face is wrinkled with concern. “It didn't even cross my mind when I gave her that beer the other night.”

“Randy, I'm fine,” Val groans. “It's not going to be a thing.”

I can't help but doubt that. And the same goes for the blowout with Jon.

We pull into Caleb's driveway around one and unload. Randy and Matt help Val in. Jon leaves with no words other than quick good-byes.

“Just work at our place,” says Caleb, once we are alone in the driveway.

“Nah, I'll be too tempted to sleep, or . . . other things.” I smile and hug him. We kiss, and briefly our hands explore each other. I can feel my body warming, my brain simmering, thoughts receding beneath waves of impulse . . .

But I push Caleb back to arm's length.

“Come on,” he whispers, looking almost hurt.

“Can't,” I say. And why not? You guessed it:

It's January 1 . . . and the essay is not done. Actually, that's not entirely true. I did write an essay about, you guessed it, the torture of being cut from JV volleyball, how it filled me with regret, but taught me to value my strengths. My parents have read it, otherwise I would never have been able to be out for New Year's. They think it's excellent. “
Stanford material!
” my dad said. It's perfectly well done. But it doesn't feel true. Even though it is.

So unless my computer crashes tonight and I have no other choice, I am determined to write something else. Something real.

“But it's so late,” Caleb says. “You should work here.”

I told my parents that I was staying at Caleb's, that the whole band was. All true. And Dad talked to Charity to make sure it was going to be fine. She's asleep by now, so no one will know that I'm not there. And hopefully by morning I'll be sleeping soundly on the couch. Maybe I'll be done early enough that Caleb can visit me before anyone wakes up . . . but I don't mention that.

“I can't work here. Something will distract me.” I poke him in the chest. “And I want a chance to revise it with a clear head.” I don't explain that this plays into my weird urge to push this thing to the limit, so that the fates have maximum control.

I get in the car but Caleb follows me. “What are you doing?” I ask as he sits.

“Coming with you. No choice.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Duh. So can I.”

“Fine.” I can't help smiling.

We pull out and head for the freeway. There's only one place I trust to help me finish this application.

Forty-five minutes later, we're sitting in one of the small center booths, beneath the autumn foliage sky of Canter's.

“Here you go.” Vic places a bowl of matzo-ball soup and small plates of french fries and pickles beside the silver pot of coffee on the table. Then he stalks off. So far, he's acted like we're any other customers.

Caleb eats a couple fries and then lies back in the booth seat. “I'll be right over here,” he says. He's asleep in like a minute.

I get cup number one ready and open my computer and proceed to just stare at the essay questions, my face half tucked into Caleb's hoodie sweatshirt. Just like I have for the last month. And when that gets old, I gaze around the restaurant. It's two in the morning and most of the drunken revelers have either gone home or quieted down. I'm one of about thirty people left. The blues band playing up the stairs in the lounge has finished.

I'm getting bleary, and having that feeling again, like there's nothing essay-worthy about me. I say that I don't
want to turn in my JV volleyball essay, but what else is there? I don't have a unique family history, a background that makes me different. I haven't failed at all that much, and most of the failures I have had feel too trite. I could take one of the moments with Dangerheart this fall, like my failure in San Francisco, and spin it into a feel-good essay on trusting yourself, or trusting your friends, but then that feels too . . . tidy.

My phone buzzes.

Were you expecting to wake me, then?
I wonder.

I realize as I type that this casual texting conversation should not be okay with Ethan. What would Caleb think if he was awake? But it was so easy to slip into that I didn't even notice it happening.

He's slipping into it, too. The easy back and forth. I remember it all too well. But he got us the gig, and we are now business partners. So, I need to proceed . . . but with caution.

I hold my phone still and count to twenty. Pauses and time lapses are important to convey that I am not rapt with this conversation. Because I'm not. And I have this suspicion that if Ethan still thinks I'm into him, well, he'd probably be
into that idea. That's the signal I'm getting from him. Then again I'm pretty sure he keeps that signal broadcasting to any girl near enough to hear it, twenty-four hours a day. I could be wrong. Maybe he has a girlfriend or something. I didn't ask.

Except I know that's never stopped him, don't I?

Nineteen . . . twenty.

Ugh, see that? Right there. Something ever-so-slightly informal about that text.
Good night
in print can be interpreted so many ways! From formal to friendly to “it's too bad we're not saying good night with our faces.”

Once again I hold the phone still. Count to twenty and consider the responses. There is a return good night. A “later.” A smiley face . . .

“That doesn't look like essay writing.” Vic arrives beside me.

“Oh, yeah, nope, getting distracted.” Saved by Vic. I put the phone aside, and leave Ethan with the last word.

Vic takes Caleb's empty coffee mug and pours himself a cup. “So, what are you trying to do over here.”

“Get into college.”

Vic makes a face like he just tasted something sour and unpleasant. “Okay. If you want to.”

This makes me smile. “I think I maybe do. I'm not totally sure yet. But it won't be an option unless I write this essay.”

“What about?”

“Here's one question . . .” I read him the first one about having a background story and identity.

“See, this is why I hated school,” he says. “So, you must have something for that.”

“I don't know,” I say.

“What?” Vic actually looks offended. “Your shit doesn't smell?”

“My what? I mean . . .”

“It's a figure of speech: everyone's story is as important as everyone else's. It's condescending to think that yours isn't. Almost as much as it is to think that yours is
more
important. You know what I mean?”

“Maybe?”

Vic shrugs. “What are the other questions?”

I read the list to him.

The fourth one makes him laugh out loud.
Describe a place or environment where you are perfectly content. What do you do or experience there, and why is it meaningful to you?

“
Perfectly
content?” he scoffs. “Who'd want that? Who even has time? Speaking of which, gotta get back to my tables, which honestly sounds way more fun than what you're doing.”