Exile (6 page)

But I tip up on my toes and kiss him anyway.

I think it surprises him, but then he responds and, has it really been three months since I felt this feeling because, oh, kissing, hello! And this is exceptionally good and it
makes me wonder if we’re made to think each new kiss is the best one we’ve ever had, or if it’s possible that there are just frequencies between people, wave vibrations that align in a perfect hum. Maybe it’s our relation to the magnetism of the planet, or the specific arrangement of our molecules, or maybe we both just so happen to have slightly elevated levels of some mineral, let’s say manganese, in our blood. Who knows? But there is something, something more than just the simple physics of lips and tongues at work here, and it’s vibrating me like a kite string and it’s almost like I don’t need to know any more. We’ve only talked for half an hour and yet I don’t need to know what cereal he likes or what his politics are or which Kurt Vonnegut novel he read first. None of it matters because of this frequency that is making me long to slide my cheek slowly down his neck to his shoulder and feel his arms at my waist pulling me close so that my lungs can’t fully expand.

Except I pull back. Take. A. Deep. Breath. “Okay,” I manage to say. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Caleb breathes. “Um, thanks.”

“We should probably get back to school,” I say. “Either that, or . . . never mind.”

“What?” He takes me gently by the shoulders. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. It was silly—”

He kisses me back. “Tell me.”

Woozy. “I was just going to say that we either go back
to school or instead we head to Long Beach and stow away on a cargo boat headed to Palau.”

“Two solid choices.” Caleb hugs me. “Probably school. For now.”

“We’ll need degrees in Palau. To start a music school.”

“And we should learn Palauean first.”

“Palau-ese?”

“Wait . . . we should get this right.”

I check my phone. “Palauan.”

“We’ll learn Palauan.”

“Yes.”

We walk, drifting along. He takes my hand. “That was definitely not in my plan,” says Caleb as we go. “I mean, I thought about it.”

“You thought about what?”

“Well, I mean I’m a guy . . .”

“Right.” I don’t bother telling him that girls have those thoughts, too. We’re just better at poker.

The end of our walk is as silent as the start, and yet, this silence is a whole other world, nearly bursting with possibility. I expect the school to be empty. But when I look at my watch I see that barely forty-five minutes have passed. Last period will be starting soon.

We stop in the same hall outside PopArts, the circle complete. The last moment before returning to the real timeline, and I’m almost sad. “So,” I say.

“So,” he replies.

This makes me want to kiss him again, but the halls feel like they have eyes. “So . . . that.”

“That.”

Before we can say any more, the bell rings, and the hall begins to fill.

Caleb takes a step back. He motions like he’s going to head to class. So I take a step back, too. We both smile. We both turn away. But he is the only thing on my mind for the rest of the afternoon.

VINYL CUFFLINKS

Where We Are Music Infinite

—posted by ghostofEliWhite on September 17

More from the anniversary of
Into the Ever & After
. Here’s something interesting: I was reading through the interview archives in
On The Tip of Your Tongue
, the anthology of interviews, letters, and journal entries from the band, and I noticed a quote, the significance of which I’d totally missed before. When asked by KNBC’s Hollywood beat reporter Sherrie Pine how the new record was coming along, Eli said:

“Slow slow slow, but the end is in sight. I think we’ve got seven tunes tracked. Kellen’s are all done, as usual. I’ve gotten a few of mine down, but it’s these last few
that I’m most excited about. I think they’re my best work, and I can’t wait to lay them down.”

You do the math, friends. If they’d recorded seven, then doesn’t that mean that Eli is talking about the LOST SONGS? Is it possible that he had those songs sketched out, at least in his mind?

It just makes his passing all that much worse, knowing that his best work went with him into the ever & after.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 1h
Now hear this: Introducing Dangerheart! Mount Hope’s astonishing new band feat Caleb, Jon & Matt. Say you knew them 1st. #youllthankmelater

It takes two weeks to get things rolling. Two weeks to make flyers and BandSpace ads, to find a drummer (Matt, a freshman) and a guitarist (Jon, a junior transfer), neither of whom knows or cares about Caleb’s baggage. Two weeks to try out six bassists, all of whom are worse than me, and I’ve never played bass.

All the school rehearsal spaces are taken, so Caleb, Jon, and Matt pool money, with help from Caleb’s uncle Randy, to get a tiny spot over at the Hive, a warehouse that’s been converted to practice spaces.

Caleb comes up with a list of names, and on a Sunday we meet for coffee and commence the Sad Googling, which
reveals that after sixty years of rock bands, ALL OF THE GOOD NAMES HAVE BEEN TAKEN. The only two names left from Caleb’s list of twenty are the Lonely Clones and Dangerheart. Nobody really likes either, but they dislike the Lonely Clones more. Dangerheart it is.

We also do a search for my list of new management names. That’s a little easier, and I am officially reborn, from Orchid Productions to Moonflower Artist Management.

During the coffee-and-naming session, Caleb and I sit close, hips and shoulders touching as we lean over his tablet. There was no kissing for the first week after our date at the center of the solar system, and it was just starting to feel difficult, like something exceedingly special would need to happen for us to kiss again, and besides, shouldn’t Caleb be the one who initiates this time? Of course, at the same time, I didn’t mind that no one had witnessed us kissing. I felt almost paranoid after our sun date, the excitement of our connection dampened by my concern with how the world might cheapen it.

Except then right in the middle of a search, while page results were loading, he just reached over, turned my chin with his finger, and our lips met again. This one was quick. Familiar, the kind that is meant to be just one of many. Like a habit. A good habit. And at least for that moment, I could care less what anyone might think.

“What was that for?”

“Um, for search engines? Does it matter?”

“It really doesn’t.”

“Good,” he says. “’Cause I think I’m going to have more kisses than reasons.”

And I melt. And we kiss more.

With the terrible task of naming settled, what the band really needs next is a goal.

A gig.

And so on Tuesday morning Caleb and I meet up at the front doors of school and prepare to split up, Special Forces-style.

“Remember,” I say to him, “Operation Swordfall is going to be bloody. But it’s vital.”

Caleb takes a deep, queasy breath. He’s been more quiet than usual this morning, ever since I met him in the parking lot by his car. His face gets blank when he’s nervous. I call it Fret Face. I know he’s not looking forward to this operation, but when I asked him if anything else was wrong, he said he was fine.

“I know,” he mumbles. “Do I really have to?”

Caleb’s mission is to make amends with the members of Android Necktie. “We’re going to be playing the same gigs as them,” I remind him, “moving in the same circles. We won’t have them on our side, but if we can at least keep them from actively rooting for our failure and telling everyone that Dangerheart sucks, that would be good.”

Caleb sighs, but he nods in agreement. “Your mission
almost sounds worse.”

“Operation Tater Tot? Yeah, it’s going to be ugly. But it’s equally vital.” I punch him in the shoulder. “Godspeed, man.”

Caleb almost grins, but Fret Face is strong.

I bound back down the steps and head around the side of school. As I go, I can’t help glancing anxiously at my binder, where I have etched twenty capital T’s across the top. This is the number of “tardies” you can get in a class without losing credit. They’re like player lives for Catherine. I’ve already pre-crossed out Number Three for this morning. At this rate, she may need to find the hidden cache of medical supplies if she’s going to survive this level of the High School game. Summer, meanwhile, is doing great.

I round the corner and arrive at the Armpit, an awkward triangular cement area in the crux where the south wing of school meets the auditorium. A high hedge shields it from the office. There are windows up on the second floor, but if you’re close to the wall, this is one of the very few spots on school grounds where you can be nearly invisible. Thus the concrete is littered with cigarette butts and dip cups and wrappers. It’s too early in the year for a single gang to have claimed it, but there are a few clumps of boys standing around in clouds of smoke and testosterone, sizing each other up.

The person I’m looking for is sitting on the short wall beneath the hedge.

“Ari.” Ari Fletcher doesn’t hear me through his donutsized red headphones. He’s bopping his head and slapping drumsticks against his thighs. His two friends are hunched over an iPad, arguing about how best to proceed in some video game. It whines with trebly sounds of shrieking females and chainsaws.

“Ari.” Ari is the son of Jerrod Fletcher, who happens to be the head of Candy Shell Records. But more importantly, Ari throws a yearly back-to-school party out at their beach home called the Trial by Fire. Invitation only. For most guests, the Trial involves surviving Ari’s patented punch and making it home with your dignity. For bands, it has a different meaning. Getting an invite is a big deal, and the best bands in school are always there. Jerrod is usually also throwing a party up the dune in their ridiculously lavish house at the same time, so there is the bonus potential of star sightings. Last year, Hatchet from Ninja Harem came careening down to the beach with her action figure of a boyfriend and they tore off their clothes and went skinny-dipping right in front of everyone.

More important than what you’ll see, though, is that your band might be seen. Ever since Allegiance to North and PopArts, the scouts at Candy Shell know to keep an eye on Mount Hope’s latest bands, and the gig has gained mystique: play here, and you might get noticed. Postcards is the latest example.

Which means the Trial is also the place where I began
to lose my last band, not that I knew it at the time. Part of me wants to avoid this gig, to keep that from happening all over again with Dangerheart. And yet, I know it’s the best gig they could get to start out, and the best way to introduce themselves to the scene.

“Ari.” I give him a friendly kick in the shin.

His eyes finally snap up and when he sees it’s me, his peeled-and-mashed face quickly reforms into a smirk. He puts his sticks between his legs, pointed straight up, and slips off his headphones.

Ari looks kinda like somebody built him out of potatoes, lumpy beneath his wide, baggy jeans and hoodie, his face blotchy with acne. He barely looks like a senior. And yet in spite of this, he has a sort of amazing record of scoring with girls. He’s one of those rare cases where his self-confidence can, in moments—especially involving alcohol—overcome his appearance. Part of it I know comes from the fact that he’s the son of a big record-label exec at a school full of aspiring bands (though Ari’s own thrash-hop bands have been notably bad throughout our years here).

“Hey, Summer.” He flashes his patented smile, but luckily, I’m immune. The stick erection isn’t helping. Also, he’s looking me over. I imagine punching him in the face, like with a flat palm to the nose, so his head would snap back and slam the concrete wall. Mmm, so nice. But sadly, bad for business. I settle for crossing my arms and his eyes finally return to my face. “How you holdin’ up?”

Ooh
, can I please hit him? It takes all my strength to stay calm. He’s of course referring to my former situation with Postcards, with Ethan. Must . . . resist . . .

“Peachy,” I say briskly. “Listen, I’ve got a band for your party.”

“Ah, interesting.” Ari pulls his drumsticks back out of his crotch and starts tapping on his legs. “I know
someone
who’ll be glad to hear about this.”

I ignore this comment as hard as I can. “Knock it off. Also, your rudiments stink.”

Ari’s sticks freeze. “Like you’d know.”

“Actually I do. Your paradiddles are sloppy because your right hand is botching the double beats. You need to work on your fundamentals.”

Ari rolls his eyes, but he puts his sticks down again, this time laying them flat on his legs. “Obviously you’ve had a lot of time on your hands to study up on what real musicians do.”

Oh, Ari. His outsides may look like potato, but inside he’s pure turd. Invoking one of the classic barbs between clans of the PopArts tribe . . . God, I hate this. It’s one of my least favorite positions in all of life. When you need something from someone, they have power.

“Who’s the band?” Ari asks.

“Dangerheart,” I say. “They’re really, seriously good. And you know I know good.”

“Members?”

“The drummer is Matt Prader, freshman but seriously gifted, Jon Lim is on guitar, he’s that transfer, and then the singer is Caleb—”

“Hold on. Caleb Daniels? You want me to invite Mr. I-Just-Ruined-the-Best-Band-in-School?” He scratches his chin dramatically. “You know Android is going to be there, right? They’ll be majorly pissed if I give Caleb a slot. . . . Of course that does sound kinda fun. Band fights are always good for party legends, but . . . it’s gonna cost ya.”

“What.”

Ari’s smile returns, this time shading toward mischievous. “Be my date to the party.”

“Ha! No. Besides, I’ll be working with my band that night.”

Ari shrugs, letting his gaze drop to my chest again. He elbows his closest buddy to get his attention, then turns back to me and says, “Let me feel you up?”