Exile (7 page)

Ari’s friends crack up, but it might just be over the terrible shrieking of some poor token female in their game.

“Did you actually just say that?”

“I did.” He grins moistly. I have actually heard females describe his lips as “yummy.” “Thirty seconds. It doesn’t have to be here. We can go to the janitor closet if you want. I’m good. Vanessa Quinn said I had the best hands in school.”

“She would be an expert,” I reply, again almost amazed
by his bravado. It would be so sad not to be immune to it. “Can you please stop being so gross?”

Ari just shrugs. “Twenty seconds?”

I huff check my phone. “I’m late. And I’m right about this band. You want them there. You already know you can’t wait to see what Caleb does next, and your vile attempts at bargaining are going nowhere.”

Ari finally groans. “Okay, last offer: you do a Hakalaka Eruption with me at the party.”

“What’s that, aside from probably vulgar and most likely culturally inappropriate?”

“It’s a drink. Just have a drink with me at the party.”

I realize that I need to give him something, so he can save face. “There will be no touching.”

“I’ve still got time to change your mind,” Ari says.

“Believe what you want, but okay, we have a deal.” I allow a handshake.

Ari pulls out his phone and taps. “Just sent the invite to your school email.”

My phone buzzes, and I click to the invitation. Not surprisingly, it’s a photo of a woman’s midriff, with a coconut bra. “Where’s the info?” I ask.

“Under the coconuts.” Ari grins. I tap the photo and sure enough, the coconut coverings pop off and the set times and load-in instructions are written in curves around the flesh beneath. “Very classy,” I say, turning to go.

“I’ll tell Jason you’re coming,” Ari calls behind me. His
friends hiss in appreciation of this comment. I pause, consider a comeback, but I knew that was coming, didn’t I? Jason . . . just the sound of the name makes my skin crawl.
Remember, this is business
. After all, he would. I keep walking.

I find Caleb in the Green Room after lunch. He and Matt and Jon are at a table by the espresso machine. As I approach them, I feel a little swell of pride, or relief, or both. There’s something about a band that immediately conveys strength. Dangerheart has had only two practices and they still have no bassist and yet just the presence of the three of them together suggests
potential
. They’re like a secret society, and you can’t help but be curious what they’re talking about. Which is funny, because it’s no big secret what bands talk about when they are clustered together: 30 percent is
have-you-heard-this-band
, 30 percent concerns the deeply technical features of music gear, and the other 40 percent is girls.

The room is full of other band clusters. Guitars in laps, drumsticks out. Two kids are playing around with a theremin, making wacky frequency sounds.

As I weave toward my band, I notice the two girls getting coffees eyeing Caleb. I don’t know them, and I can’t tell if they’re gazing with interest or disdain. Some of both? It occurs to me that there’s an upside to Caleb’s summer meltdown. It makes him seem unpredictable. Passionate. These are good lead-singer qualities, as long as he can exude that without looking like he knows he’s exuding it. Then it’s just posturing and that’s the worst. Luckily, at the
moment he’s hunched over his journal, deep into some lyric writing. Perfect.

“Hey,” I say as I reach them.

“Hey,” Caleb grunts. He doesn’t look up. When I don’t get the dark glimmer of his eyes, that three-quarter smile, I have to swallow my disappointment.

I sit down across from him. “Did you complete the operation, private?”

He just shakes his head tersely and suddenly I feel lame for continuing our joke. But maybe he’s just nervous. I would not want to be in the position of trying to apologize to one person I dumped, never mind three. And I’ve learned that Caleb takes almost everything as seriously as it’s possible to take it.

“No sign of them yet, commander,” says Jon. He’s got his black Ibanez in his lap, his fingers dancing in a near blur over the strings, making a tinny flurry of notes. He winks at me. Jon is like Caleb tonic. He keeps everything light. He’s wiry and wearing skinny black jeans and a black T-shirt with an oil-painting image of John Denver and Miss Piggy that I’ve seen down at IronicTee. His teal sneakers match his spiky teal hair. His parents are from Thailand. He was on the waiting list to get into Mount Hope High for two years, after being at the ESL high school over in the Valley, so just being here still seems like a huge thrill.

“Hey, Summer, how’d it go?” Matt is on the other side of Caleb, a tablet in his lap. He’s a cute kid. So young!
Freshmen are adorable. But he’s also pretty awesome. Optimistic, and fiery, and a sick drummer, with a real edge when he plays. He’s got dirty-blond hair and easy features, a little boy-band, and for a musician, he dresses kinda skater, with plaid sneakers, a gray hoodie, and purple jeans.

“What are you watching?” I ask him.

“John Bonham drum fills. He rules. Wanna see?”

Matt smiles hopefully. He’s kind of infatuated with me. Obviously he knows I’m with Caleb, but he can’t help it. I don’t mean that to sound cocky, it’s just that he wears it right on his face and it’s cute. I can’t help but smile at him. I already feel like he’s my younger brother.

“Maybe later,” I say, smiling back. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “But at the moment . . .” I fish into my bag. “Success!” I slide my phone over.

“Sweet!” Jon grabs my phone and immediately taps the coconuts. “Awesome.”

“Great work!” Matt holds up his hand for a high five, looking terrified, like he’ll mess it up and lose his chance with me. No worries, little brother, we can high-five.

No response from Caleb.

“Yep, it was no problem,” I say. “I just had to make out with Ari for a few minutes.”

Still nothing . . .

“Let him feel me up . . .”

Stiiill nothing . . .

“Caleb.”

Finally his eyes pop up. “What?” He’s got condition-critical Fret Face, with the bonus knotted brow of doom.

I try not to sound annoyed. “Did you hear me?”

“Summer got us the Trial,” says Jon.

It takes a second for Caleb to react, as if this is the furthest thing from his mind. “Oh, cool.” He looks past me, out into the room.

“Yep, you’re welcome,” I say. “I take it you haven’t talked to Android yet?”

“Here they come,” he mutters.

I turn and see Trevor and Cybil emerging from the practice hall, along with another guy. Trevor is all angles and zits, wearing a plaid hat atop his long, greasy hair. Cybil wears a peach-colored thrift-store dress that labors around her square frame. Her orange hair is pinned back with thick barrettes.

They have joined the short line for espressos when Trevor notices Caleb. He stiffens and says something softly to Cybil, who doesn’t look over.

Caleb stands up. “Hey, guys.” They don’t react until he steps over to them. I join him.

Trevor eyes Caleb. “What.”

“How’s it going?” Caleb asks. He shoves his hands in his pockets. I wish I could reach over and take one, but I don’t think it would help.

“Pretty excellently,” says Trevor. Man, is he still wounded.

“This is Alejandro,” says Cybil, indicating the boy beside them. He’s taller than us all and built like a truck, wearing a tank top, his arms wrapped in spiraling tattoos. “He’s our new singer.”

“Peace,” says Alejandro in a frighteningly deep voice. He could be our age, he could be twenty-five. It’s impossible to tell.

“We changed the band name to Freak Show,” says Trevor.

Come on, Caleb
, I think,
just apologize quick and end this torture
.

“Well, awesome,” says Caleb, tactfully. “I can’t wait to hear the new thing. Maybe at the Trial.”

“You’re going to be at the Trial?” Trevor shares an icy glance with Cybil. “How did you get that?”

“She probably did it,” says Cybil, not looking at me.

I’m surprised by the venom in my direction. Cybil makes me sound like some kind of shark.

“We asked,” I offer, hoping it helps.

Trevor stares at the ground. “That’s bullshit. The Trial is for
established
bands. You have to earn it.”

Apologize, Caleb, get it over with—

Except Trevor’s not done. “Why should
you
just get to waltz back into the scene without any damage when—”

Caleb’s hands shoot out, slamming Trevor in his concave chest. “What do you know about damage, Trevor?”

The whole room stops moving.

“Whoa.” Alejandro steps in, looming over us.

“I think I know,” says Trevor, regaining his balance, “that you’re an arrogant asshole—”

“You have no idea what I’m going through!” Caleb’s voice is full of wrath. Everyone in the room is staring and they both sound like children.

I grab his arm and pull. “Come on.”

Caleb turns away. Behind us, Jon and Matt are on their feet.

“You’re such an asshole, Caleb,” hisses Cybil.

“Settle down, pard’ner,” Jon says, invoking a cowboy drawl. Hang with him long enough, and you’ll hear every movie accent there is.

“Okay, who needs some fresh air?” I say, leading the way to the door.

Once we’re out in the hall, I turn to Caleb. “That wasn’t the plan.”

“Honestly, who fucking cares?” He throws up his hands, his gaze still not meeting mine. “I’m not sorry. I don’t care. And Trevor was being a dick. He has no idea what it’s like.”

“Well, you also never told him.”

“Because he’s an ass. So they hate me, so what?”

“Caleb! So
what
is if the other bands hate you, then all their fans are going to hate you, and that bad vibe is going to spread like a virus! All you needed to do was say you were sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t! Now stop trying to
manage
me and listen to what I’m saying.” And just like that, he stalks off.

“Wow,” says Jon. “That all went well.”

“Is he like that often?” Matt wonders, sounding worried.

“I guess I don’t really know,” I say.

Jon summons a British accent. “He has been a bit ornery today.”

I watch him go, equal parts furious, wounded, wanting to scream and fighting the urge to run after him, something I am
not
going to do. “I’ll see you guys later.”

I try not to storm into calc, try not to think too much about Caleb, but that just makes the whole afternoon feel even longer. What was with him? And why couldn’t he tell me? I want to ask him, but he’s the one who left, so I resist the urge to message him.

Finally, in study hall last period, I feel my phone buzz against my leg. I slip it out under the table. A text from Caleb:

      
Really sorry. More drama last night. Couldn’t share with the others around. Should have told you this morning. Can we talk after practice?

I debate my reply. I said I’d be home around 8, so I’ll have to clear it with the powers. Since you never ask me out PROPERLY.

Yes. I wait a second and add: But I want to know what’s up.

Tina’s frozen yogurt. A suitable apology. Sure. And you better give me the SCOOP on your mood.

He replies:
It’s fro yo, more like the DISH
.

Finally, I smile a little. :) See you then.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 2h
Summer’s not here right now. She’s eating frozen yogurt in the future. #whereismyTARDIS

I clear the evening with my parents. They’re usually fine with this kind of thing. They know the grades are off to a good start, and Dad keeps bringing up schools with good law programs. I strategically humored him one night and looked over his search results, even though the idea of college makes me ill. I mean, it’s always been assumed that I’ll go. I’m just worried it will change me.

That’s what happened to my older brother, Bradley. We’re not that close, but when he was in high school, playing sax and piano and operating as a mid-level rebel, I looked up to him. Now he’s a senior at Pomona and applying to med schools and he spends his breaks at home talking
about residencies and the changing face of health care. These days, he feels more like a junior partner in Carlson Squared.

I get my homework done at a coffee shop, then grab a bus across town, anxious to talk to Caleb, frustrated that it’s three transfers to get to the Hive. My parents have offered to get me a car, but I don’t want one. I can use one of theirs when I need it. I like the bus. And a car feels like a contract, like: here is this BIG THING that now means we have more say over you because we OWN the big thing and we can take it away. Not that they’d necessarily pull that kind of crap. But the bus keeps it from ever being an option.

The Hive is a concrete block of converted factory. The white facade has giant windows that make you think there’d be a cavernous space waiting inside, but instead, the windows look in on walls, and the whole thing has been cubed up into hall after hall of tiny practice spaces.

The entrance is flanked by clusters of musicians shrouded in cigarette smoke. There’s every breed of band: hipsters in clutching T-shirts, pencil-thin jeans, and brightly colored sneakers; straight-up rockers, jeans torn and flannels ratty; metal bands, so many metal bands, with chains and hair and acne and sneers; a lost-looking trio of quirky kids who probably jam too much, clad in fez and tweed and thinking that anyone who plays a song shorter than five minutes is a slave to the corporate overlord. Everywhere, skin is tattooed and chins are rough with all manner of facial hair,
most not quite successful. Passing among them is to suffer an onslaught of sweat and hair product and secondhand smoke.

I keep my eyes straight ahead. Musicians aren’t like jocks; they don’t catcall, they’re all too cool for that. But when it comes to ogling, I almost prefer jocks: they just dumbly assess your dimensions on some primal mating level, like we live on a savannah. You feel like they can’t even help themselves. Musicians, though, they judge you silently. Your coat. Your expression. The brand on your guitar case. Anything they can. Are you cooler than they are? Do you think you are? Are you the real thing? But you can’t be. There must be flaws. Let’s find them.