Tempestuous (16 page)

Grady was milling about, trying to offer some assistance but frankly just getting in the way. Major butterflies were accumulating in my stomach and I wondered if maybe the mall cop could grant me a last-minute reprieve.

“You busy, Grady?” I asked.

“Just ascertaining that everything’s under control down here,” he replied.

“As a matter of fact, it’s not. I’m fully freaking out right now. Do I look like the fifth Beatle?”

“I’m not sure I know what that means, but no, I reckon you don’t.”

“Exactly. Which means I’ve got to get out of these shackles. Like,
yesterday.
Can’t you go see if you can find a pair of bolt cutters, or
anything
that might work?”

He cracked his knuckles, intentionally, seeming to ruminate on my request.

“Well, I’m not sure I’ll be able to find anything that’ll do the trick—like I said before, they’re steel alloy—but I guess I can go try to dig something up.”

“Once again, you’re my hero!” I hugged Grady, tangling an unprepared Caleb up in the embrace. “Just do it fast. We don’t have much longer!”

Caleb and Raj were engaged in a heated discussion about an amp issue when Ariel flitted over to whisper in my ear, “You’re going to be great.”

“Remind me why I’m doing this again?” I whispered back.

“For your real friends, of course: Me, Caleb, and Chad.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, but I’m not sure we’re
all
friends. Mr. Darcy over here,” I indicated Caleb with a nod, “finds me barely tolerable.”

“You just got off on the wrong foot.”

“Well, circumstances
have
been less than favorable,” I admitted. “But anyway, I might get off the hook if Grady gets back in time.”

“Never mind. Just go have fun,” said Ariel. “I don’t get the impression you’ve gotten to do that much lately.”

• • •

Thanks to the lighting, the food court was beginning to feel more like a cool underground club than the abysmal hell hole it usually was. The crowd grew steadily and the anticipatory buzz in the room was electric. Ariel and some of the other kids were handing out free sodas and ’dogs while Chase, the deejay from Teasers, opened the show with a set that sampled popular Drunk Butler tunes. To create our “stage,” the crew had removed potted palm trees and relocated “The Mariner,” a rustic, life-sized fishing boat that normally stood as a decorative fixture on a raised platform in the center of the food court. Caleb, Chad, Seth, and I were “backstage,” warming up in the back room of Hot-Dog Kabob.

“Seth, just follow our lead,” Caleb said. “Don’t forget there’s a second bridge in ‘Fathom Five.’ Miranda, you okay?”

“Sure, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Chad said.

“Don’t remind me. It’s my fifteen minutes of fame, and I don’t even have my makeup kit. I was at least hoping to offset this dorky uniform with a smoky eye or something.”

“No, you
look
great. But, I mean, you also kind of look like you’re going to be sick.”

“Someone get a bucket,” Seth yelled. “We’ve got a spewer!”

“Not necessary,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Like I said, I’m fine.” Though at that moment I was really wishing I’d eaten something more substantial than a corn dog.

“It’s just stage fright,” Caleb said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “We all get it.”

“
You
don’t look nervous.” I glanced up at him. He looked the same as he had all night, so unfairly above it all.

“I just learned how to channel it,” Caleb said. “Ask Chad.”

“He’s a basket case inside,” Chad confirmed. “The first three shows we did, the opening band had to do a double encore because he was….”

“Go ahead. You can tell her.”

“Worshipping the porcelain gods. Profusely.”

“Gross,” I said. “Like I needed that visual. But it does make me feel better. Thanks.”

“Just stick with me—as if you had any choice,” Caleb said, chuckling. “You’ll be fine. But for once, you’re not allowed to be in control. Think of your arm as a wet noodle, and I’ll take care of the strumming.

“Wet noodle?”

“Try to keep your elbow away from the strings if you can, but if you stiffen up we’re screwed. Oh—and like it or not, I’m going to need you to stand as close to me as possible. Think barnacle.”

Five minutes later, we were onstage, though I don’t remember how we got there, and Caleb was belting out the first tune, “So Long Lives This.” I’m sure I looked like a proverbial deer in headlights, but my eyes hadn’t adjusted yet and I couldn’t see a thing.

My ears worked just fine, however, and let me tell you—boy could he sing! In front of his audience, Caleb completely opened up. No longer the curmudgeon I was familiar with, he was downright charismatic. I may have been in the thick of the action, but I quickly forgot about all the eyeballs that were upon me and just let myself enjoy the show along with the rest of the crowd swaying in front of me, some of them waving their softly glowing cell phones aloft in the darkness. It wasn’t hard to follow Caleb’s instructions about just letting go; the music was both lilting and intense. With just three instruments, they managed to sound otherworldly, as if sweeping their listeners upon the crest of a rhythmic tidal wave that crescendoed into a realm both desolate and familiar. I’d already heard a smattering of the songs a few times on the radio, but now I had the luxury of being able to really comprehend the lyrics as Caleb belted them out with a deep-but-plaintive voice. The pervading themes were of love and of loneliness, disenchantment and heartache; a paean to powers greater than us and anthems for futures unknown. It struck a chord—not just with me, I was certain, but with every other adolescent out there bobbing his or her head solemnly to the music. As I nestled against his side to give him the leeway he needed to play his instrument, I almost couldn’t believe that my verbally stingy adjunct was this poetic. What’s more, the way his black hair fell upon his steel-gray eyes as he leaned over the mic stand, I couldn’t help but think he bore an ever-so-slight resemblance to one Johnny Depp. I would never admit as much to him, of course, and I was semi-irritated at myself for even thinking it. But this was proof positive: a simple guitar slung over a guy’s torso can transform even the most feral-looking dude into someone, well, kind of
hot
. I was embarrassed to feel a twinge of jealousy over the groupies pressed against the raised-platform stage, staring up at Caleb as they mouthed the words to the chorus.

“Okay, guys, thanks for obliging our brief attempts at soul-searching,” he said after the conclusion of “Tell No Tales.”

“Play ‘Free Bird!’” Dex’s voice boomed mockingly from the audience. He was sitting on a plastic chair, his leg elevated on another with a bag of ice over his swollen ankle.

“No way, man,” Caleb answered. “It’s time to lighten the mood.” Still leaning over the microphone, he pivoted his head and smiled coyly at Chad who was seated at the drum set behind him. “Someone turned seventeen tonight, and that’s cause enough to rip it up a little bit.” He turned his face to mine and gave a saucy wink that caught me off guard. “Don’t think for a second the Butlers don’t know how to ROCK. YOUR. WORLD.”

The crowd went nuts, of course, and Chad tapped his drumsticks together over his head in a four-time beat as their signal to launch into the next song, the same jaunty little tune I’d been jamming to in the mall parking lot earlier. The pace of Caleb’s playing had sped up and then some, but I didn’t care. I let him bandy my arm about frenetically as he strummed away, and I allowed my head do the same, tossing it from side-to-side. As my hair hit my face in staccato bursts, I felt liberated—and happy. Not since the SAT bust went down more than a month ago had I experienced anything even remotely close to this feeling. Come to think of it, it’d been a long time even before that. I felt like the real me had been in a deep freeze but was finally thawing out. Ironically, it had taken the coldest blizzard on record to make it happen.

We’d just begun another punchy pop tune when the sound of high-pitched caterwauling brought the musicians to a full stop. What sounded at first like the Charge of the Light Brigade was, in fact, the familiar clop-trot of high-heeled boots. Britney rounded the corner near the food court at a fast clip screaming for help, followed by Brian, with Rachel and Whitney close behind. As Caleb silenced the band, my onetime cronies approached the stage. I gasped when I saw my ex, whose face and right hand were both bleeding. Wow, I knew the girls were pissed, but “assault-and-battery” pissed? I didn’t think they had it in them.

“What the hell did you guys do to him?” I said.

“We?!” Rachel said, trying to catch her breath! “Jeez, we’re not from Jersey!”

“We found him at Lane’s Diamonds,” Whitney said. “Someone smashed through the display cases and wiped out most of the bling.”

The news of the incident elicited gasps from the crowd as people drew nearer to get the low-down. We’d all pretty much figured the computer thief had long since left the premises, but Brian’s face indicated otherwise.

“I walked in on him shoving strands of diamonds and pearls into a garbage bag, like it was pirate booty,” Brian stammered, clearly spooked. “I guess he panicked, because he ran off with the loot. The girls showed up just a few seconds later.”

“Oh my god, Brian, are you okay?!” I may have loathed him, but not enough to derive pleasure from his ordeal. “Did he attack you?”

“Oh, this?” he glanced at his bleeding hand. “No. I tried to run after the guy but I slipped and did a faceplant on the broken glass all over the floor.”

“Wait—you saw the thief?” Caleb asked. Brian nodded.

“Yes and no. The lights in the store were all off, and he was wearing a black ski mask and a heavy black coat. He also had a pretty serious firearm.” I instantly remembered my manager, Randall, skipping out early. He’d been well-armed for the weather—but had he also been
armed
-armed?

“This is beyond ballsy.” Caleb folded his arms, forgetting momentarily that I was still attached. He dropped his hands by his side, letting mine fall with a thud alongside his. “And yet it doesn’t make any sense. It’s an ideal day for a klepto, I get it; but where’s the guy hiding out? Where’s he offloading the loot? We’re all locked in the building right now, and even if he was able to make a break for it, he’d leave a literal trail of evidence in the snow … if he didn’t freeze to death in the elements.”

“It’s gotta be an inside job,” I said, eyeing Brian. His hair stuck straight up from trying to get the glue out, and there was glitter stuck to his eyelashes. The bright red blood now smeared across his lips made him look a little like Ziggy Stardust, oddly enough.

“Someone go find Grady,” said a voice toward the back of the crowd. I remembered having sent him on my selfish errand for bolt cutters and felt guilty that he wasn’t here to do his real job now that we needed him.

“As if Mighty Mouse could do anything?” Quinn said. “There’s a homicidal maniac among us and he hasn’t done bupkiss to try to find Mike. I’m worried, you guys! I think Mike could be in serious trouble!”

Or, he could be the one behind all the trouble, I thought without voicing my suspicion aloud.

Chad patched up Brian’s face as best he could using the Band-Aids from our antediluvian first aid kit. The excitement triggered by his run-in with the thief was starting to dissipate, but no one felt much in the mood for more music in light of the recent developments. Grady had returned to let me know his search for cuff cutters had been fruitless. I’m not sure what bummed out the bumbling security guard more: realizing he’d been at the wrong end of the mall to catch the perp red-handed, or finding out we’d already “debriefed” Brian on all the pertinent details.

“Maybe we could work up a police sketch of the guy,” he naively suggested, desperately trying to assert his authority in some official capacity. “Do we have any budding artists?”

“Yeah, nimrod. Because only the next Picasso could differentiate between the subtle nuances of a wool ski cap versus a cotton/Lycra blend.” Rachel’s attitude toward the minimum-wage employee was unduly cruel. It didn’t seem fair to pick the low-hanging fruit, socially speaking.

With his free hand, Caleb closed the lid on a guitar case and flipped the latches shut while Seth and the roadies started rolling amps back in the direction of The Guitar Center. Chad came over to hand us each a bottle of water, Ariel gamely skipping to keep up with his long strides.

“That was
awesomesauce
!” she declared. “You guys were amazing! You, too, Miranda.”

“Yeah, right. Do they give out Grammys for ‘Best Pointless Nonentity Randomly Up On Stage?’ Because I’d at least get the write-in vote. But she’s right, you were both pretty incredible,” I said, staring at Caleb directly.

“Thanks. I’m pretty sure that was a rock-n-roll first,” he answered. “And don’t be so modest. You were a champ up there. I heard you chiming in on that last song, too. Your voice is pretty decent.”

“You think?”

“I think.”