Encore to an Empty Room (12 page)

As the second verse goes along I can sort of hear what Jon is getting at. It sounds like he wants to add an upbeat pop element to the song.

But Caleb stops again. I hear him sigh through the microphone. “I'm not sure it works,” he says carefully.

“We've only been trying it for like a minute,” says Jon.

“Maybe we should all chat for a second,” I say, heading into the studio.

“I think you guys should give the part more of a chance,” Jon says immediately.

“We've been rehearsing this song for months,” says Val. “We had it all worked out.”

“I know,” says Jon, “it just feels like it needs something.”

“You mean,” I say, “you feel like it needs to sound more like the Minions?”

Jon scowls at me. “That's not what I was going for.”

“That's exactly what it sounded like,” says Caleb. “And we're not them.”

“Besides,” says Matt, “you already had a great part for the song, Jon. Your guitar line is really cool.”

Jon shakes his head. “I just don't think it's enough.”

“Enough for what?” Caleb says. “To get us the other half million? Is that what this is about?”

“No! I wouldn't . . . You guys don't get it.”

“What don't we get?” Val asks.

“I just think,” says Jon, “that right now the song is thin. It's just basically Caleb and his guitar and his wounded heart—”

“Whoa, wait,” says Caleb. “How come this feels like the same thing as New Year's? Jon, come on, man. You're the lead fucking guitarist. People are going to notice you.”

“That's not even—” Jon gazes at the ceiling. “We need to make sure we sound right, you know? If we're going to be on a major label, and the world is going to hear us . . .”

“Then we should sound like
us
,” says Val.

“Yeah,” Caleb agrees, “we're not throwing a synth on the song at the last minute. Sorry.”

Jon shakes his head and stands up. “I can't take this anymore.”

“Take what?” says Caleb.

“You! This is what I was talking about. Your band, your songs, and we have to play them the way you want and then we're going to drive halfway across the country chasing after your dad and why? So everything can be even more about you!”

“Jon, I don't think that's the whole story,” says Val.

“You're his sister! You don't count.” He points at me. “You don't either.”

“So,” says Matt, “I guess I'm the only one who can tell you you're being a dick?”

“Okay, fine. I'm done for tonight.” He starts out.

“Jon, we need to track the song.”

“I'll overdub,” he calls over his shoulder. “Or you can just play what you want. I don't even care.”

Caleb is about to follow him but I hold him back. “Let him cool off. I'll talk to him tomorrow,” I say.

“That sucked,” says Matt.

“Guys,” Alonzo says over the intercom. “Time is getting short. Should we try to get some tracks?”

Caleb looks from me to Val to Matt. “Let's keep going, maybe? Try to at least get something done tonight.”

They return to their instruments and try “Sleeve” again. They do a few takes and it sounds great, but empty. Like a story missing a chunk of pages, without Jon's guitar.

“We can find a makeup time,” says Alonzo when we're done. “I'll check the calendar and let you know tomorrow.”

“I don't know what we're going to do about him,” Caleb says to me after, as we're drowning our post-studio blues at Tina's frozen yogurt.

“We'll figure it out,” I say. Except I have no idea either.

Jon's a junior so we don't have any classes together, but I have his schedule, so that I know what times I can text him if there's band business. He'll be in Amp Lab when I have calculus, last period, which is my best shot. I check the top of my binder, where I have twenty
t
's written: the maximum number of tardies you can get without losing credit. I've crossed off nine. Two of them already have a
c
for calc written below them. I'll probably get a warning for this one.

I'm at lunch with Caleb when Alonzo gets in touch with us over school email.

“I'm naming my solo act the Phasing Dilemma,” says Caleb. “That's cool about the makeup date. Wait, you're frowning.”

“That's when I was supposed to do the Stanford interview.”

“Ooh,” Caleb winces. “It's totally fine if you miss the session.”

“Or . . . I can probably reschedule.” I know I shouldn't. Not with something this important. And yet, I'm also technically an adult with a life, and plans change. And I need to be at the next session, especially given the drama with Jon. Andre should understand. Before I can overthink it, I email him.

“Okay,” I say as lunch ends. “Wish me luck.”

I find Jon alone in the Amp Lab. He's sitting on a single stool in the center of a trapezoidal room with carpeted walls. About ten feet in front of him are wide shelves stacked with fifteen different amplifiers, from classic Fender tubes to solid-state Marshall stacks. He has his guitar plugged into a switcher box by his feet, with pedals that correspond to each amp.

He shreds a complicated riff I've never heard, hits the pedals, and does it again. Each new amp changes the tone, the body, the growl.

He hears the sucking of air as I close the sealed glass door. “Oh, hey.”

I step up next to him. He keeps playing.

“Which tone do you like better? This . . .” He plays the riff. “Or . . . this.” He stomps the pedal and plays again.

“Um, that was really subtle,” I admit.

“Little more body in the first one,” he says.

“Jon . . . can we talk?”

He hits the mute switch on the pedal board and turns to me, but his fingers keep flicking over the strings.

“So about—”

He cuts me off, his fingers pausing. “Look, here's the thing: remember when the Toast and Jam blog came out?”

“Obviously.”

“Well, did you know that wasn't the only blog post written about Dangerheart that day?”

“Um, no?”

“Yeah. A blog called Six String Fire named me the most promising new guitarist on the unsigned scene.”

“Wait, really?” I say. “That's awesome!”

“It's a pretty small blog, out of Minneapolis.”

“Still, that's so cool, Jon. I wish I'd seen that. I'll have to find it and post it around. Why didn't you share it with us?”

Jon shrugs. “It didn't really compete with the big Caleb
news. I thought someone might notice it later, but after a couple days went by, I realized that if you did a search for Dangerheart, that guitar blog didn't even show up until page six of the results. Page freakin' six. I mean, if you search for Dangerheart, do you know when the first mention of my name, or Matt's, for that matter, shows up? Page three. Even Val's name is barely mentioned in anything that makes the first page for the band. It's all Caleb and Eli.”

“It will blow over.”

“Yeah, but that's the thing . . . when, exactly? When we sign a record deal that we got
because
of Eli?”

“The record label offers are also happening because Dangerheart is really good,” I say. “And that's as much because of you as anyone else in the band.”

“Maybe?” says Jon. “I know I sound egotistical, but still . . . page six. It's one thing to be part of a team. It sucks to feel like an afterthought.”

“Jon, you're not. No one in the band feels that way.”

“You say that, but everybody shot my idea down yesterday after like two seconds.”

“Well, yeah, but ‘On My Sleeve' has been set for weeks. It's not surprising that a last-minute change threw everyone off. Plus, it sounded really different.”

“I was just trying to put my stamp on it.”

“But your stamp was already on it. The guitar parts were already great.”

“I don't know,” says Jon. “I just . . . I think the band
rocks. I like playing in it, but, if I'm never going to be noticed, hell, if I can't ever even talk to a girl at a show without it being about Caleb, then I just don't know if I can stand it.”

We're both quiet. Jon's fingers start racing around the fret board again.

“Don't leave the band,” I finally say. “We'd be done without you.”

Jon laughs. “No, you wouldn't. But thanks.”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“Not sure? I'll see you guys after school. We have to talk about the label stuff, right?”

“We do. Okay.” I rub his shoulder. “See you later.”

I hurry to the Green Room as soon as the bell rings, and grab what has become our usual table in the back corner. The rest of the PopArts kids have recognized by now that this is Dangerheart's territory—every band has their unofficial spot by this point—but I want to be sure it will just be us and the conversation-obscuring hiss of the nearby espresso stand. Once I claim it with my hoodie and books, I get in line and grab drinks. I know everyone's order, and they all keep me supplied with cash for this very thing. You might think this makes me the coffee gal, like I'm a glorified roadie, but it's actually really satisfying to get everything set up just right, and to know you're getting people exactly what they need. Plus, then no one screws up my order.

The band filters in. Caleb first. Matt and Val come in from the back doors by the rehearsal space. They were having a math meeting outside during Matt's free period, studying limits. Jon is last, but at least he's here. He stalks over to the table and sits down, guitar on his lap.

“Is Maya coming by?” I ask Matt.

“Probably,” he says with what seems to be his standard lack of enthusiasm.

“Okay, well, let's talk about the labels and Denver before she gets here. We're all very familiar with how Candy Shell operates, who their bands are and all, but did you have a chance to check out those links I sent with Jet City's roster and album art?”

Everyone kind of nods and shifts in their seats.

“Their stuff is really cool,” Caleb offers. It sounds like he's trying to please me.

“We're not really considering Jet City,” says Jon, getting right to it. “Are we?”

I guess I should have known.

Matt: “The money's amazing. I mean, my drum set is a piece of crap. And like, my parents have been trying to save for two years to go on a vacation.”

Jon: “I'd basically want to barf every day knowing that we said no.”

Val: “If I could afford a lawyer, I could pursue emancipation from my mom. And have rent for wherever I'm going to live. Not to mention some new stuff.”

I meet Caleb's gaze. He raises his eyebrows. “I don't think we even have a choice.”

“Okay, then.” I'm not sure what I was hoping for. One part of me wants to make the argument that going with the smaller label would be better for our songs, for our sound. But I have no idea how to make it or even if it makes sense. What could be better for our music than the chance to work on it all the time? Money would help.

I nod to the group. “So, I guess the only problem here is my gut screaming that it's a bad idea to work with Jason.”

“You're not the only one who's worried about that,” says Val.

“But what about Denver?” Caleb asks.

“I still say we're not breaking any laws or doing anything wrong by following some clues and seeing what we find,” I say.

Okay, then. Jon taps his finger around the fret board, eyes down.

“I don't know,” says Jon. “It seems like a bad idea to piss off the very label that's making us an offer. Maybe they'd help us find the songs.”

“I don't trust them with Eli's songs,” says Caleb. “That's the one thing I know.”

“So . . . can we all agree that we'll try the EP cover story and at least see what Candy Shell says? If Jason agrees, it can't hurt to stick to the plan and see if we find anything. Then we can decide what to do.”

“Here comes Maya,” says Matt, eyeing the door.

She's entering on the front edge of a swell of people. They all keep turning and looking over their shoulders and then I see why: Ethan is at the center of the vortex, like the hero home from war.

He's carrying on a conversation with five kids at once, and there are at least ten more who are just sort of orbiting, sucked in by the gravity. Amanda Phillips, a junior and a killer guitarist, is nearly hanging on his arm, batting her eyes and smiling at every word. Coach emerges from his office and makes his way over, beaming. Nobody cares about Postcards' tour troubles: they are still doing great by any PopArts kid's standard.

Ethan has already spotted me. “I think he's headed this way,” I say with a tone that should ward off any jealousy from Caleb.

Coach drags him past us, to show him the new sound system on the auditorium stage. Maya drops into a chair beside Matt.

A few minutes later, Ethan strolls back in and stops at our table.

“Hey,” he says, looking right at me.

“Hey,” I say back, making sure I don't sound too friendly. That's not for Caleb, it's for me. Then I take Caleb's arm and say, “Not sure if you guys know each other, but . . .”

“Ethan from Postcards from Ariel,” says Caleb, sticking out his hand. “What's up, I'm Caleb.”

“Hey.” They shake, and Ethan says, “I remember you from that band . . . The Androids. Guitarist?”

“And singer,” says Caleb.

For a second, Ethan's eyes sort of gleam like he's having some easy fun with the idea that I'm dating another band singer, and I tell myself to just stay there holding Caleb's arm because I am not going to give a crap what he thinks. “Nice,” he finally says.

“I thought you guys were on a big tour,” says Caleb. I wonder if he's trying to sound interested, or if he knows that comment stings.

“Things got canceled.” Ethan's tone is suddenly detached, in that no-big-deal way that is how musicians posture. “But it's all right. We're back to do a new EP.”

“Cool, man,” Caleb replies.

That's posturing, too.
Cool, man
is the musician equivalent of “That's great, and also fuck off.”

“So, hey, you guys ready for the big Denver adventure?”

As the words are coming out, I can't believe I didn't see this coming. I should have thought to intercept him or something, but we had so much other stuff to think about and now—

“What Denver gig?” Maya asks.

Ethan answers immediately, in full social mode. “It's a house concert.”

“Oh,” I hear Maya say quietly. I'm afraid to look over at her. I hear all the air escaping from Matt as he turns to run damage control.

“How's the guitarist search going?” I ask just to change the subject.

“Slow,” says Ethan. “From what I've read, Dangerheart already has Mount Hope's best guitarist.”

I expect Jon to deflect this compliment with some kind of funny accent. Instead, he has to restrain a smile. “Oh, thanks.”

I feel bad, too. Here's Ethan referencing that blog post that none of Jon's own band mates even saw.

“Yeah, well, anyway.” Ethan senses a couple other students hovering behind him, waiting to talk. “I'm gonna go see a few teachers. We should chat soon, about gear sharing and stuff.”

“Sounds good,” I say, avoiding his smile and keeping a hand on Caleb's arm.

“I'm sorry, it just hadn't come up yet,” I already hear Matt saying as Ethan leaves.

Maya is getting up in a hurry. “I'll see you later.”

“Maya,” Matt says, nearly whining.

“Maya, wait.” I flash Matt a look. I feel like this is my fault as much as anyone's. Better if I take the fall. “I'm sorry,” I say as she steps around the table. “We obviously wanted to tell you about Denver but we wanted to protect you.”

Maya spins around. “
Protect
me?” She glares at Matt. “And so you just do whatever Summer says?
That
shouldn't surprise me.”

Whoops.

“I don't,” Matt says weakly. “I mean, I didn't . . .”

“Not helping . . . ,” Caleb warns under his breath.

“Maya,” I say. “We just didn't want to put you in an awkward position with Candy Shell.”

“Oh, really?” Maya can't quite look at me. She aims her glare instead at the table. “Because you've never put me in an awkward position before, asking me to sleuth around for information on Val's mom, which totally could have gotten me fired.”

“I know,” I say, “that's why I didn't want to add to it.”

“No, you'd rather just make me look like an idiot. Thanks, Summer. I'll be a really impressive liaison to the band when Jason learns that I didn't even know your gig schedule.”

“Nobody knows our gig schedule.”

“Why not? Are you keeping it a big secret, or something?”

“Yes, for now.”

“Why?”

“Just . . . because, we are.” I know I'm being vague, and now a touch abrasive, but I don't know what else to do. “We didn't want you to have to lie.”