Exile (11 page)

“I guess that’s why you should never eat sushi on a trapeze,” I say, and we all laugh. Matt manages to smile, and gives me puppy-dog eyes of gratitude.

“Smooth move, Matty,” says Jon, throwing an arm
around him. “Looks like I’ll have you to huddle bitterly with after the show.”

“Now now,” I say, “you boys are getting phone numbers tonight. I guarantee it.” I actually already have an idea for Matt, although I’m not sure how it will go over.

“Are you
serious
?” The last member of our group to arrive is Randy, Caleb’s uncle and our official roadie for the evening. He has a van for his house-painting business that we could all ride over in. It would be a cooler ride if the back wasn’t a windowless metal cargo space lined with shelves of paint.

“This looks just like it did twenty years ago!” he says with a smile. Randy’s a round guy, barrel-chested, his face overrun by a farm of reddish hair. “Trial by Fire!” he announces to the world. “Same as it ever was.” He holds his hand to his face, dips his sunglasses, and says, “Look where my hand was.”

“Nobody gets your Talking Heads references,” says Caleb.

Val punches Caleb in the shoulder and actually smiles. “Shut up. I do.”

I notice that. The punching.

“Thank you, Valerie,” says Randy, “at least someone has some respect for rock and roll legacy. Man . . .” He gazes at the scene. “I remember back—”

“If you say ‘back in my day,’” says Caleb, “you have to leave.”

Randy pauses, flustered, then continues. “Back . . . when we played this party, which was, in fact,
in my day
, there was no stage.”

“What was your band called again?” Val asks.

“Savage Halos.”

“That is my favorite band name ever,” she says.

“Get a room,” says Caleb. “Except don’t because that would be super creepy.”

“That would bother you?” Val asks him.

“Um, just a bit.” Caleb kind of smiles.

Something flashes between their gaze. Maybe I’m just making it up. My sensors are clearly on maximum sensitivity, but still, I wish they didn’t have to be so chummy; then again, professional me knows that of course they’re in a band and there needs to be camaraderie. But still . . .

“So you were here, at the first Trial?” Jon asks.

“I was here, and Savage Halos opened for this other band, a bunch of plucky kids who called themselves Allegiance to North. I watched them turn this crowd into a supernova. That night was the beginning of the rest of our lives.” As Randy says this, he looks wistfully toward the ocean.

I glance at Caleb, hoping he’s not reading into it, knowing that, in a way, his life began right here that night, too.

“Can we just go?” Caleb says darkly. I guess he did. Fret Face is in full control.

“To the battlements!” Jon shouts, a knight leading an army.

We trudge through the sand to the side of the stage.

Soundmen are checking the mics. Dangerheart is slated to go second, after Freak Show. We pass Trevor, Cybil, Alejandro, and their new drummer, Lane, in the roped-off area beside the stage. Only Alejandro says hello.

Dangerheart sets up and does a quick sound check. They play a minute of music and it sounds great, but Caleb’s eyes are down, either on his guitar or the stage floor. I find myself urging him to look up, to engage.

After, Caleb and I head to the grass-roofed drink hut. As we weave our way through the crowd, I catch glances at us, and the sense of repetition grows. Summer with another band boy. I stuff my hands in my pockets, just in case Caleb gets any hand holding ideas, but he’s looking dark and distant. And then I kind of hate myself for caring what anyone might think.

The hut is rickety and cockeyed, built by Ari and his friends, who probably learned about woodworking from YouTube videos. There’s a line of kegs and multiple margarita machines on tables inside. On the corner of the warped bar, they’ve built a small mountain out of ice. As we stand there, a line of people step up one by one and a shirtless beefy kid slides electric orange Jell-O shots down into their mouths. My old friends Callie and Jenna are in line, wearing extremely revealing bikini tops and cutoff shorts. I want to give them my sweatshirt. Jenna is even wearing a cowboy hat. Yee haw.

“Hey, Caleb,” says a girl behind the bar. Missy Prescott. We don’t know each other, except of course that she knew Ethan Myers intimately last spring. She’s wearing the world’s smallest bikini. I wonder if it requires adhesive. She’s also smiling at Caleb like I’m not even there. “Are you playin’ tonight?”

Really, a fake Southern accent? I huff and tap the bar, but I don’t say anything, curious to see how Caleb handles it.

“New year, new band,” he says with a smile. “How was your summer?” As he’s making small talk, he reaches beneath the bar top and squeezes my hand. He’s good at being social, and I need to remember that’s a good thing for a lead singer.

“Do you know Summer?” he says.

Missy glances at me, her smile store-bought. “Hi.” Right back to Caleb. “What can I get you guys?”

I wonder what Caleb will order, and I feel my usual hesitation about whether or not to drink. I’m okay with it, and will on occasion, but the thing that will kill it for me is the feeling that there’s pressure. Plus, this is work.

“Just Cokes,” says Caleb. He turns to me. “If that’s cool? I don’t drink when I play. I don’t like to lose control.”

“That’s fine,” I say, relieved to hear this.

We get our drinks and move away from the bar to a spot where we watch the contestants trying to cross the rope over the lava pit. The rope is so wobbly that no one makes it
further than halfway, and no one seems to mind.

“I’m wondering if you were too good at that,” I say to him.

“What?”

“Miss Missy back there.”

“Come on, she’s cute, but only in a manufactured kind of way. Not a real bone in her body, I don’t think.”

“Well played.” I have an urge to rub his arm, but I hesitate. The surroundings are still spooking me.

Caleb takes out his copy of the set list and looks it over.

“It’s a good set,” I say.

Fret Face. “I’m not sure about ‘On My Sleeve.’”

“Come on. I can’t believe you’re second-guessing that song again.”

“No, just . . .” He looks around. “Everyone’s here to have fun, not to hear some downer ballad.”

“It’s not a downer. And nobody will have any idea who you’re singing about. People adapt songs to be about themselves.”

“Yeah.”

I rub his arm. “You’re nervous.”

Caleb kinda gulps. “I want it to be good. I always get amped up before shows. It’ll be okay once we’re playing.”

“Is it being here, too?”

Caleb focuses on folding his set. “What do you mean?”

“Randy was talking about Eli being here, now you’re
here. I mean, it’s understandable if that’s on your mind. You know, like life repeating itself.”

“That’s not how it’s going to be.” Caleb abruptly steps away. “I should go tune. See you after the set?”

“Right.” I try to offer him a smile. He’s half turned to go, but then he turns back and steps close. He leans in for a kiss.

Except I glance around, wary, and
no!
Why did I do that? And it immediately breaks the spell. Caleb pulls back. “Okay, sorry.” He walks off.

As he leaves, I swear to myself. We’ve lost our groove. He’s nervous, but it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have mentioned Eli and why do I even care what everyone thinks? But I’ll let him go. Things will be better after the set.

To be sure, though, I send him a quick text.
Sorry about the weird. Break a leg! But not really
.

I pause for a moment thinking of ending with
love you—
it would be the first time either of us said it. Almost a month, it’s time, isn’t it? But would that be weird right after having a moment of awkwardness? I end it with
xo
instead and hope the love is implied.

I distract myself by moving around the party and finding moments to post about.

I make a quick movie of a boy trying to cross the lava pit and falling in, and post it to Fanspace.

“SUMMER!” Ari emerges from the crowd, strutting toward me, megaphone to his mouth. “SWEET PARTY HUH—”

I wince and slap the megaphone down. “You were saying?”

“Sweet party, right?” he says breathlessly. His face is beet red. He smells like sugar and booze. “You ready for that Eruption?”

“After the set,” I say, offering him a professional smile. “Thanks for inviting us.”

Ari nods. Sways. His eyes swim down me but then his gaze shoots to our left. He raises the megaphone. “KYLIE!” He careens off.

“Hey, Summer!” I turn to find Maya hurrying over. “So excited to see the new band!”

“Hey, thanks! Me too.” I take her arm. “Stay with me, I have someone for you to meet.” I send a quick text.

“Ooh, so secretive!”

A minute later, Matt shows up, breathless. He literally ran in response to my text. “What’s up?” he asks, eyes hopeful.

“Matt, I wanted you to meet Maya. Maya Matt, reverse, there you go. You two should get to know each other. Maya is an awesome band manager. And Matt rocks, he’s a great drummer and he’s”—I’m already saying what I planned
to say when I realize how he’s going to take it—“like the brother I never had.”

Maya flashes a smile at me. Matt on the other hand, is beet red and not smiling. “Hey,” he manages politely.

Ah, crap. It’s a look that makes me feel bad about the brother comment. But maybe it’s necessary to train his puppy-dog love on someone else.

I help the two start up a conversation, and it’s just starting to go somewhere, but then there’s a whine of feedback from the stage.

“What up what up,” Alejandro intones into the mic. “We are the Freak Show, Freak Show . . .” He looms over the edge of the stage, his voice deep and sinister. All around us, people’s heads turn.

The band has been reinvented in black outfits. Lane starts thumping quarter notes on the kick drum, in a loping, heavy rhythm, like the perfect tempo to sway hips. All at once Alejandro, Trevor, and Cybil jump up in the air, landing in unison and crushing the first chord of their song.

The entire party begins to stir. Beside the stage I see Val, Jon, and Caleb snap to attention.

Freak Show bobs, their heads lunging up and down. They play a unison riff, fibrous with guitar crunch and drum throb and bass punch. It lumbers along like some kind of dragon on thick reptilian legs, undulating, wrapping everyone in its grip.

Alejandro’s delivery is part singing, part spoken word, and completely commanding. The groove is undeniably infectious. It strikes me as a little too harsh, but it’s doing a number on the party. Kids are rushing up to the front of the stage, to listen, to dance, but also to thrash. Their fast-forming crowd seethes and once the space becomes tight they start to throw themselves around. There is a free, fluid movement around the edges, but in the middle, delirious bodies slam into one another.

The songs ends and there is a huge cheer. Their second song begins like a sprint, upping the ante, the pulse and danger. It races like a car out of control on a cliff-side highway. The crowd grows bigger.

Alejandro starts rhythmically jumping. The crowd joins him. Even in the soft sand you can feel the thumping of all the feet joining in.

By the third song, it has become clear that Freak Show is for real. And I can see Caleb watching them from beside the stage, knowing it, too. Not like this is a competition, except that between bands and egos, it always is. I hope he
doesn’t let it rattle his nerves further.

Freak Show goes and goes, and their last song runs long. I keep checking my watch, and I can see Jon doing the same beside the stage, but there’s nothing to be done. They’ve created a frenzy out front, and everybody wants them to keep going. They pound on, looping their final dramatic groove over and over. The center of the crowd is a violent frenzy. A kid walks by me with blood dripping from his zinc-coated nose, eyes glazed, his girlfriend guiding him out of the fray.

Freak Show out
.

Alejandro slams the mic down on the stage and the band abruptly but expertly halts and then walks right off. The crowd explodes, cheering on and on.

“Well,” says Matt, sounding queasy, “time to go set up.” I watch him slink up to the stage and start moving his drums into place.

Amidst the continued shouting, Alejandro returns to the mic and says, “Thank you. I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna go try that lava pit, if anyone wants to join me.”

Some of the crowd was already scattering anyway in the aftershock of that set, but now there is a huge movement of kids toward the lava and I can’t help but wonder if that was an intentional move by Freak Show, to sabotage Dangerheart’s set. Either way: not cool.

By the time Dangerheart has set up, the area in front of the stage is only sparsely populated. I see Caleb seeing this
as he’s tuning. I hope it’s not getting to him. Then he moves over to Val and talks into her ear. She cocks her head, looking angry, though with Val it’s hard to tell. Caleb goes on to Jon and then Matt, telling them something, then he returns to the mic.

“Hi, we’re Dangerheart,” he says to scattered applause. I can hear the sudden lack of confidence in his voice. I know he’s reading the vibe right now. Having to perform in the aftermath isn’t easy. And he was already off from the ghosts in this place.
Come on, Caleb, just do your thing
. The move here is to not care. To just do your thing and eventually the crowd will come around. . . . “This first song is called ‘Exit Strategy.’”

Wait . . . I check the set list on my phone. The first song was supposed to be “Knew You Before,” but instead Caleb has called the band’s fastest, most rocking song to be first. He’s feeling pressure to match Freak Show’s energy level. But that’s not going to be possible. Not in the same way, anyway.