Exile (17 page)

“I’m not watching that again.” Val is on her feet. “Goddamn depressing. I’ll be at the Hive. Caleb, why don’t you just come now?”

“I’ll stay with you,” I say to Caleb. He’s just staring at the blue screen.

Val mutters to herself and leaves.

“We’ll meet you over there,” says Jon. “Thanks for showing us this. Craziness.”

As they leave, Eli’s face appears on the screen.

“Hey, far comet.”

Caleb sits on the edge of the couch. I sit beside him. We watch it again, saying nothing. And then again.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 14h
RT and vote for your favorite song for Dangerheart’s set list on tour!
One week to SFO!

The band settles into daily practices. They are getting really tight, adding new songs. The only problem: Val is almost always late. She complains about the traffic getting up from Mission Viejo, but I keep an eye on traffic before the next practice, and it’s totally fine. And she’s still late.

On Thursday we meet up after school with Blaire Nolan, star video director in the PopArts visual media track.

“The song is so grand,” he says of “On My Sleeve.”

“Ear lube,” I say, sharing a private smile with Caleb.

Blaire ignores this. “I wish we could film you playing by, like, a canyon, but since we can’t do that, I’m thinking intercuts of facial close-ups, panning shots of a sparse
hillside from ground level, and then oversaturated footage of you guys eating ice cream.”

“Can I spill some of the ice cream
on my sleeve
?” Jon asks. Matt cracks up.

Blaire looks away, scowling. “It’s a tonal collage. If you want
literal
, go ask Wendy Morris to shoot your video.”

“We’ll be fine,” I say.

Only Val never shows up.

“Does anybody have a number for her? Anything?” I ask as we sit in the Green Room drinking coffee.

The boys shrug.

“Well, has she friended you or added you on any sites?”

“Actually, no,” says Caleb. When the others agree, he wonders aloud, “Huh. I did do a Twitter search for her once, but she’s not on there.”

I get out my phone. “What’s her last name?”

The boys look at each other.

“You’re kidding.”

“I never . . . it never came up,” says Caleb.

I start searching around. “Well, what do we actually know about her? She goes by Val, short for . . . Valerie?”

“Don’t know,” says Caleb.

“She’s a student at Mission Viejo, her band in New York was called Kitty Klaws. She moved here in . . . June?”

“Maybe?” says Jon.

“And is she a senior? Do we know how old she is?”

More shrugs.

“You sound like a prosecutor,” says Caleb.

“We should know who this person is,” I reply, then lower my voice. “Especially since we’re including her in something giant and secret, yes?”

“Agreed,” says Jon.

“No, you’re right,” Caleb says, at least having the good sense not to disagree with me on this. “Let’s just give her some benefit of the doubt, okay?”

“If she earns it.” All my searches online, Facebook, and Twitter come up empty. Kitty Klaws had a Twitter feed—they are listed as being from Ithaca—but no one’s posted since May 24, and all the posts around that time are cryptic conversations with other people. I scroll down and finally find a tweet about a gig on at the beginning of the month. The band’s website isn’t updated either. That same gig is listed, but that’s it. They just went to no signal. No farewell show, or mention of Val leaving. It’s the kind of band ending that usually means there was trouble.

Still, I try to convince myself that Caleb’s right. I should probably give Val the benefit of the doubt. After all, she’s a kick-ass performer. And yet . . . I can’t shake the mistrust.

After the coffees are gone and it’s apparent that Val is never showing up, Caleb and I head to Taquita’s to do homework.

“You guys can join, if you want,” Caleb offers.

“Yeah, no,” says Jon. “I’ve got a pedal to pick up at PRR.” He means People’s Republic of Rock.

“I’m meeting Maya,” says Matt.

“Oh cool,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. “How’s that going?”

Matt’s eyes dart past me. “Fine.”

We get food and grab a table in the sun, trying not to get salsa on our calculus.

“Do you know what you’re going to do about your dad and the college weekend?” he asks me.

“No.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand,” says Caleb. “You could visit schools any weekend. This gig only comes up once.”

“I think, to my dad, it’s sort of the opposite.” I can just hear his reaction if I tried explaining about the gig. And it ends with him saying no. And what do I do then? I’ve contemplated the drastic: but I’m just not the type who would ditch her dad for a gig, basically run away, no matter how much sometimes I wish I was. “My current plan is to eat enchiladas and pretend there’s no problem.”

Caleb kisses me, and taps his pencil against the calculus homework between us. “Should I use the chain rule here?” he asks from two inches away.

I kiss him back. “Sounds dangerous.” Kiss again. Between each one, I stay close enough to feel his breath.

“Product rule then.”

Kiss.

“Are you still talking about derivatives?”

Kiss.

“No idea.”

Things continue, and then cool off, because we are in public. When I finally pull back and turn his notebook to see the problem he’s working on, I can feel his eyes on me and I take a minute to imagine things that could happen in a less public place . . . and then briefly the same things happening in front of everyone, right on a food-court table, what the hell.

Then back to calculus.

But my head’s not in it, not just because of all the kissing business, but because of the equation with Carlson Squared.

I’ve been trying to figure out my options with them. And there isn’t one. I mean, there’s the truth, but that doesn’t seem like a good idea. And there’s no scenario I could invent that’s going to trump college visits. Thinking about it ramps me up, but when I try to think about something else, there’s Val again. I need to know what her deal is. I tell myself that it’s not just because I am trying to build a case against her. But I also know that I am trying to build a case.

“So . . . I’ll just finish this,” Caleb says about the homework.

“Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to get rid of all the worries.

“Was that your phone?”

“Huh?” I realize that my phone just buzzed like I have a message. “Oh yeah.” I pull it out of my bag.

Hey there! This is Jason!

I just stare at the screen. What the hell? I try to stay calm, to not attract Caleb’s attention. How did he even get my number? I type back:

Why are you on my phone?

I can feel the sarcasm. I don’t know how to respond. I just want him to go away. So, I don’t reply, but after a pause, he writes: Come by my office tomorrow after school.

Great. My nerves are ringing. Why am I even letting him hold this over me? I should just tell Caleb about the gig offer, and also tell them how Jason can’t be trusted. Except I’m not sure they’ll see it my way. Why would they not want to play a cooler gig in SFO? Not that my gig isn’t cool but . . . am I really just holding out on them so that I won’t lose them? I should give Caleb more credit than that. And, I’m sure my gig is the better move . . . aren’t I?

Maybe I’ll just meet with Jason. That can’t be a good
idea. What could he possibly want? But suddenly something occurs to me. And I write back:

Deal, on 1 condition: You let me interview your dad for my blog.

There’s no response for almost a minute. This was a risky thought, but since Jerrod Fletcher was Allegiance’s manager, he would know about their San Francisco tour stop. He could fill in the details about where they ate and stayed and all that.

Jason finally replies: Deal. See you tomorrow, say, 4?

See you then. I turn my attention back to Caleb, who is erasing fiercely. “Here,” I say. “Let me see.”

“Any good news?” he asks. As I take the notebook back, his fingers play with mine, and I feel a rush of guilt.

And then I say, “I’ll be late to practice tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah, what’s up?”

I almost lie about the whole thing, but then realize that if my interview with Jerrod works, Caleb will need to know about it. “Actually, I got a meeting with Jason Fletcher at Candy Shell. He was asking me to be his intern when we were at the Trial. I don’t want to, as he’s slime, but I told him I’d meet with him if I could interview his dad.” Only a lie by omission. But if I can unlock the key to the San Fran tape location, and convince Caleb that they should perform the songs, then one lost opener with Sundays on Mars won’t even matter anymore.

“Good plan,” Caleb says after I explain my reasoning, “but remember we were going to go to find Pluto before our movie date.”

“Right, yes,” I say, and I hate that I momentarily did forget that. He smiles and we kiss, but instead of just being there in the moment, I spend the whole kiss chasing my thoughts and wondering if I’m doing the right thing.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 45m
There it is before you—smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and . . . whispering, “Come and find out.” #jconradFTW

Two buses take me across LA on Friday afternoon, to Santa Monica and the sleek, coral white facade of Candy Shell Records. I’m with Maya, who checks me in and takes me up in the elevator to a waiting area, a dark wood-paneled room. The furnishings are sleek, with lots of chrome and glass. Gold and platinum records line the walls, interspersed with signed band photos and tour posters. The perky people striding to and fro wear well-tailored skirts and tops, shirts and ties.

“Isn’t it cool?” says Maya. She changed before leaving school, into a junior version of the power suits that glide past us.

“Yeah,” I say. It’s my first time in a real record label, and it’s not quite what I expected, or maybe not quite what I hoped. Maybe I wanted to see everybody dressed super casual or like they were going to a show, or to have there be wild art all over the walls, but this is all business. Big business. Part of me immediately wants to be part of it. Looking around at all these hustling people, you can feel the possibility. With this kind of machine behind you, man, you could reach so many people. As we’ve learned in class, there are whole departments here devoted to each of the things I have to do on my own: social media, creative development, branding and logos, booking, and on and on.

It also makes me feel hopelessly small. For as much as I like to believe that I can do it on my own, that I can get Dangerheart out there one email, tweet, or hashtag at a time . . . maybe this is what it really takes. Except then a band like Postcards is struggling to get anyone to their shows on tour.

Which makes me wonder: Do these people really see their bands for who they are? Or is Postcards just a commodity? Would Candy Shell love “On My Sleeve” because it’s brilliant or because it could lead to brilliant sales? And what happens if you get hooked on all this big label stuff? What if you start to think of your art in terms of sales too? Can you still be true to yourself?

But then I think of Carlson Squared sitting here in this expensive waiting area, as I walk down the hall in a pro suit to meet them for an expensive lunch.
That’s okay, Dad
, I’d
say, waving off his wallet.
It’s on the company
. And I can see their opinions changing. There is no doubt they would be impressed by this.

Maya shows me her desk. It’s tucked in a puzzle of cubicles. “Kinda sterile, I know,” she says.

“Yeah, but, kinda fun too,” I say. The cubicle feels almost private, a safe space to get work done where you wouldn’t have to fake doing homework. She has a big hand-drawn logo of Supreme Commander beside a spreadsheet of what seem to be email contacts.

She introduces me to her cubicle neighbor, Bev, a large older woman who’s been at Candy Shell since its start.

“Bev knows all the dirt.”

“A coffin’s worth of it,” Bev says. “You stick around bands long enough, it tends to pile up.”

“I’m starting to learn that,” I say.

Maya brings me back to the waiting area. “Good luck,” she says, leaving me in a square of modern white couches and glass tables.

Two guys sit nearby in ripped jeans and T-shirts, their hair professionally messy. The first people I’ve seen who look like they actually play music. I’m guessing they do brat pop, the kind that’s too whiny but always has really catchy melodies, even if they’re always name-dropping corporate beverages and jeans. The kind of songs that are about rebelling but not against anyone specific. Twelve-year-olds can listen to them and parents can turn them up at barbecues in
the Fronds while drinking pink margaritas. They probably sell a ton of records.

I wonder what it feels like to sell, say, a million copies of an album. Would it get to your head? Would it feel like pressure to sell more? At Postcards shows, we would sell ten copies and feel like royalty, and then be hopelessly depressed if at the next show we only sold six. Like we’d already peaked and failed.

An impossibly tall assistant strides up to me, heels clacking. She doesn’t make eye contact, and delivers her greeting in a single exhale: “Hi I’m Royce right this way.” She turns and starts walking like . . . she has no idea who I am. And I know exactly who she is. The one who got it on with Ethan last summer. I aim hate beams at the back of her head, but the sad truth is she probably never even knew about me.