Exile (9 page)

I sit back, heart racing. “Wow. Not all of that made sense to me, but . . .” I glance at Caleb, and can’t resist looking around to see if anyone is close enough to hear. “This is obviously written to you.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think this is a suicide note? That he—”

“Meant to drown?” Caleb shakes his head. “That didn’t happen for another four months. But he thought something bad was going to happen to him.”

“He says,
they’re after me
. Who do you think he meant?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe it was no accident that this bag ended up in Randy’s car. Do you think Eli hoped someday this would get to you?”

Caleb just nods, eyes on his yogurt.

“And then . . .” I look back at the letter. “Is he saying
what I think he’s saying? About hidden things?”

“Have you ever seen the old tracklist,” asks Caleb, “from
Into the Ever & After
, the album they were working on when Eli died?”

“I remember hearing about it. There were missing songs, right?”

Caleb taps the letter with his finger. “The three track titles were ‘Exile,’ ‘Anthem for Penelope,’ and ‘Encore to an Empty Room.’ He was working on them.”

“But he wanted to hide them,” I add. “He didn’t trust . . . who? Band mates? Drug dealers?”

Caleb shrugs. “I think he wanted me to have them.”

I look over the letter again. “What do you think he meant by
Vic
and
Reuben with pickles
?
Daisy
and all that?”

“I don’t know. I did searches for those words, combined with Eli and Allegiance to North and everything, but there was nothing.” Caleb suddenly slaps the table. “He was stoned when he wrote it. The whole thing might just be nonsense.”

“But the songs might be real, Caleb. These tapes might be out there.”

“Yeah,” Caleb says quietly. “If they are, I have to find them.”

I take his hand. I worry about getting his hopes up. Hidden tapes from his long-dead dad? How likely is it that they even exist? And if they do, how likely is it that they’re even still out there? It’s all hard to believe, especially considering
this is the same guy who bailed on his band during the biggest tour of their lives, who literally went AWOL for two months. Who went swimming off the Santa Monica pier while high and wearing cowboy boots.

But seeing the look in Caleb’s eyes, I decide to save all that worry. “Where do you want to start looking?”

Caleb shrugs. “I have no idea. I looked through this”—he reaches into the bag again and pulls out a paperback copy of
On the Tip of Your Tongue
—“but only a little. Maybe there are clues in earlier letters.”

I look at the cover. There is Eli, along with Kellen, Parker, and Miles, and they’re all glamming at the camera, tongues out, only instead of being decked out in leather and makeup like a metal band, they’re wearing loose flannels and all have scruffy beards. They look like they’re having a blast.

“Yeah, hard to believe they hated each other by the end,” says Caleb.

The Eli on the cover looks so young, silly, and carefree. The one in the letter is so full of regret, so weary.

“Are we going to tell the rest of the band?” I ask.

“No. Definitely not.”

“But wouldn’t it be good to get their help? They all seem like good guys.”

Caleb’s face darkens. “We don’t know if we can trust them yet.”

I’m not sure I agree about that, but I’m fine keeping it
just between us for now. “Did you tell your mom?”

“No,” says Caleb. “She made up her mind about Dad a long time ago. I think she’d definitely shoot this down.”

As he stows the letter away again, I let my thoughts unspool. Something big has been on my mind since the moment I finished reading the letter. “If we found these songs, Caleb, I mean . . . we’re talking about the lost songs of Eli White. It would be . . . huge. Can you imagine if we performed them—”

“No,” Caleb snaps. “This isn’t about profiting off my dead father’s songs.”

I recoil. It didn’t seem like such a threatening idea when I was thinking it, but clearly Caleb is on edge. “Hey, come on. I wasn’t talking about money. I just meant more like . . . You’re his son, the perfect person to play them. And every band needs a break. This would be huge exposure for—”

“Summer, I said NO.” Caleb lurches to his feet. He grabs his bag, knocking his empty dish to the ground in the process. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Caleb, stop.”

“You’re managing me again and that is exactly
not
what I need. I just needed you to listen.”

I stand up, too, and try to brush off the sting of his words. “Caleb, I did listen, I’m just trying to help.”

Caleb is silent, staring out toward the street. “Can we walk?” he finally says.

We throw out our bowls and walk up the sidewalk,
not touching. I want to reach for his hand, but suddenly I don’t feel sure. This is the second time today that Caleb has accused me of managing him when I thought I was trying to help.

Was I wrong to jump right to the idea of what to do with the songs? Or was that a completely normal thing to think about? I know this must be hard for him; even the idea that he has a dad is a new one. But if we actually found those songs, how could we not release them to the world? Isn’t hiding them away just as selfish as profiting from them? There’s no doubt that people would want to hear them.

And . . . with the lost songs by Allegiance to North, you could write your own ticket. Any band would kill for that kind of break. You wouldn’t need some heartless record label like Candy Shell to come along and sweet-talk you.

But maybe that’s more about me than about Caleb.

Hello, complicated.

We eventually settle into trivial stories about relationship drama involving a few bands at school. When we say good night, he kisses me: same lips, same tongues, but somehow now there is distance. I refuse Caleb’s offer of a ride and as he leaves me at the bus stop, I hate this new feeling that I have. Now that these songs exist, I worry that nothing in our relationship can be just us anymore.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 7m
This just in! Dangerheart may have found a bass player! I guess Hot Chocolate was right! #ibelieveinmiracles #nottheyousexythingpart

I am halfway to practice when Caleb’s text arrives.

I think we have our bassist
.

I reply: No way! Who?

But then nothing.

I didn’t even realize that we had any bass tryouts today. Someone must have been referred to the band directly. At this point, with only four days until the Trial, we’d come to terms with the fact that Dangerheart would be playing its first gig bass-less, with Jon using an octave pedal to fill in the sonic hole. We did try out one person on Saturday, but he turned out to be a forty-year-old guy named Rod
who wore leather pants and claimed he could still “rock it on to the break of dawn.” Next.

The band has been sounding good, regardless. And Caleb and I are past the awkwardness of the other night. Sunday evening, we met up at Sacred Cow, an Indian place in the center of town and read through
On the Tip of Your Tongue
, looking for any clues about those strange references in Eli’s letter. We found nothing, but we did find two amazing quotes:

And:

“Ear lube” made us laugh. A lot.

We also read a lot of darker stuff about Eli’s stints in and out of rehab, and a time he got arrested for disorderly conduct on Sunset Boulevard. This was less funny. He ran out of a bar bathroom and down a street convinced he was being chased by the ghost of Jerry Lee Lewis, and he was screaming the lyrics to “Great Balls of Fire” at the top of his lungs. And his pants were apparently still in the bathroom.

The book made Caleb quiet. And the strange stories and lack of clues made the idea of hidden songs seem barely possible. But I can’t get the possibility of them out of my mind, and I think Caleb feels the same way.

I hurry from the bus to the Hive, through the gauntlet of smoke and postures, up to the door, where I pause because the band is in mid-song. I can already tell by the humming of the walls that there’s bass in the room. Its deep presence obscures everything. I can’t even tell what song this is, yet.

Caleb starts to sing—

But wait. That’s not Caleb.

It sounds like a girl. Yes, it’s definitely either a girl, or maybe that’s what Jon sounds like when he sings? But he never sings—

A shrieking whine of feedback suddenly grinds the band to a halt.

“Aww, man!” I hear Matt groan.

“Sorry,” says Jon.

I knock. The door opens. It’s Caleb. The usual dank smell of guy wafts out, only now it’s tinged with something sweet. Strawberry gum?

“Hi.” I lead with a smile, trying to hide my confusion.

“Hey, Summer!” Matt calls eagerly from across the room.

Caleb makes eye contact. There’s Fret Face, but a slightly different variation. Eyes wider. “Hey.” His eyes flash over his shoulder. “So . . .”

But I’m already there.

She’s over by the drums, in front of a mic, a burgundy P-bass, slung low. It seems nearly as tall as she is. Bleached blonde hair, with dark eye shadow, or really dark circles, it’s hard to tell. A simple green T-shirt that says “Product of Capitalism,” black jeans and yellow sneakers, and yellow-white-and-red sweatbands on her wrists.

She levels a flat gaze at me, her mouth working on the source of the strawberry smell. I’m immediately on my guard and I want to ask,
Who’s this?
, but instead some polite gene kicks in and I just say, “Hi.”

The girl eyes me. “Who’s this?”

Caleb’s hand falls on my shoulder. “This is Val,” he says to me. “Val, this is Summer, our manager.”

“Val rocks,” adds Jon.

“You’re Moonflower Productions?” Val asks. She doesn’t sound impressed. “So, you, what, mastertweet about the band, hang posters, fetch sodas?”

I meet her gaze. Really? This is how we’re going to start? I feel a surge of adrenaline as I search for the right response, but all I come up with is, “It’s more than that.” Then, to Caleb: “I don’t remember any replies to our ads from a Val.”

“I didn’t,” she says.

“She was just here,” adds Matt.

“What, you just magically appeared?” I head for the couch. “I’ve never seen you at Mount Hope.”

“I go to Mission Viejo,” she says. “I saw Caleb with
Android Necktie back in June, at the Irvine Street Fair. It was right after I moved out here. Been keeping tabs on him ever since.”

So, you’re basically a groupie?
I think to ask, but instead the professional instinct wins again and I settle for, “Do you have band experience?”

Val scowls. “Of course. I fronted my own band back when I lived in New York. Kitty Klaws. You can YouTube us.”

“We watched some,” says Jon. “They were great.”

I look at Caleb. “Was she singing?”

“Yeah . . .” Caleb’s eyes shift. “We watched the videos and, I don’t know, I just thought it might be cool if we tried the duo thing. Some of Val’s songs, some of mine. But it’s not a definite.”

“Is she your mom?” Val asks.

Caleb nervous-laughs, and what bothers me right now is how this Val girl is making
him
flustered. Does that mean he thinks she’s cooler, more intimidating than me?
You’re being silly
. But I wonder if I am. Val is cute. Val can sing. She’s a girl with a bass. Songs have been sung about such girls. And none, as far as I’m aware, about band managers.

Except, when I’m not feeling jealous—and I’m totally feeling jealous—I have to admit that Caleb has done something kind of brilliant. Having a second singing, songwriting member is a real strength. Granted, bands like the Beatles eventually blow apart fantastically—and maybe in
Val’s case I wouldn’t mind that, eventually—but still, this really increases the intrigue and cool of the band, if she’s any good.

I also realize that acting skeptical/territorial/jealous is the stereotypical move right now, so even though that’s exactly what I’m feeling, the least I can do is hide it. “Cool,” I say, “can I hear your tune?”

Val looks down at her strings as she replies, revealing a hint of nerves. “Sure. Same one?”

“Yeah,” says Caleb.

“Okay.” Val leans up to the mic. “This is—” She pauses to cough. It sounds like she smokes. “This is ‘Catch Me.’”

The band blasts into a high-speed tune with a rapid-fire beat and eighth notes on the bass.

Val starts to sing the first verse. I’ve seen Caleb sing a few times now. He balances a sense of vulnerability with emotional power, alternating between glancing at the crowd and closing his eyes, in and out of himself like he and the audience are searching for the story of the song together.

Val is totally different. Darker. Harder, but also more fragile. Her eyes are open and glaring. Daggers made of glass. She locks on things, occasionally even me, and it’s an angry, accusatory gaze, the purse to her lips. It’s like there’s a bulletproof panel between you and her, and yet, you feel like that glass is there for a reason, like behind it there is a deep well of sadness. Even in spite of our rough beginning, this sense of her stirs a feeling of empathy in me.

The music switches, and Val nods to Caleb, who quick nods back, musician-speak, and when Val hits the high long notes of her chorus:

Caleb layers his voice right on top and it’s . . . well, I have to be honest: it’s fantastic.

I get out my notebook and write down the word “romantic.” I don’t mean cheesy, and I don’t mean like romantic between the two of them. It’s what a listener will feel (and then they’ll assume the romance). I wonder what it must feel like to sing in harmony—I mean, that’s got to be intimate, right? Damn, I want to know. And I feel the jealous tremor crawl deeper, thinking that I’m so right for Caleb, in so many ways, and yet Val has waltzed in here and shared that connection with him in just a few minutes. How can I compete with that?