“Please. We might be more alike than you think. I’ll admit, I didn’t think about you for more than two seconds when I signed Postcards, but . . . here you are again. I’m wondering if I underestimated you. You’ve definitely got an eye for talent. Maybe we should be working together.”
“Um, no.”
“Come on,” says Jason. “I’d give you an internship, an office, access to all of Candy Shell’s media contacts . . . I could have a scout in the minor leagues, and you could take your thing to the next level.”
“I already said no.” And yet I don’t mind being told I was underestimated, and I hate how appealing most of his offer sounds. Everything except working for Jason. If he’s what you need to be at the next level, then I have to wonder if I’ve got what it takes. But there’s got to be another way to get there.
Jason pulls his card back. “Well, I’m going to let you think about it. In the meantime, tell your band I thought they were great for a couple songs there. I think they need a little more time to simmer . . .”
“I believe in them,” I say.
“Hang on, I wasn’t finished,” he says. “I am also looking for an opening act for a West Coast tour with Sundays on Mars. Four dates in October. Your band here might be just the right fit, if they get their act together.”
I try not to give Jason the reaction he wants, which is, Whoa, REALLY? Sundays on Mars is a big deal. An opening slot for them would be a huge break. But it’s Jason. Once a shark, always a shark . . . right?
“You’ll tell them that, won’t you?” he prods. “Unless you want me to . . .”
“Okay, fine. Good-bye.”
Jason keeps grinning but doesn’t move, so I stalk off.
“See you around, partner,” he calls after me.
I keep my head down as I head for the stage. On the way, I check my feed, looking for a distraction that will erase Jason from the last two minutes of my life.
The reviews of Dangerheart’s all-too-brief set are mixed.
From:
M a r i s s a @fluttershy1346 13m
This is the new band that matters. They are raw and for real. Enigmatic singer is H-O-T. #Dangerheart
to:
Wise Young Fool @ritchiesudden 7m
This band tries 2 hard and the singer is a fake. #FreakShow4Evr
When I get to the side of the stage, Caleb is gone. I don’t see Val either. Jon and Matt are packing up their gear while the next band, Thesis in Blood, a college swoon-metal band from Loyola, sets up.
“What happened?” I ask them.
Matt and Jon are both head-down. “Caleb lost it,” says Matt.
“Couldn’t you tell?” says Jon while disassembling Mission Control.
“Yeah. Where is he?”
Matt just shrugs. Jon waves a hand toward the party. “He took off that way.”
They start hoisting their gear.
“Where are you guys going?”
“Home,” says Jon. “My friend Abe is giving us a ride.”
“Can you stick around?” I ask. “I’ll find Caleb, and we can have a quick band decompress and—”
“What band?” says Jon. “If this is how it’s gonna be, I’m finding another band.”
“Come on,” I say. “How about we meet up at the Hive tomorrow. Caleb needs a chance to explain.”
Matt huffs. “Why?”
“Just . . . please?”
Jon looks to Matt. Matt looks at me.
“Hey, guys!” Maya appears beside me. I want to shoo her away. “Short set, but cool!” She is gazing supportively at Matt. “Your drums sounded great.”
“Thanks.” Matt flashes a glance at her and then back at me. “Are you coming with us?”
“Come on,” I say, but it’s halfhearted. Can I really blame them? “Nah. I gotta find Caleb.”
Matt’s gaze stays on me. Then finally he looks at Maya. “We’re going to Mike’s Burgers. You wanna go?”
“Oh, well, sure!” Maya hurries over and grabs a drum case.
“I’ll be in touch,” I say.
Matt has already turned. Jon shrugs. “Kick Caleb in the balls for me, please?”
“Right.”
I head back toward the drink hut, but I don’t see him. I find Missy leaning over the counter whispering into a lava-soaked dude’s ear.
“Is Caleb around?” I ask. When I repeat it, she finally glances over.
“He was here. Got a Jell-O shot and a beer and went that way.” She points away from the party, up the beach, then adds, with obvious delight, “He was with some girl.” I try to hide any and all reaction to that, but I must have one, because Missy adds with a smile, “She was all over him.”
“Great. Thanks.” I head past the bonfire, where I get side slammed by a beefy guy in a white baseball cap and a girl in swim goggles who proceed to fall in a giggly tangle. Their friends are laughing like it’s hilarious. I hate people.
Suddenly Ari appears in front of me, megaphone to his lips. “SUMMER,” he says, the electrified voice feeding back. “IS NOW THE TIME FOR THAT F—”
I snatch the megaphone, turn it so the wide mouth faces the sky, grab the coconut cup from the girl to my left, and dump the lightly flaming contents into the megaphone. It shrieks like a wounded duck and sparks jump from it.
“Dude . . . ,” says Ari sadly.
I keep walking. Ari probably didn’t deserve that. Whatever.
I trudge through the sand, wound so tight I’m barely breathing. I want to find him, but I don’t. What girl? What the hell happened to the Caleb I knew? Is this just because I didn’t kiss him before the set? Probably not, though that likely didn’t help. The last thing he needed was more uncertainty, with all the ghosts around him already. And yet . . . he was with some girl . . . suddenly I’m just feeling hamster-to-wheel again, Ethan to Caleb. But no. I know he’s not like that. Don’t I?
I reach the perimeter of the party, where the sound of the surf can actually compete with the music and voices. Couples have stumbled away to lie around pawing at each other. Some are splashing each other in the surf like eight-year-olds. Or maybe it’s romantic. But maneuvering around the spray of their fun is unbearably annoying. Further up the dark beach, a drum circle drones. The sea breeze carries the echoes of their bong.
I get past the last party satellites, to complete darkness and sea. Stars and cliff-side homes glitter. Part of me wants to just keep on going, on through the night, to whatever new world seems certain to lie at the far end of the coast. Instead, I take a deep breath of the sour air and turn back, walking the tideline toward the firelight. I study the small groups and couples and pass the occasional loaner gazing into the dark. Some glance up, hoping I’m the other lost soul they’re destined to meet. Sorry.
Finally, I see a figure with the unmistakable outline of Caleb’s hair and nose sitting in the sand.
But then the silhouette moves and— oh, hell. He’s not alone.
Someone leaning on his shoulder. Firelight catches blonde hair, a petite frame . . .
I hear the murmur of their voices, and move as close as the rustle of waves will allow.
“It just didn’t feel right,” I hear Caleb saying. “I hate how it always has to feel right, like you have to be perfect.”
“You don’t. You can’t expect that of yourself.” Crap. Of course I know that voice, despite how it’s muffled by the contact between cheek and shoulder. Legs side by side . . .
“Jon and Matt are probably mad,” Caleb says.
“Just apologize. I’ll help. They don’t have the burden you do, being lead singer.”
Caleb shrugs. “Summer’s going to be pissed.”
“Obviously,” I hear Val say. “But you can’t expect her to get it. She’s not like us.”