“Okay . . . ,” Jon says. “But at the very least, we are going to play a gig in San Francisco, and if the next tape does exist, we’re going to get a private concert of a never-before-heard song.”
“Yes,” says Caleb.
“I can live with that.” He turns to Matt and brightens. “Road trip!” They high-five.
“Now that that’s settled, can we please go practice?” says Val. “Hopefully nobody’s forgotten that we still need to be, like, good when we go to San Fran.”
“Let’s meet up in an hour,” Caleb says, and gets quiet again. “Randy, can you rewind that thing?”
“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.
14
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: