“I think so.”
Caleb’s face darkens. “So what did my dad think I was going to do with them?”
“Maybe we should ask Randy,” I say, thinking of Jason’s comment about how they were tight.
“It’s not fair,” says Val.
“What?” asks Caleb.
“Your dad putting this burden on you,” she says. “He could have left you the songs when he died, like in a will or something. Or given them to your mom. Why put you through this ghost hunt? And make you do something illegal?”
“It’s not illegal to find the songs,” I say, though I agree with her point about Eli.
“But it will be illegal to play them without Candy Shell’s permission.” Val’s right about that.
“Which we might not even do,” Caleb reminds us. “But it’s probably also technically illegal to keep them a secret.”
“So, what do we do?” I ask Val. “Do you think we should tell Candy Shell?”
Suddenly Val smiles. “Hell no.”
“No way,” Caleb agrees. “I really want to hear the rest of that song. I have to.”
“Definitely,” says Val, and then she . . .
literally . . .
reaches out and rubs his arm.
And I lose it. “Do you not see me right here?”
“What?” she nearly snarls. “Why are you like the most overprotective grizzly bitch ever? We’re friends. What’s the problem with that?”
I look to Caleb. Oh, boyfriend, this is one of those moments where you have to step up and not let the band girl hit on you with your girlfriend right there . . .
He looks back at me with an expression that is honestly pathetic, as if he wishes the situation would go away or fix itself. I’m still trying to figure out what to do about it, is what he said at the beach. I get that it’s complicated, kinda, but . . . if he’s not going to do anything, then what choice does that give me?
“The problem, right now, is you,” I say to Val, and as the words leave my face I’m pretty certain that I’ll wish for a hundred years that I had a do-over to say something smarter. But honestly, whatever. I start to scoot out.
“Where are you going?” Caleb asks.
“Can we go to the movie?” I ask.
Caleb flashes a glance at Val.
“Just the two of us,” I add. “Val can handle herself for two hours.” I know I’m probably being unfair, and I sort of hate myself for feeling like I need to do this. To ask Caleb to choose between us. To choose me.
“But,” he says queasily. And he glances again between Val and me and doesn’t get up. It’s an impossible position for him. That’s how he feels. Fine. But that leaves me feeling like I only have one option. “I’m gonna go.”
“Summer . . .”
My name just infuriates me. “Stop.” I look to Val. “I’m sorry about what you’re going through. I am. You guys just go to the movie. Have a sleepover. I’m going home.”
It’s my turn to storm off even though I’m already regretting it as I do it. But once you set your exit into motion, you’ve got to stick the landing. “I’ll see you tomorrow at practice.” I keep walking. I hate it. I feel tears coiling, ready to spring free. Not doing that. Walking out. Holding my breath.
I’m outside, halfway up the block, when I exhale and the tears pour out. My phone buzzes. Caleb: Come on. I’m sorry. Come to the movie.
I keep going, and as I drive home, I hate everything. Hate hate hate. To myself: “Real mature, leaving like that. Playing right into her hands.” To Val, via the window: “Where do you get off thinking you can just get that close to him?” To myself, via the dashboard: “You don’t own him. You didn’t need to put him in that position. Can’t you just be confident?” But I remind myself of the lessons that feel all-too-recently learned: “Fine line between being confident and being oblivious.”
When I get home, I go straight online. I do searches for Val, or Valerie, in every location. Nothing. No photos of her or mentions with Mission Viejo, and nothing before the six-month stretch from last winter to spring when she appears in photos and gig listings in Ithaca with Kitty Klaws. It’s like she’s only ever existed in New York and our practice space.
Around midnight, Caleb texts: Movie was amazing. Wish you’d stayed. Val is just a band mate. That’s all. I felt like she needed help. Maybe I messed up.
I reply: Thank you. Sorry I missed the movie. And before he can add any more: Good night. I just want today to be on the other side of sleep.
But first, back to the search. In all the listings and bios for Kitty Klaws, she’s only Val, even when the other two members have last names. They have prior projects listed, too. Val doesn’t. There’s no information about why they broke up, or contact info either.
Nothing, nothing, and nothing . . .
Until finally, around two a.m., I am looking at the comments beneath one of the band’s YouTube videos, and I find an old post:
Darren_Peters39: Looking good, Cassie! Love the new band. I won’t tell, but drop your mom a line so she knows you’re okay.
The other members of Kitty Klaws are named Sarah and Cooper.
I click on Darren Peters’s profile. He’s from Princeton, New Jersey. . . .
And ten minutes later, I find her.
Cassie Fowler.
A picture of her at a high-school battle of the bands. Her band then was called File Under Tragedy.
Another where she’s standing with the cross-country team last fall, looking very un-Val-like in a powder-blue uniform.
And then something else.
A police log in the Princeton newspaper, from last Christmas:
Police were called to investigate a domestic violence call in the 800 block of View Crest Lane. Officers arrested Melanie Fowler for drunk and disorderly conduct. Police are looking for the suspect’s daughter, Cassie Fowler, age 16, who made the call but fled the scene.
And she’s been running ever since.
Val doesn’t go to Mission Viejo.
Val’s not even Val.
You might put your head on someone’s shoulder when you have no one else to turn to. You might crash somebody’s date when the alternative is sleeping . . . where? In her car? She wears the same clothes nearly all the time. I thought it was anti-fashion politics; it’s probably because she doesn’t have anything else. I realize that I’ve been basing all of my opinions about Val on the assumption that she’s another middle-class kid like the rest of us. But it’s not even close. Not that she’s let us in on any of that, except Caleb.
I think about texting him, but it’s late. Val is probably asleep, and now instead of imagining her sneaking into his room, I see her getting one of the only good nights of sleep she’s gotten since . . . when?
And it almost makes me love Caleb more that he’s the kind of person who can be there for her, while people like me are so quick to judge. Sure, the question of whether she’s into him is still there, but it pales in comparison to what she needs. Friends. Safety. To hide. Oh, man. I know I couldn’t have known, but I feel like an idiot.
And yet . . . as I lie in bed turning all this over and over in my head, there is still one question that’s unanswered. If Val’s not from Mission Viejo, and her asshole dad is a lie, what exactly is she doing here?
17
MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 5m
Saturday, I think I might just have to skip you.
Even though I don’t fall asleep until nearly four, I’m up far too early, whirring with anxious energy. I lie in bed, listening to my parents bustle, wondering what I’m going to do about Val, about San Francisco. At one point, the phone rings. I hear the murmur of conversation, then footsteps up the stairs, to my door . . . and away again. My dad saying, “She’s still asleep.”