Amazing night so far at #TeaAndCrumpets in SFO! Things are about to heat up as #Dangerheart prepares to take the stage!
“She hasn’t, actually,” Val says immediately.
“Oh no? Ah, no big deal.” Jason smiles broadly. “Well,” he says, “I didn’t realize you’d scored such a cool gig.” He looks directly at me. “Now it makes sense.”
The band looks at me quizzically, but Jason is on it before I can even speak.
“I saw your set at my brother’s party. Not bad. I told Summer, with a little polish, you guys could really be something.”
“Summer didn’t mention that,” says Val. I can feel the glare.
“No? Well, it probably slipped her mind.”
“What do you want?” I ask him. “They’re just about to go on.”
“Just came by to say good luck.” Jason looks around at the sparse crowd. “I get it. You guys want to keep your indie cred. Start small . . .” I can hear it coming, and I’m thinking, Don’t say it, don’t say it, but I understand that of course, he’s going to. Of course this was when he was planning on telling them all along. “That crowd I would’ve had you in front of tonight is at least five hundred, but, I suppose that’s selling out, or something. Also, no crumpets.”
“What crowd?” Caleb asks.
Jason’s smile is enormous, and all I can do now is watch.
“You know,” he says, “opening for Sundays on Mars over at the Rickshaw Stop? I wanted you guys, but . . . like I said, I get it. And it worked out anyway. Your pals Freak Show were available.”
Unbelievable. He brought in Freak Show? That had to be just so he could twist this knife. I want to scream at him. I want to cry. Both feel impossible. I’m frozen.
And the band’s eyes have all turned to me.
“Ooh.” Jason is checking his watch. “Gotta get back. Anyway, good luck.” He looks pointedly at Caleb. “Summer’s got my number if you guys want to come by the club after the set. I put you on the list. We could talk about the future. I’ve always got more dates.” He takes one more theatrical look around the basement. “Adorable.” Then he turns and strides away, leaving us in stunned silence.
“Um, so, are you guys ready to go on?” Petunia appears at the edge of the stage light.
“It’s going to be a few minutes,” says Caleb slowly. “Sorry.”
“Okay,” says Petunia with a sigh, “well, but our sound curfew is at nine forty-five, so . . .” she heads back to the couches.
“Curfew,” mutters Jon, pointedly staring at the floor. “WOW.”
I feel Caleb’s eyes on me. I can’t believe I let it come to this, and I don’t want to look, but I force myself to. “True?” he asks.
I nod. “He treats bands like crap, guys. He put Postcards out on tour and they’re totally flailing now. We don’t want him involved in our business. I didn’t know this gig would—”
“What, completely suck?” says Val. “But you knew, you had to know it wouldn’t be as good as playing the Rickshaw.”
“I wasn’t sure,” I say, and it sounds oh-so lame.
“This is because of what happened to you with Postcards,” Jon adds. “That’s why I’m playing under a curfew.”
“You should have told us,” says Matt. “So at least we had a choice.” Even Matt . . .
In my mind, I’m thinking about how I know I have to take this. That I deserve this, for keeping the gig from them. But I also need them to know that it’s not that simple. “Caleb,” I say. He’s looking near me, but not at me. “Jason wanted to advertise the gig using your connection to Eli. I knew you wouldn’t want that.”
“I’m not sure the rest of us wouldn’t want that,” says Jon. He looks at Caleb. “We wouldn’t be here if people knew who you were.”
Oh boy. I figure this will ignite Caleb, but Val jumps in before he can respond.
“That’s not the point,” she snaps. It’s hard to tell if she’s meaning to defend Caleb or not. “We could’ve still taken that gig under the condition that he not use Caleb’s background.”
“But if we did use his background, we’d probably get a huge crowd,” Jon says.
“You were fine with this before,” says Caleb quietly.
“That was before we ended up here, at a dumb gig, on a wild goose chase after songs that we’re not even going to play!”
“I was going to play them!” Caleb whisper shouts, glancing around. The sparse crowd is definitely noticing. We’re violating the dirty laundry rule so badly. “I decided you guys were right, but hell, maybe I was wrong.”
Jon holds up his hands. “Okay, cool, but still, the Rickshaw . . .”
“He probably wouldn’t have given it to us without using Eli’s name,” I say, but hearing the name makes me picture the five hundred people, the lovely staged framed by red curtains (I stalked it more than once online). Sure Jason would have been there somewhere, but . . . I feel sick again.
Val pounces, like she’s been waiting for this. “Did you ask him?”
I bite my lip. “No.”
“I’m not saying I’d want to work with Jason,” Val continues, “but you just thought about yourself and not about us.”
“I did think about you guys,” I say weakly.
And then Val looks at Caleb and says, “I told you.”
Caleb doesn’t respond; he’s lost in the spiral of this mess. But I can’t help it, that comment sends me over the edge. “You told him?” My voice rises despite the crowd, who are definitely all curious onlookers to this car crash. “You know what I haven’t told him? Haven’t told anyone?”
Val looks like she’s about to respond, but her secrets make her hesitate.
And now it’s my turn to jump, even as a part of me feels like I shouldn’t. “I could have told Caleb about your mother, about how she was engaged to Kellen, to Candy Shell! You’ve been lying this whole time. And I think I know why.”
As the words are coming out, an equally loud voice is screaming inside me: Wrong place! Wrong time! The most dangerous moment of the Red Zone is right before taking stage when nerves are at their highest! But, no. I have to fight back. Val does not get to tear me down when she has secrets of her own, far bigger ones.
Her face is frozen in a lethal stare, but as if to prove my point, she has no response. Except then her eyes tremble, and a tear falls free.
Then another.
That’s not what I expected.
“You think you know what my life is like?” she says quietly, her voice shaking. “You think you know what it’s like to sleep in your car every night, trying to avoid police and freaks, to eat at kitchens and shoplift bags of chips? You think you know about . . .” Her voice thins to a sliver. “My mother? My mother who likes to use her fists when she’s drunk? Who likes to take her shit out on me? Over . . . and over?”
“Jesus, Summer,” Caleb says.
“No, I—I don’t know,” I say, backpedaling pathetically. The sight of Val’s crying face has ground my thoughts to a halt. What have I done? But is this even real? Or an act? Except, I can feel the sadness from her. It’s real. There’s no way she’s faking it. And her sadness opens floodgates of guilt inside me, no matter how she’s acted. “But how can I know anything about you when you won’t tell us?”
Val keeps staring at me through glistening eyes. “There’s a difference between my secrets and yours. Everything I’ve done has been in the best interest of this band.” She takes a step back, wiping her nose. To the floor between us alclass="underline" “I’m out.” To Caleb: “Sorry.” To Matt and Jon: “Sorry, guys.” To me: not even a glare. Then she picks up her bass and she and Weezil head for the door.