Encore to an Empty Room (15 page)

I try to play it cool but a smile cracks through. Excited? Scared? I'm both. “What if we had a gig there on Friday night?”

“Are you serious?” Jon asks.

I hold up my phone. “Ethan got us a slot at Needlefest. They had a cancellation. We wouldn't be on the promo. But . . . as cover? As a reason to check the guitar . . . Randy, if you could, we could keep driving, we could go get that tape now, and we'd have them all. I mean . . . we're already halfway there.”

“I'll do it,” says Randy. “How far?”

“On it,” says Jon.

“We'd have to check with our parents,” says Caleb. He looks around the van.

“I could talk to each of your folks personally,” says Randy.

“Twenty-five driving hours to New York City,” Jon reports. “And . . . two days to get back home? That's if we're driving like, nonstop.”

“That sounds completely insane,” says Caleb. But he's grinning.

So is everyone.

Except Val. “If we do this,” she says, “we can't post about it at all. It has to be completely secret.”

“Definitely,” I say. I'd already been thinking it would be, since we can't arouse any Candy Shell suspicions. But seeing the way Val's eyes have widened, the way she's biting the corner of her mouth, I realize she has a bigger reason:

New York is awfully close to her mom.

And it's only a few minutes later, after we speculate more about what our parents will say when we call to ask them in
the morning, scheme more about how to contact the Hard Rock, and how we'll actually get our hands on that guitar to check inside it, when I realize what this change of plans means for me:

If we go to New York, I'll be three thousand miles in the wrong place for my Stanford interview on Thursday.

“You think your parents will go for it?” Caleb asks, leaning over the seat and massaging my shoulders.

“They just might,” I say. After all, they already think I had my interview. And I remind myself for the hundredth time that it's not required for admission anyway. Funny how that worked out. . . .

I don't have to lie to my parents because I already did. And they have no idea that right here and now, Summer just took the wheel and pointed her future in the opposite direction.

It should take us about twenty minutes to get from Dylan's to the house party, but with the snow we are crawling along. After forty-five minutes, I text the host, Jerin, and also Ethan, to update them on our progress.

“Idiots!” Randy shouts at the slowpokes in front of us. “Why is everyone in Denver driving like they've never seen snow?”

“Probably for safety,” Jon groans.

“How's Ethan?” Caleb asks, looking over my shoulder. I feel guilty that he sees that text and furious at Ethan for the
Can't wait!
On the one hand, it doesn't mean anything, and yet on the other hand it suggests that we're pals.

“He says the first band hasn't even started yet and—”

Val cuts me off from the back of the van. “Tell him there's
snow
way we're getting there tonight.” She and Matt dissolve into laughter.

Caleb and I share a worried glance. I mouth the word
schnapps
to him.

He rolls his eyes. “Val,” he says carefully. “You're gonna be okay for the show, right?”

“Yes, brother.” More giggling.

Caleb leans over. “Give me the bottle. We go on in an hour.”

“I told you we stopped,” she says in a sulk. But she hands it over anyway.

It takes fifteen more minutes until we are finally pulling up outside the large, glowing house. We've been able to hear the thumping from inside for the last block.

“I don't know where I'm going to park,” says Randy, surveying the tight lines of cars on either side of the street. “Let's just unload here.” He clicks on the hazards and Caleb yanks open the side door.

As I'm gathering my stuff, I hear more bubbly conversation from the back of the van.

“Does she really?” Val is saying. “I just figured she was too innocent.”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no,” Matt replies. “Is that something you do?”

“Always.”

That doesn't sound like conversation between two sober people.

“Come on, you guys,” I say, leaning over the drums. “We're here. Big glasses of water for you both—”

“Okay!” Matt sort of jumps away, and in the glimpse I had, I feel sure that at least one or two hands were in very curious places.

“Guys . . .”

“Summ-er!” Val says. “We're good. Back off.”

“Right.” I have to remind myself that we're in the Red Zone, and to not say more.

The back doors pop open and a burst of snow and cold rushes in. We pile out into the biting wind, pull our coats up high, and start hauling gear toward the house. It's narrow and three stories tall, with a porch on each floor. Each is packed with people and the firefly lights of cigarettes.

We have to push our way through to the front door, and find it even more crowded inside, the biting cold exchanged for sweaty hot, but the vibe is pretty cool. The main living room is open through the second floor. Stairs lead up the wall to a balcony. Someone is working a light setup that's painting everything in spinning colors. People are packed tight on the walls and up the stairs and along the railing. The band is set up in the far corner. There's a sea of heads between us and them. Currently it's the act before us, Tender Habits. They are loud, the drums, bass, and guitar a wash of busy noise, but the lead singer has a brittle voice
that cuts through, a haunting sound that has nearly everyone in the room captivated.

“Hey, are you guys Dangerheart?” A tough, older-looking girl leans into Caleb's ear. She has gray-streaked hair in two playful barrettes with big plastic kittens on them.

“Yeah, hi!” says Caleb.

“Cool okay hey I'm Jerin. You guys have perfect timing! You're on next! Right after this song! So just stay right here!”

We are stuck there in a line in the doorway until Tender Habits finishes. As they shuffle off, we shuffle on, barely having a chance to exchange hellos. Matt squeezes behind the minimal drum kit. Caleb, Jon, and Val are standing almost shoulder to shoulder, and keep bumping one another as they try to get their pedals laid out and their instruments plugged into the house amps.

I catch Matt staring off into space. “You okay?” I call to him.

“Sure,” he mumbles.

“Snacks?” I ask him and everyone.

“Sugar,” says Val.

“Got it.” I push out of the living room and make my way to the kitchen. There's a long table piled high with a disorganized array of snack foods that's already been ravaged by the partygoers. Closest to me are two large trays of brownies, which seem like the ideal high-energy food pre-set. I grab a stack and hurry back to the stage. Everyone shoves them down, including Randy, who's adjusting mics
for the band. Val takes the last two, leaving none for me.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, actually noticing.

“It's fine,” I say, grabbing the small brown suitcase we use to carry the merch. Before I leave the stage I rub Caleb's shoulder. “Good?”

He nods and kisses me between brownie bites. His eyes dart around the room. He seems nervous, but he smiles. “This is cool. See you after.”

Not only are people standing mere feet from him, but they're leaning through a window from the kitchen, hanging over the balcony above. It feels a little like we are in a prison or a zoo. The age of the crowd varies, from clumps of kids our age to twentysomethings to the occasional older person. Some are chatting and laughing but most of them are staring at the stage expectantly.

I make my way back to a small table by the little sound board, where I can put out our CDs and buttons.

I hear the quick notes of Caleb and Val and Jon checking tuning. Matt hits each drum a couple times. I see them check with one another, and just before Caleb turns to the mic he glances at me. It's the last second before he will become a performer, and when our eyes meet I feel a surge of tingly energy in every part of me. I don't know if this comes across in my eyes or what but Caleb smiles brighter, like somehow we are making a connection through the ether between us. He knows me. And I know him. And it seems extra special when there are all these other people
around who are about to see his thing, our thing, from the outside. I mouth
You got this.

He nods. And they start. And they do have it. Even our half-drunk rhythm section. The set is tight, sweat-laced. They feed off the press of the crowd and at points everyone in the room is moving at once, a common pulse, the floor shaking.

When they are finished, I am mobbed for CDs. I sell a pile, give away buttons nonstop, actually get a few signatures on the mailing list, and it's fifteen minutes before I can make my way back to the kitchen to find the band.

They're all crowded by the snack table and chatting with the guys from Tender Habits.

“Photo!” I gather everyone close and we snap a selfie. Red faced, hair dripping with sweat, and big smiles. It's one of those pictures that, the moment I see it, almost makes me sad with how perfect it is, how perfect we seem right here and now.

“Hey, Summer,” Jon says, sweating and smiling and looking the happiest I've seen him in weeks. “Which ones did you give us?” He points to the brownies, and I now see that there were little signs beside each of the two trays. One says
Muggle
, and one says
MAGIC
.

“Oh crap,” I say. “Does ‘magic' mean . . .”

“Pot?” says Randy. “I'd imagine.”

I rack my brain trying to remember. I was in such a hurry but . . . “I grabbed from this first tray,” I say. The
bottom, Muggle one. “I'm like ninety-nine percent sure.”

“Bummer,” says Val, though she's smiling. “I love when someone makes a bad choice for me.”

My pulse returns to normal and I start two-fisting the Cheetos like a zombie bent over a torn-open abdomen.

“Here we are.” Jerin arrives, pinching the rims of three red cups in each hand. She starts to hand them around and I see that it's beer.

“One each,” says Randy. “I'm going to be your annoying chaperone tonight. We have too big a day tomorrow. Whoa, not you guys though.” He intercepts Val's and Matt's cups.

Val's eyes narrow. She glares at Randy like he's betrayed some code. “What the hell?”

“You two are well on your way,” he says.

“Great set!” Jerin says. “Everybody raved about you.” She gives Caleb a big hug. Lead singers get the most hugs. I try not to mind.

“We should definitely—” Jerin begins. “Oh-oh.” Something catches her eye and she moves to the snack table. “Somebody's being naughty. I hope you guys hadn't moved to dessert yet.”

She proceeds to switch the two brownie signs.

“Oh, man,” Randy groans.

I don't lose Caleb for the first hour. If anything, he's trying too hard to prove to me that he's not feeling any effect from the pot-laced dessert.

“They take at least an hour to kick in,” Randy informed us, like a doctor delivering terminal news. “We'll have to stay here until at least . . .” He checks his watch. “Two or three a.m. before I'll be able to drive us to the hotel.”

“You could just have one, too,” Caleb says to me as we lean on the balcony railing, waiting for Postcards to start. “Then we'd be in the same place.” I know he doesn't mean it to sound pressure-y but I can't help feeling that anyway. I've tried pot once and I didn't love it. And maybe had my timing been different and I'd accidentally had one tonight, then sure, I could have just gone with it. But now I feel like I need to be the responsible one and that leaves me feeling left out. I know nobody intended it that way, and I know I'm sort of dooming that to happen by being withdrawn right now, but I can't help it.

I've already traded my allotted cup of beer for soda. Even that feels like too much pressure now.

“Gonna find the bathroom,” says Caleb, kissing my ear. “I'll be right back.”

Fifteen minutes later, he's still gone when Postcards starts. And so I end up watching the first half of their set alone.

It's a cool vantage point, looking down at them crammed into a corner, surrounded by people. It's weird though, too. They sound decent, even if their acoustic set has robbed some of their urgency. Ethan is as strong as ever. Maybe better in a way. I might just be applying what I know about
how his last year has gone, but he sounds more wounded. Mark, the drummer, is solid and understated as ever, and Pete has always been the glue on bass. Also, I am having flashbacks to how much I used to like these songs. Some of them connect to memories of the better times with that band, with Ethan . . .

And then even though Caleb isn't around, I still feel guilty thinking about this, enjoying the set, and UGH—is there any way to ever be in the moment and relaxed when it involves the past? I'm sure I'm over the Ethan/Postcards thing but if I really was then I wouldn't be overthinking it now.

My phone buzzes against my leg.

Oh, crap.

Hello, complicated. Even though she knows about Denver, we still decided not to tell her about New York yet, to keep Jason off our scent. I know it's not cool to be keeping her in the dark like this. What should I say back?

Hello, double complicated.

I should tell her. I shouldn't tell her. I feel torn in two. It's none of my business when it comes to the Val-Matt situation.

Or, it's totally my business.

But this is the reddest of Red Zones. I can't risk our mission to New York. I just can't. Maya will calm down. I'll talk to Matt and we'll tell her that we've got a surprise show. That we don't want Jason to know but it's not about her. We'll tell her all that . . .

Tomorrow. For now:

I know I'm managing her, and I hate it! But I don't know what else to do.

And when Maya doesn't reply, I wonder if she feels that, too.

I could ask her. But no, right now, I gotta find Matt.

I push through the crowd, still rapt with Postcards. They're playing “Never Leaving You,” which I bet is their last one. I don't want to hear this one anyway. It reminds me way too much of the worst parts of last summer.

As I make my way downstairs, I suddenly have a creeping sense of being completely alone, like all these people know each other and I'm the weird alien who doesn't fit.
They all seem to eye me sideways as I push past their shoulders, like they're annoyed by my presence.

“You looking for your boys?” Jerin asks when she sees me wandering across the kitchen. “Try the basement.”

I descend a rickety wooden staircase. The sound of the band is muted down here. There's a tinny stereo playing and the telltale tock-tock of Ping-Pong.

I find Jon and Caleb on one side of the table, taking on Randy.

“All right, ready?” Randy has become a fluid, bendy version of himself, crouched and glaring across the table. Jon and Caleb are dancing back and forth on their toes. Randy slams a serve and Caleb makes a flourish of trying to return it but the ball shoots up and bounces off the rafters. It lands back on the table, bouncing straight up and down. The three guys stare at it and burst out laughing. I guess I could find the upside here: Jon and Caleb are getting along better than they have in months.