been tense. The week has been totally focused on getting gig-ready. We’ve barely spoken about the letter, only to report to each other that, after searching interviews and articles online, we’ve both come up empty on any more clues as to what Eli might have been up to. The show has been a welcome distraction, but it’s still pressure: first gig with a new band, it doesn’t matter how talented you are. And Caleb wants it, bad.
And he also doesn’t want to talk about how badly he wants it, so I move on. “Some scene, huh?”
There are at least a hundred kids congregating aroundthe lava pit, where the next sacrificial soul is hoisting herself up onto the rope, this time holding a boy inflatable doll. Others swarm around the grass hut where drinks are being served, or near the giant bonfire. Everyone’s dressed for the tiki theme, from grass skirts and surf shorts all the way to very unfortunate “native” attire. Many are already stumbling. A few of the drinks that are leaving the bar are in coconuts and aflame.
“Wow. Lord of the Flies meets Abercrombie and Fitch,” says Jon, arriving beside us. He scans the crowd. “Yep, none of these girls are going to be into me.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “You’re the lead guitarist in this crowd’s favorite band.”
“Nobody’s even heard us,” says Jon.
“Not yet.”
“Watch out!”
We all look up to the sound of dull thudding, and see Matt’s bass drum case thundering down the path like a runaway boulder, Matt chasing it. We scatter as it thumps to a stop. A nearby herd of girls sees this and giggles in eerie unison.
“Sorry,” Matt says breathlessly, frowning as he notices the laughter.
“I guess that’s why you should never eat sushi on a trapeze,” I say, and we all laugh. Matt manages to smile, and gives me puppy-dog eyes of gratitude.
“Smooth move, Matty,” says Jon, throwing an armaround him. “Looks like I’ll have you to huddle bitterly with after the show.”
“Now now,” I say, “you boys are getting phone numbers tonight. I guarantee it.” I actually already have an idea for Matt, although I’m not sure how it will go over.
“Are you serious ?” The last member of our group to arrive is Randy, Caleb’s uncle and our official roadie for the evening. He has a van for his house-painting business that we could all ride over in. It would be a cooler ride if the back wasn’t a windowless metal cargo space lined with shelves of paint.
“This looks just like it did twenty years ago!” he says with a smile. Randy’s a round guy, barrel-chested, his face overrun by a farm of reddish hair. “Trial by Fire!” he announces to the world. “Same as it ever was.” He holds his hand to his face, dips his sunglasses, and says, “Look where my hand was.”
“Nobody gets your Talking Heads references,” says Caleb.
Val punches Caleb in the shoulder and actually smiles. “Shut up. I do.”
I notice that. The punching.
“Thank you, Valerie,” says Randy, “at least someone has some respect for rock and roll legacy. Man . . .” He gazes at the scene. “I remember back—”
“If you say ‘back in my day,’” says Caleb, “you have to leave.”
Randy pauses, flustered, then continues. “Back . . . when we played this party, which was, in fact, in my day , there was no stage.”
“What was your band called again?” Val asks.
“Savage Halos.”
“That is my favorite band name ever,” she says.
“Get a room,” says Caleb. “Except don’t because that would be super creepy.”
“That would bother you?” Val asks him.
“Um, just a bit.” Caleb kind of smiles.
Something flashes between their gaze. Maybe I’m just making it up. My sensors are clearly on maximum sensitivity, but still, I wish they didn’t have to be so chummy; then again, professional me knows that of course they’re in a band and there needs to be camaraderie. But still . . .
“So you were here, at the first
And he also doesn’t want to talk about how badly he wants it, so I move on. “Some scene, huh?”
There are at least a hundred kids congregating aroundthe lava pit, where the next sacrificial soul is hoisting herself up onto the rope, this time holding a boy inflatable doll. Others swarm around the grass hut where drinks are being served, or near the giant bonfire. Everyone’s dressed for the tiki theme, from grass skirts and surf shorts all the way to very unfortunate “native” attire. Many are already stumbling. A few of the drinks that are leaving the bar are in coconuts and aflame.
“Wow. Lord of the Flies meets Abercrombie and Fitch,” says Jon, arriving beside us. He scans the crowd. “Yep, none of these girls are going to be into me.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “You’re the lead guitarist in this crowd’s favorite band.”
“Nobody’s even heard us,” says Jon.
“Not yet.”
“Watch out!”
We all look up to the sound of dull thudding, and see Matt’s bass drum case thundering down the path like a runaway boulder, Matt chasing it. We scatter as it thumps to a stop. A nearby herd of girls sees this and giggles in eerie unison.
“Sorry,” Matt says breathlessly, frowning as he notices the laughter.
“I guess that’s why you should never eat sushi on a trapeze,” I say, and we all laugh. Matt manages to smile, and gives me puppy-dog eyes of gratitude.
“Smooth move, Matty,” says Jon, throwing an armaround him. “Looks like I’ll have you to huddle bitterly with after the show.”
“Now now,” I say, “you boys are getting phone numbers tonight. I guarantee it.” I actually already have an idea for Matt, although I’m not sure how it will go over.
“Are you serious ?” The last member of our group to arrive is Randy, Caleb’s uncle and our official roadie for the evening. He has a van for his house-painting business that we could all ride over in. It would be a cooler ride if the back wasn’t a windowless metal cargo space lined with shelves of paint.
“This looks just like it did twenty years ago!” he says with a smile. Randy’s a round guy, barrel-chested, his face overrun by a farm of reddish hair. “Trial by Fire!” he announces to the world. “Same as it ever was.” He holds his hand to his face, dips his sunglasses, and says, “Look where my hand was.”
“Nobody gets your Talking Heads references,” says Caleb.
Val punches Caleb in the shoulder and actually smiles. “Shut up. I do.”
I notice that. The punching.
“Thank you, Valerie,” says Randy, “at least someone has some respect for rock and roll legacy. Man . . .” He gazes at the scene. “I remember back—”
“If you say ‘back in my day,’” says Caleb, “you have to leave.”
Randy pauses, flustered, then continues. “Back . . . when we played this party, which was, in fact, in my day , there was no stage.”
“What was your band called again?” Val asks.
“Savage Halos.”
“That is my favorite band name ever,” she says.
“Get a room,” says Caleb. “Except don’t because that would be super creepy.”
“That would bother you?” Val asks him.
“Um, just a bit.” Caleb kind of smiles.
Something flashes between their gaze. Maybe I’m just making it up. My sensors are clearly on maximum sensitivity, but still, I wish they didn’t have to be so chummy; then again, professional me knows that of course they’re in a band and there needs to be camaraderie. But still . . .
“So you were here, at the first
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