Trial?” Jon asks.
“I was here, and Savage Halos opened for this other band, a bunch of plucky kids who called themselves Allegiance to North. I watched them turn this crowd into a supernova. That night was the beginning of the rest of our lives.” As Randy says this, he looks wistfully toward the ocean.
I glance at Caleb, hoping he’s not reading into it, knowing that, in a way, his life began right here that night, too.
“Can we just go?” Caleb says darkly. I guess he did. Fret Face is in full control.
“To the battlements!” Jon shouts, a knight leading an army.
We trudge through the sand to the side of the stage.
Soundmen are checking the mics. Dangerheart is slated to go second, after Freak Show. We pass Trevor, Cybil, Alejandro, and their new drummer, Lane, in the roped-off area beside the stage. Only Alejandro says hello.
Dangerheart sets up and does a quick sound check. They play a minute of music and it sounds great, but Caleb’s eyes are down, either on his guitar or the stage floor. I find myself urging him to look up, to engage.
After, Caleb and I head to the grass-roofed drink hut. As we weave our way through the crowd, I catch glances at us, and the sense of repetition grows. Summer with another band boy. I stuff my hands in my pockets, just in case Caleb gets any hand holding ideas, but he’s looking dark and distant. And then I kind of hate myself for caring what anyone might think.
The hut is rickety and cockeyed, built by Ari and his friends, who probably learned about woodworking from YouTube videos. There’s a line of kegs and multiple margarita machines on tables inside. On the corner of the warped bar, they’ve built a small mountain out of ice. As we stand there, a line of people step up one by one and a shirtless beefy kid slides electric orange Jell-O shots down into their mouths. My old friends Callie and Jenna are in line, wearing extremely revealing bikini tops and cutoff shorts. I want to give them my sweatshirt. Jenna is even wearing a cowboy hat. Yee haw.
“Hey, Caleb,” says a girl behind the bar. Missy Prescott. We don’t know each other, except of course that she knew Ethan Myers intimately last spring. She’s wearing the world’s smallest bikini. I wonder if it requires adhesive. She’s also smiling at Caleb like I’m not even there. “Are you playin’ tonight?”
Really, a fake Southern accent? I huff and tap the bar, but I don’t say anything, curious to see how Caleb handles it.
“New year, new band,” he says with a smile. “How was your summer?” As he’s making small talk, he reaches beneath the bar top and squeezes my hand. He’s good at being social, and I need to remember that’s a good thing for a lead singer.
“Do you know Summer?” he says.
Missy glances at me, her smile store-bought. “Hi.” Right back to Caleb. “What can I get you guys?”
I wonder what Caleb will order, and I feel my usual hesitation about whether or not to drink. I’m okay with it, and will on occasion, but the thing that will kill it for me is the feeling that there’s pressure. Plus, this is work.
“Just Cokes,” says Caleb. He turns to me. “If that’s cool? I don’t drink when I play. I don’t like to lose control.”
“That’s fine,” I say, relieved to hear this.
We get our drinks and move away from the bar to a spot where we watch the contestants trying to cross the rope over the lava pit. The rope is so wobbly that no one makes itfurther than halfway, and no one seems to mind.
“I’m wondering if you were too good at that,” I say to him.
“What?”
“Miss Missy back there.”
“Come on, she’s cute, but only in a manufactured kind of way. Not a real bone in her body, I don’t think.”
“Well played.” I have an urge to rub his arm, but I hesitate. The surroundings are still spooking me.
Caleb takes out his copy of the set list and looks it over.
“It’s a good set,” I say.
Fret Face. “I’m not sure about ‘On
“I was here, and Savage Halos opened for this other band, a bunch of plucky kids who called themselves Allegiance to North. I watched them turn this crowd into a supernova. That night was the beginning of the rest of our lives.” As Randy says this, he looks wistfully toward the ocean.
I glance at Caleb, hoping he’s not reading into it, knowing that, in a way, his life began right here that night, too.
“Can we just go?” Caleb says darkly. I guess he did. Fret Face is in full control.
“To the battlements!” Jon shouts, a knight leading an army.
We trudge through the sand to the side of the stage.
Soundmen are checking the mics. Dangerheart is slated to go second, after Freak Show. We pass Trevor, Cybil, Alejandro, and their new drummer, Lane, in the roped-off area beside the stage. Only Alejandro says hello.
Dangerheart sets up and does a quick sound check. They play a minute of music and it sounds great, but Caleb’s eyes are down, either on his guitar or the stage floor. I find myself urging him to look up, to engage.
After, Caleb and I head to the grass-roofed drink hut. As we weave our way through the crowd, I catch glances at us, and the sense of repetition grows. Summer with another band boy. I stuff my hands in my pockets, just in case Caleb gets any hand holding ideas, but he’s looking dark and distant. And then I kind of hate myself for caring what anyone might think.
The hut is rickety and cockeyed, built by Ari and his friends, who probably learned about woodworking from YouTube videos. There’s a line of kegs and multiple margarita machines on tables inside. On the corner of the warped bar, they’ve built a small mountain out of ice. As we stand there, a line of people step up one by one and a shirtless beefy kid slides electric orange Jell-O shots down into their mouths. My old friends Callie and Jenna are in line, wearing extremely revealing bikini tops and cutoff shorts. I want to give them my sweatshirt. Jenna is even wearing a cowboy hat. Yee haw.
“Hey, Caleb,” says a girl behind the bar. Missy Prescott. We don’t know each other, except of course that she knew Ethan Myers intimately last spring. She’s wearing the world’s smallest bikini. I wonder if it requires adhesive. She’s also smiling at Caleb like I’m not even there. “Are you playin’ tonight?”
Really, a fake Southern accent? I huff and tap the bar, but I don’t say anything, curious to see how Caleb handles it.
“New year, new band,” he says with a smile. “How was your summer?” As he’s making small talk, he reaches beneath the bar top and squeezes my hand. He’s good at being social, and I need to remember that’s a good thing for a lead singer.
“Do you know Summer?” he says.
Missy glances at me, her smile store-bought. “Hi.” Right back to Caleb. “What can I get you guys?”
I wonder what Caleb will order, and I feel my usual hesitation about whether or not to drink. I’m okay with it, and will on occasion, but the thing that will kill it for me is the feeling that there’s pressure. Plus, this is work.
“Just Cokes,” says Caleb. He turns to me. “If that’s cool? I don’t drink when I play. I don’t like to lose control.”
“That’s fine,” I say, relieved to hear this.
We get our drinks and move away from the bar to a spot where we watch the contestants trying to cross the rope over the lava pit. The rope is so wobbly that no one makes itfurther than halfway, and no one seems to mind.
“I’m wondering if you were too good at that,” I say to him.
“What?”
“Miss Missy back there.”
“Come on, she’s cute, but only in a manufactured kind of way. Not a real bone in her body, I don’t think.”
“Well played.” I have an urge to rub his arm, but I hesitate. The surroundings are still spooking me.
Caleb takes out his copy of the set list and looks it over.
“It’s a good set,” I say.
Fret Face. “I’m not sure about ‘On
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