Kevin Emerson - Exile

“Sweet!” Jon grabs my phone and immediately taps the coconuts. “Awesome.”

“Great work!” Matt holds up his hand for a high five, looking terrified, like he’ll mess it up and lose his chance with me. No worries, little brother, we can high-five.

No response from Caleb.

“Yep, it was no problem,” I say. “I just had to make out with Ari for a few minutes.”

Still nothing . . .

“Let him feel me up . . .”

Stiiill nothing . . .

“Caleb.”

Finally his eyes pop up. “What?” He’s got condition-critical Fret Face, with the bonus knotted brow of doom.

I try not to sound annoyed. “Did you hear me?”

“Summer got us the Trial,” says Jon.

It takes a second for Caleb to react, as if this is the furthest thing from his mind. “Oh, cool.” He looks past me, out into the room.

“Yep, you’re welcome,” I say. “I take it you haven’t talked to Android yet?”

“Here they come,” he mutters.

I turn and see Trevor and Cybil emerging from the practice hall, along with another guy. Trevor is all angles and zits, wearing a plaid hat atop his long, greasy hair. Cybil wears a peach-colored thrift-store dress that labors around her square frame. Her orange hair is pinned back with thick barrettes.

They have joined the short line for espressos when Trevor notices Caleb. He stiffens and says something softly to Cybil, who doesn’t look over.

Caleb stands up. “Hey, guys.” They don’t react until he steps over to them. I join him.

Trevor eyes Caleb. “What.”

“How’s it going?” Caleb asks. He shoves his hands in his pockets. I wish I could reach over and take one, but I don’t think it would help.

“Pretty excellently,” says Trevor. Man, is he still wounded.

“This is Alejandro,” says Cybil, indicating the boy beside them. He’s taller than us all and built like a truck, wearing a tank top, his arms wrapped in spiraling tattoos. “He’s our new singer.”

“Peace,” says Alejandro in a frighteningly deep voice. He could be our age, he could be twenty-five. It’s impossible to tell.

“We changed the band name to Freak Show,” says Trevor.

Come on, Caleb , I think, just apologize quick and end this torture .

“Well, awesome,” says Caleb, tactfully. “I can’t wait to hear the new thing. Maybe at the Trial.”

“You’re going to be at the Trial?” Trevor shares an icy glance with Cybil. “How did you get that?”

“She probably did it,” says Cybil, not looking at me.

I’m surprised by the venom in my direction. Cybil makes me sound like some kind of shark.

“We asked,” I offer, hoping it helps.

Trevor stares at the ground. “That’s bullshit. The Trial is for established bands. You have to earn it.”

Apologize, Caleb, get it over with—

Except Trevor’s not done. “Why should you just get to waltz back into the scene without any damage when—”

Caleb’s hands shoot out, slamming Trevor in his concave chest. “What do you know about damage, Trevor?”

The whole room stops moving.

“Whoa.” Alejandro steps in, looming over us.

“I think I know,” says Trevor, regaining his balance, “that you’re an arrogant asshole—”

“You have no idea what I’m going through!” Caleb’s voice is full of wrath. Everyone in the room is staring and they both sound like children.

I grab his arm and pull. “Come on.”

Caleb turns away. Behind us, Jon and Matt are on their feet.

“You’re such an asshole, Caleb,” hisses Cybil.

“Settle down, pard’ner,” Jon says, invoking a cowboy drawl. Hang with him long enough, and you’ll hear every movie accent there is.

“Okay, who needs some fresh air?” I say, leading the way to the door.

Once we’re out in the hall, I turn to Caleb. “That wasn’t the plan.”

“Honestly, who fucking cares?” He throws up his hands, his gaze still not meeting mine. “I’m not sorry. I don’t care. And Trevor was being a dick. He has no idea what it’s like.”

“Well, you also never told him.”

“Because he’s an ass. So they hate me, so what?”

“Caleb! So what is if the other bands hate you, then all their fans are going to hate you, and that bad vibe is going to spread like a virus! All you needed to do was say you were sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t! Now stop trying to manage me and listen to what I’m saying.” And just like that, he stalks off.

“Wow,” says Jon. “That all went well.”

“Is he like that often?” Matt wonders, sounding worried.

“I guess I don’t really know,” I say.

Jon summons a British accent. “He has been a bit ornery today.”

I watch him go, equal parts furious, wounded, wanting to scream and fighting the urge to run after him, something I am not going to do. “I’ll see you guys later.”

I try not to storm into calc, try not to think too much about Caleb, but that just makes the whole afternoon feel even longer. What was with him? And why couldn’t he tell me? I want to ask him, but he’s the one who left, so I resist the urge to message him.

Finally, in study hall last period, I feel my phone buzz against my leg. I slip it out under the table. A text from Caleb:

Really sorry. More drama last night. Couldn’t share with the others around. Should have told you this morning. Can we talk after practice?

I debate my reply. I said I’d be home around 8, so I’ll have to clear it with the powers. Since you never ask me out PROPERLY.

I am a ruffian and a scoundrel .

Yes. I wait a second and add: But I want to know what’s up.

How about Tina’s after practice?

Tina’s frozen yogurt. A suitable apology. Sure. And you better give me the SCOOP on your mood.

He replies: It’s fro yo, more like the DISH .

Finally, I smile a little. :) See you then.

MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 2h

Summer’s not here right now. She’s eating frozen yogurt in the future. #whereismyTARDIS

I clear the evening with my parents. They’re usually fine with this kind of thing. They know the grades are off to a good start, and Dad keeps bringing up schools with good law programs. I strategically humored him one night and looked over his search results, even though the idea of college makes me ill. I mean, it’s always been assumed that I’ll go. I’m just worried it will change me.

That’s what happened to my older brother, Bradley. We’re not that close, but when he was in high school, playing sax and piano and operating as a mid-level rebel, I looked up to him. Now he’s a senior at Pomona and applying to med schools and he spends his breaks at home talking about residencies and the changing face of health care. These days, he feels more like a junior partner in Carlson Squared.

I get my homework done at a coffee shop, then grab a bus across town, anxious to talk to Caleb, frustrated that it’s three transfers to get to the Hive. My parents have offered to get me a car, but I don’t want one. I can use one of theirs when I need it. I like the bus. And a car feels like a contract, like: here is this BIG THING that now means we have more say over you because we OWN the big thing and we can take it away. Not that they’d necessarily pull that kind of crap. But the bus keeps it from ever being an option.

The Hive is a concrete block of converted factory. The white facade has giant windows that make you think there’d be a cavernous space waiting inside, but instead, the windows look in on walls, and the whole thing has been cubed up into hall after hall of tiny practice spaces.