Kevin Emerson: Exile

I need to know.

It’s my turn to glance at the doors. This probably lets him know he’s almost got me. Maybe that’s my point. “When you say tell me everything,” I say, “do you mean like tell-me-you’re-secretly-a-psycho-killer-with-a-plan-to-add-me-to-your-petri-dish-collection everything? Or—”

Caleb laughs. “We’ll walk to Taquitas. There is nowhere along that route for me to dice you up with a scalpel.”

I stare at him. Six thousand miles away, the bell rings.

We’re late.

And it is like that bell has somehow severed me from the universe. The hall has emptied. Life has gone on, just like it did last night in Silver Lake. Everyone is somewhere and I am in this other place, a bubble out of time. Only this time it’s not in Burrita Feminista, though the similarity in prospective restaurant choices does hint at a larger plan to a universe I was calling out as an empty void just a few hours ago. We are in our own time line now, that’s how it feels. Like life has left us behind but maybe also like we are free. We could do this. I could leave school on the first day back. . . .

Somewhere, Carlson Squared is calling “Nooo!” in slow motion.

Somewhere else, Postcards from Ariel and Ethan Myers are on the road doing God-knows-what.

Here, now, I am saying:

“Okay.”

Caleb smiles. I thought it might be victorious, but actually, he just looks relieved.

“Come on.”

Formerly Orchid @catherinefornevr 3m

So bummed to be in calculus right now!!

For the first few moments after leaving school, across the sidewalks, through the main parking lot, I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting alarms to go off or for someone to come running out after us. Another part of Catherine’s cover story is her near-perfect attendance, and so this feels like breaking cover.

But nothing happens; the sky remains blue; the birds chirp; the school’s doors stay closed.

“You know seniors are allowed to go off campus for lunch, right?” says Caleb.

Actually, I’d forgotten that. We’ve only been seniors for four hours. “This isn’t lunch period, though.”

“Well, no, but, since we missed lunch, we’re now applying critical thinking to a situation. Isn’t that what they’re always telling us to do?”

I smile. “Sure.”

Neither of us adds anything, and then ten seconds go by . . . then thirty . . . and then, uh-oh, somehow we’ve been walking for almost a full minute in silence. For someone who just invited me on a school-skipping date, I expect Caleb to be chatty, but now it’s getting awkward. We’ve exited the school parking lot and still nothing. One of us will need to say something important to justify breaking the world’s longest silence—

“What bands do you like?” Caleb finally asks.

Phew. We talk bands, comparing notes as we weave through the labyrinth of strip mall that stands between us and Taquitas, which itself is part of an outdoor food court. My parents have described a time when Mount Hope was a quaint town with something called “charm.” At some point, though, the town decided to allow a series of factory outlet stores in. The kinds of places that have last season’s seconds perpetually on sale. The kinds of places that make you think: Does the world really need this much everything ?

After that it was like a zombie breakout, one block affecting the next. There is still one strip of downtown that’s “historic,” with a single art-house movie theater and an old Spanish mission and a chrome diner called Smackie’s, but—no joke—if you want to meet your friend to shop for sweaters at, say, J.Crew, you have to specify which one (there are three).

It’s far too hot to be wearing my denim-hoodie combo. I push up my sleeves and tie back my hair, feeling sweat breaking out on my neck and forehead, my cheeks getting red. Nice look. A skirt would have been good. Sandals. But dates were not on the first-day-of-school schedule! And besides, manager Summer doesn’t dress up for business. Then again, I’d vowed never to let my heart hammer again during business hours, and here it is, hammering away.

We find common ground on Arcade Fire, Passion Pit, Deathcab, Particle Board. Our first big disagreement comes as we wait in line to order from the window, over Radiohead. “They haven’t made anything good since OK Computer ,” I say.

“Tuh,” says Caleb. “Everything they’ve made that’s good has been since OK Computer . That’s when they started acting like a real rock band, not giving a crap about what anyone thinks.”

“But they don’t write songs anymore.” As I say this, I wonder if it’s my opinion or Ethan’s. Radiohead was a band he got me into. Now here I am acting intelligent about them. Except I do know them. Except it feels like I’m faking it. Oh my God, stop worrying!

“They already wrote some of the greatest songs in music history.” Caleb runs his finger through the air. “Check. Their newer music is like a trip into a post-apocalyptic future, into the ruins of their own success, but in a good way.” He glances sideways at me. “Did that make sense?”

“Maybe you’re like Radiohead and you don’t need to.”

“Touché.”

We order. Caleb gets a burrito and I waffle and settle on fish tacos, and instantly regret ordering the same thing I so often ordered with Ethan. Both band boys like Mexican. Is that a sign? Stop it! Most people like Mexican. Ugh. I’ll be lucky to make it through this without driving myself crazy.

We get our paper plates of food and then turn to face the array of metal tables surrounding a modernist fountain. It’s like a coral reef, dotted with brightly colored yoga moms and strollers, and the occasional barracuda with his or her jacket off, crisp white shirt glaring.

“Want to go eat at the center of the solar system?” Caleb asks.

“You mean this isn’t it?”

Thankfully, Caleb gets that I’m joking. “Not even close. In fact, there’s Venus.”

I follow his pointing finger to a little pedestal off on the side of the dining area. It’s cone-shaped and at the top is a tiny model of a planet. “Ahh, right.”

Back when we were in elementary school, the town Arts Council installed this scale model of the solar system all over town. Each planet is represented by a model on a pedestal, all at their exact relative distances from the sun. They printed maps, and I remember thinking it was so cool, how you could travel the solar system, but somehow I never got around to seeing them all. The inner planets are all in this mall, but then Jupiter is like a mile away, and Saturn even further, and so on.

We weave back through the strip mall, passing the pedestal that holds Mercury outside J.Crew number two (the one that sells only cardigans, belts, and sandals) and reach the giant yellow sun. It stands ten feet tall in the center of another consumer courtyard, surrounded by a ring of grass, which is then enclosed by home decor shops.

We sit in the oval of shade off to the star’s side. The grass is immaculate, like no one’s ever touched it, let alone dared to risk staining their khaki on it.

“Center of the Mount Hope universe,” says Caleb.

“All the upscale housewares you could ever want,” I say, looking around. I rub my hand over the painted metal curve of the sun above our heads. It’s bumpy with sunspots. There used to be a big solar flare arcing out of the side, but it’s been broken off, its two endpoints sticking out with jagged edges.

“Have you ever been to them all?” Caleb asks after his first bite of burrito.

“No. I’ve always wanted to, but who has time with all the dumb movies to see and Facebook posts to read?”