Kevin Emerson - Exile

“I went once,” says Caleb. “My fifth-grade teacher loaded us in a bus and we drove all around town and saw every one—well, except Pluto. It had been downgraded to dwarf planet that spring—”

“An unspeakable injustice,” I say. “Pluto will always be a planet.”

“Always and forever,” Caleb agrees. “But we skipped it.”

“Was it cool? Seeing the others?”

“I guess? I mostly remember eating Cool Ranch Doritos and getting harassed because I sat next to a girl named Lin Yee and everybody said I loved her.”

I grin. “Obviously because you did.”

Caleb shrugs, but smiles too. “She was good at kickball and didn’t mind playing Bionicles at recess so, obviously. Anyway I guess I learned that if space travel is anything like a school bus trip, it’s too long and too cramped. Still, the models are worth seeing.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re there, and, like you said, you don’t have to buy anything or ‘like’ anything to see them. Also, even though they took Pluto off the map, people say it’s still out there somewhere, because the town couldn’t afford to send a welder out to remove it.”

“That I’d like to see. The lost ninth planet. I feel for it.”

And I feel Caleb looking at me. “Maybe we will sometime.”

“Maybe.” I meet his gaze. It’s a quick thing, a passing of eye contact, half smiles, as we both move to our next bite, but suddenly in that moment I feel a little quake in my heart, and realize I’m probably done for. No! Too soon! I tell myself to calm down. Jaded, professional, unflustered. This isn’t a date, it’s a job interview, for Caleb , not me. But oh, I am probably lying to myself. Still, I am not going to let him see it.

We eat for a bit. The small talk is done. Now my tacos are, too. I’m not sure what to say next.

“Back to Radiohead,” I try. “That new song you were playing before sounded like a real song, like well-crafted in the . . . you know, pre-post- OK Computer -way, but not like wannabe Radiohead, just . . . the . . .”

Caleb grins. “I’m curious to see how you pull this out.”

I am a flushed fool. “What I mean is that it might be a really great song.”

“Well, thank you.”

Annndd . . . back to silence! But this time I wait. It’s your turn, Mr. Caleb.

Finally: “It’s kinda personal.”

“Do I get the big story now?”

He sees my hopeful gaze, but his face darkens. “I don’t know why I want to tell you this.”

“But you’re going to. That was the deal. I come space traveling with you, you spill the beans. Besides, you’ve turned me to a life of crime. Now pay up.”

“Right . . .” Caleb shifts. He wraps the unfinished half of his burrito back in foil. “I live with my mom. I never knew my dad. She always told me that he didn’t want to stay around. That she didn’t want him around. I asked her sometimes if I could meet him, or contact him, but she said she didn’t know where he was. I could have called BS on those excuses but our life has been fine. Mom’s a social worker and she makes enough money and it’s cool. She supports my music. We could live even better if we weren’t in Mount Hope, but Mom tries to keep up with rent here so I can go to PopArts.”

“She sounds pretty great,” I say.

“She is, definitely.” He half unwraps his burrito again, his fingers jittery, then wraps it right back up. “What’s your parent situation?”

“Oh, I got the standard package,” I say. “Two, mixed gender, mostly annoying, but admittedly making some good points now and then, and providing me with the material necessities and then some.”

Caleb nods. He takes a deep breath. “So, August fifteenth was my eighteenth birthday. I had a party planned, but my uncle Randy came over the night before. That’s Mom’s younger brother. She wanted to have a birthday dinner, just the three of us. And so we’re at the dinner table and Mom’s been acting strange all day and I know something’s up.”

He pauses again. Tears off a corner of foil and crinkles it into a tiny ball.

“She told you something about your dad,” I guess.

Caleb nods. “Mom decided that now that I’m eighteen I should know that my dad was the lead singer for Allegiance to North.”

“Whoa.” I can barely believe what I just heard. “Really? Your dad was Eli White?”

“The one and only. Guess he and my mom had a fling one summer, hot and heavy, but then it didn’t work out. I mean, I worked out, but they didn’t. And then . . . you know.”

“He drowned.”

Caleb flicks the foil ball, a little shooting star. It lands in the grass, gleaming in the sun. He starts making another. “At first, I almost felt like, whatever. I mean, he was never a part of my life. They both wanted it that way, and he sent money. We still get money from his royalties or estate or whatever.” Caleb shakes his head and glances up at the sky. “But I think I liked it better not having a dad.”

“Why?” I ask. “Doesn’t this make you the son of a rock legend?” I can’t keep my band-manager brain from spinning ahead. “I mean, just from a publicity point of view, that’s—”

“No,” Caleb snaps. “That’s exactly what I don’t want.” Before I can even react, he’s getting to his feet. “Shit. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have told you. You, of all people . . .” He spins and walks off.

“Caleb . . .” I hurry after him. “Why did you tell me?”

He stops, shrugs and stares at the ground. “I felt like I had to tell someone .”

“FYI, telling a girl she’s just someone is not the best way to make her feel special.”

Caleb throws up his hands. “That’s not—look, I’m not good at saying things right the first time. You just seem, I don’t know, not that you like me, but that you’re like me in some way. Both of us have ended up alone for a reason. And I needed someone to trust. I don’t know—”

“It’s okay.” I touch his shoulder. “I get it. Now listen, I promise I won’t tell anyone, but why are you keeping this a big secret?”

“Because,” says Caleb, “I don’t want to be Eli White’s kid. I don’t want that to be the reason I get anywhere in music.”

We start walking again, weaving back through the mall toward school. I can barely keep up with his pace. “I get that, and for the record, I loved that song you were playing on the wall before I knew who your dad was. So why did you nuke your band? Was it because you were afraid of them finding out?”

“That was part of it. And . . . well, it’ll sound dumb.”

I grab his arm. We’re right near the doors to a children’s clothing outlet store, so there is a traffic jam of strollers around us. New moms eye us suspiciously, like we’re threats, or like they fear that if they don’t use the right kind of sippy cups or buy the right wooden toys, their little trophies might someday end up like us.

“Tell me.” When he hesitates, I remind him: “Life of crime.”

“I know.” Caleb searches the sky for words. “It’s just that, Eli might have been some kind of musical genius, but he was also a self-centered asshole, by all accounts. He treated my mom like crap, totally bailed on any responsibility to me other than cash, hooked up all the time, was into heroin . . . I just . . . I don’t want to be like that.”

“Not even the hooking-up-all-the-time part?” I hope that sounded like a joke.

It nearly makes Caleb smile. “I mean, I want to transcend. I want to do the big things, get all the way to the top, write the biggest song ever, but Neil Young was wrong.”

“About what? Aside from muttonchops.”