“Liar. It’s more than ready.”

“Don’t get shy now, C.D.,” says Val. Really? She’s shortening his name after an hour? “I didn’t drive through the traffic vortex of hell to have you wuss out on your secret hit.”

“It’s not a se—”

“PLAY IT,” we all say.

“Okay, fine.” Caleb sighs but it’s just theatrics. He moves the capo up the neck of his acoustic, and I see his fingers fidgeting in a way that they haven’t up until now. He sits down on his amp and takes a minute to adjust the mic. Everything about how he’s moving says he’s nervous.

“Ready?” He seems to be asking himself, and then he takes a deep breath and starts to strum slow chords, his acoustic ringing. Despite the thump of drums invading through all the walls, the acoustic seems to create a delicate balloon of space, almost more captivating in its simple metallic jangle than when the whole band is in.

He glances up. “It’s called ‘On My Sleeve.’”

He sings:

You never knew what you left behind


Never cared to come back


No matter how much light shined on you


You took it with you into the black

He’s far off inside when he sings this, eyes closed or checking the chords. Every once in a while he looks up, and it almost looks like he’s making sure of where he is. And then once he’s sure of time and space, he’s gone again.

Did you know what you were missing?


Did you know I never knew?


Sunday afternoons, fights we could have had


Could I have saved you?

Would you be here . . .

But now I wear you on my sleeve


Always waking from a silly dream


Where I find you, alive and well


And your smile erases all the hell


I never knew was . . . missing

As the chords come back around, Jon begins to spin a spiderweb of silken guitar notes that feel breeze blown. Matt makes the kick drum pulse on each quarter note, and starts a chimey pattern on the open hi-hat and cymbal. Val makes the bass roll like thick fluid. They are all eyes closed, heads down, feet tapping, searching, finding . . .

As Caleb hits the chorus again, I feel like I unstick, gravity suspended.

MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 1s


Can’t . . . breathe . . . #dangerheart #O #M #G

Matt moves to the toms, adds the snare. Jon’s notes make a whirlwind around us. Val’s bass starts to sprint. Caleb, head up but with eyes still closed, starts to sing high ooohs, fragile and chipped, like leaves somersaulting over frosted grass. This song is an autumn dawn, the air crisp and scented with decay, the light angled and faint.

They create this huge sound, we are all in it, and finally Caleb’s eyes open; he checks with everyone, and they end on a huge unison ringing chord. As it fades away, they trade glances. Everyone knows.

“Dude . . . ,” breathes Jon. “I can’t wait to see those BandSpace girls freak out about that.”

“It’s good,” says Val. “Really, annoyingly good.”

“Thanks,” says Caleb.

“That’s the single,” I say. “I mean, right?”

Caleb eyes me seriously. “I still have a hard time imagining playing that in front of a bunch of our drunk classmates.”

“Can you imagine playing it in front of ten thousand screaming fans?” asks Jon.

Caleb chuckles. “Yeah. That’s easy.”

I hear Val sigh. “‘On My Sleeve’ it is. Are we done?” She drops to her knees to put her bass in its case. “I gotta go. It’s a long way back down south for me.”

“Sure,” says Caleb. “So, you’re in the band, right?”

Val glances up at him. “When’s the next practice?”

Afterward, Caleb and I head to Tina’s again. It’s Caleb’s idea, and I am glad for how refreshingly not Ethan this choice is. All his choices really. Ethan only ever wanted to go to Whimsy Cafe, the kind of place where you felt like you had to order a painstakingly prepared espresso beverage, and the person who made it for you would perpetually sneer around a lock of maroon hair, likely because of how uncomfortable their pencil jeans were. The kind of barista who would literally die if she saw you ladle an extra scoop of peanut butter cups onto tropical bubblegum fro-yo like I did just now.

“So, tell me I was right about ‘On My Sleeve,’” I say once we’re sitting with our bowls. Both of us went with the large size, and added extra toppings. I was just feeling hungry, but it’s probably also stress eating because of proximity to a show.

“You were right,” says Caleb, smiling.

“Val is good, too,” I say after a bite. I feel a spike of nerves saying this. She’s obviously what I wanted to talk about most. But I don’t want it to seem like jealousy. “Is it weird, though? This girl just showing up, a fan of yours?”

Caleb shrugs. “She doesn’t act like a fan. And she can totally play. I just feel like we got lucky. We need someone like her, who’s . . .”

“Please don’t say hot.”

Caleb reaches over and rubs my arm. “I don’t think she’s hot.”

“Not even the singing part?” I say.

“Okay, that’s a little hot. Our voices sound good together.”

I nod. “Like—”

“Ear lube,” we say together, and somehow this is the key. For the rest of the yogurt time, and then for a significant period of time sitting in the car before driving home (I take a ride this time), it’s just us.

9

MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 5h


Hey world, whatcha doing tonight? Coming to see Dangerheart’s big premiere at the Trial by Fire, right? #ifyourenothereyoushouldbe #trialbyfire

The next Friday night, I find myself watching a boy with a whipped-cream smiley face painted on his bare chest try to walk across a rope, an inflatable doll hanging on to his shoulders.

Below stretches a trench of molten fire, bubbling.

Surrounding: a horde of wet, sandy, flower-adorned, similarly creamed onlookers.

They chant: “Ha-ka-la-ka! Ha-ka-la-ka!”

The voices swell as the boy makes his was across the undulating wire. Legs wobble. Lava boils.

“HA KA LA KA—”

He lurches, the doll slips free. The boy lunges to grab it and plunges to his doom.

The crowd explodes.

He emerges from the red-lit trough soaked and slicked. The “lava” smells like vegetable oil and cherries and, at this point, who-knows-what-else.

“BadASS!” Ari Fletcher shouts through a megaphone. His nose is zinced white and he’s wearing a straw hat and Hawaiian shirt. He’s standing on a stepladder, made sinister by plumes from the nearby bonfire. “Next up we have Vivien!”

“These are not my people,” Val says under her breath. She’s almost always scowling, but this look is nearly fearful. “Why do I feel like if they turn and see us, they’re going to eat us?”

“If we pour punch all over ourselves,” I say, “it may hide our scent.” Val and I share a glance, our first moment of actual bonding.

I put down the two drum cases I’ve just carried down a winding sand path and catch my breath. Here we are: the wide beach, the raging bonfire, the glimpse of surf, the Fletchers’ glittering house above and behind us. And again I have that feeling of going in circles, and wonder if I’m the stupid mouse that walks right back into the same trap. By bringing Dangerheart here, I have opened myself to the possibility of losing my band again. I gaze warily around the crowd, wondering if the sharks are already here. One shark in particular . . .

The next couple hours will be no picnic. I’ve dressed a little for the occasion, as much as I could stand. Wrap skirt I got in Hawaii and a flower-print T-shirt. Looking around, I see that to really fit in I should be wearing a bikini top, despite the chilly evening breeze.

The band is lucky; they get to be on the stage. And they don’t have to worry about costumes. Val is in her usual T-shirt, slouchy jeans, and sweatbands, though she’s done up her hair with fresh green stripes. The rest of the band just looks like themselves.

Caleb arrives beside me. “Yikes,” he says. The bonfire light flickers in his eyes and he grins. “This is insane.” It’s not a full grin though. Fret Face is tugging at the corners.

I rub his arm. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m okay.”

“Liar.”

Caleb’s 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 around the 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.”