“Summer . . .”

My name just infuriates me. “Stop.” I look to Val. “I’m sorry about what you’re going through. I am. You guys just go to the movie. Have a sleepover. I’m going home.”

It’s my turn to storm off even though I’m already regretting it as I do it. But once you set your exit into motion, you’ve got to stick the landing. “I’ll see you tomorrow at practice.” I keep walking. I hate it. I feel tears coiling, ready to spring free. Not doing that. Walking out. Holding my breath.

I’m outside, halfway up the block, when I exhale and the tears pour out. My phone buzzes. Caleb: Come on. I’m sorry. Come to the movie.

I keep going, and as I drive home, I hate everything. Hate hate hate. To myself: “Real mature, leaving like that. Playing right into her hands.” To Val, via the window: “Where do you get off thinking you can just get that close to him?” To myself, via the dashboard: “You don’t own him. You didn’t need to put him in that position. Can’t you just be confident?” But I remind myself of the lessons that feel all-too-recently learned: “Fine line between being confident and being oblivious.”

When I get home, I go straight online. I do searches for Val, or Valerie, in every location. Nothing. No photos of her or mentions with Mission Viejo, and nothing before the six-month stretch from last winter to spring when she appears in photos and gig listings in Ithaca with Kitty Klaws. It’s like she’s only ever existed in New York and our practice space.

Around midnight, Caleb texts: Movie was amazing. Wish you’d stayed. Val is just a band mate. That’s all. I felt like she needed help. Maybe I messed up.

I reply: Thank you. Sorry I missed the movie. And before he can add any more: Good night. I just want today to be on the other side of sleep.

But first, back to the search. In all the listings and bios for Kitty Klaws, she’s only Val, even when the other two members have last names. They have prior projects listed, too. Val doesn’t. There’s no information about why they broke up, or contact info either.

Nothing, nothing, and nothing . . .

Until finally, around two a.m., I am looking at the comments beneath one of the band’s YouTube videos, and I find an old post:

Darren_Peters39: Looking good, Cassie! Love the new band. I won’t tell, but drop your mom a line so she knows you’re okay.

The other members of Kitty Klaws are named Sarah and Cooper.

I click on Darren Peters’s profile. He’s from Princeton, New Jersey. . . .

And ten minutes later, I find her.

Cassie Fowler.

A picture of her at a high-school battle of the bands. Her band then was called File Under Tragedy.

Another where she’s standing with the cross-country team last fall, looking very un-Val-like in a powder-blue uniform.

And then something else.

A police log in the Princeton newspaper, from last Christmas:

Police were called to investigate a domestic violence call in the 800 block of View Crest Lane. Officers arrested Melanie Fowler for drunk and disorderly conduct. Police are looking for the suspect’s daughter, Cassie Fowler, age 16, who made the call but fled the scene.

And she’s been running ever since.

Val doesn’t go to Mission Viejo.

Val’s not even Val.

You might put your head on someone’s shoulder when you have no one else to turn to. You might crash somebody’s date when the alternative is sleeping . . . where? In her car? She wears the same clothes nearly all the time. I thought it was anti-fashion politics; it’s probably because she doesn’t have anything else. I realize that I’ve been basing all of my opinions about Val on the assumption that she’s another middle-class kid like the rest of us. But it’s not even close. Not that she’s let us in on any of that, except Caleb.

I think about texting him, but it’s late. Val is probably asleep, and now instead of imagining her sneaking into his room, I see her getting one of the only good nights of sleep she’s gotten since . . . when?

And it almost makes me love Caleb more that he’s the kind of person who can be there for her, while people like me are so quick to judge. Sure, the question of whether she’s into him is still there, but it pales in comparison to what she needs. Friends. Safety. To hide. Oh, man. I know I couldn’t have known, but I feel like an idiot.

And yet . . . as I lie in bed turning all this over and over in my head, there is still one question that’s unanswered. If Val’s not from Mission Viejo, and her asshole dad is a lie, what exactly is she doing here?

17

MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 5m


Saturday, I think I might just have to skip you.

Even though I don’t fall asleep until nearly four, I’m up far too early, whirring with anxious energy. I lie in bed, listening to my parents bustle, wondering what I’m going to do about Val, about San Francisco. At one point, the phone rings. I hear the murmur of conversation, then footsteps up the stairs, to my door . . . and away again. My dad saying, “She’s still asleep.”

I keep hoping that will be the case, just for a little while longer, but finally accept that sleep is not coming back. I get up and trudge downstairs to find Carlson Squared eating on the deck. It’s one of those warm, seasonless LA mornings, the sun scorching the patio, the nearby lemon tree fragrant.

“Hey, I made eggs,” says Dad. “And Aunt Jeanine called about shopping. You should call her back.”

Aunt Jeanine has been taking me shopping since I was little. I’m the surrogate daughter she gets to dote on. It sounds like the perfect distraction for this morning.

I call her back, and down a bagel in my room while doing some basic band business. I post to our BandSpace forum about the Forecast: Sweaters! show. One fan, TooSexyForYourShirt, has a cousin in South San Francisco, and soon we are chatting about putting up posters. I contact SarahFromTheValley, who’s been doing the influence photo art, and ask if she can make a poster. I get Petunia to give us five free show passes to give away and then I start a contest on the band’s LiveBeat page.

When all that is done, I find myself back in Val’s world. A quick search, and I find Melanie Fowler’s Facebook page.

Since we’re not friends, all I can see are her basic stats and profile picture. She doesn’t have an employer listed. The picture is a self-portrait with a bad, bright flash. She’s smiling but it’s hazy, her eyelids kinda half asleep, dark circles beneath. It looks like a photo from the bleary end of a long night. There’s a dude in a cowboy hat grinning around a beer beside her, a cigarette in his fingers. He doesn’t look all there either.

She has her photos locked down for Friends Only, but I can see her Likes. I click there. Nothing remarkable. Bands, movies, restaurants—

And Candy Shell Records.

Their page has fifty thousand likes, but . . . it seems like an unlikely coincidence. I do a search for Melanie and Candy Shell.

A few pages in, I find results. Melanie Fowler worked for a publicity company called Ultra-Lozenge. And they ran some promotion for Allegiance to North. Candy Shell bought them up in 2000. All of this suddenly seems too coincidental.

I text Maya. Can you do me a secret detective favor?

      Sure!

      Can you ask your coworker Bev about Melanie Fowler and Ultra-Lozenge Publicity and see if there’s anything scandalous there?

      Sure! Do I get to ask what it’s about?

      Not yet. Soon. I’ll owe you many chocolate croissants.

      OK!

Aunt Jeanine picks me up at ten thirty and we head for Bloomingdales and its surrounding mall. Her little vanilla-colored Pomeranian, ironically named Cocoa Bean (or maybe a subtle hint from Aunt Jeanine to the world that someone’s appearance does not necessarily dictate who they are inside) yips from her shoulder bag/kennel in the back-seat. Aunt Jeanine works for a clean water nonprofit, and travels to West Africa a few times a year to manage well projects. I take care of Cocoa Bean when she’s gone. I call the dog “the weasel,” but it loves me.

“Sanu ki,” says Jeanine as I get in the car. “Ina aiki?”

“Aiki da godia,” I say, humoring her with the one phrase of Hausa she’s taught me. It always feels forced, these greetings, as they’re so different than how Carlson Squared operates, and yet I do think it’s cool that Aunt Jeanine has this solo, world-traveling life, even if it leads one to get a weasel dog instead of a proper canine.

I ask Jeanine about work so she’ll talk and I can just gaze out the window, answering her questions in mmms and one-word replies. It’s all Val in my mind, and as Jeanine goes on about next month’s trip to Niger, I try to make sense of what I know:

Val, formerly Cassie, runs away from New Jersey on Christmas and goes to Ithaca. She must have had someone to stay with. And after being there for six months, she comes here. I wonder if her mom tracked her down in New York state. But even if that’s the case, why come here? Why Caleb? Is that coincidence? Did she just happen to know someone out here and then wanted a band to play in? But then why not change her name again? And, is it also a coincidence that she shows up and auditions for Caleb’s band right around the time that Caleb is finding out about these hidden songs? But it’s ridiculous to think she could have known about that, isn’t it? Except her mother has old ties to Candy Shell and Allegiance to North . . . and something about all that makes her purpose in the band potentially . . . what? Sinister? Could she be after the songs? It seems unlikely. How could she have even known about them?