“Why don’t we just take the cushions?” I say.

Randy considers it. “Less rock, but also less roll for you in the back. Deal.”

Soon, everyone has arrived, we’ve piled in, and we’re off. As we wind over to the 405 and merge onto the highway, I feel the inevitable flutter of guilt, the lie to my parents, even though it’s aunt-approved. Still, I can’t help but wish there was another way, that I had parents who understood me, that I could just be who I really want to be around them.

And I’m basically avoiding all eye contact with Val. I can’t look at her without total distrust. It makes me dig my fingernails into my palms. Luckily, she’s not looking at me either.

Still, all the worries do get briefly swept away as we leave the city limits: by the hum of tires on highway, the glare of afternoon sun in our eyes, even the worrisome creaking and vibrations of Randy’s van as he careens through traffic. For four years, maybe for my whole life, I have dreamed of actually being out on the road, on tour with a band, with my band, and this is it! We are going! Out into the unknown to do our thing. All of us are buoyant, fired up. Behind us is what we were, somewhere ahead of us is where we’re headed, and right now, we’re free and on our way. It feels like this van could be going anywhere, it almost doesn’t matter. But it does. We’re on the road to play a show. On a mission.

Everyone takes turns swapping their playlists on the stereo, and at one point Caleb and Jon get out their guitars and there’s an impromptu run-through of the set. We all sing along in golden afternoon light. It sounds like freedom.

The miles of vacant central valley slide by, cooling orange sun lighting the tops of row after row of almond trees. After a stop for an ill-conceived mash-up of all the available rest-area snack genres that leaves the van smelling like Cool Ranch and mint, I recount my findings about Space Panda and Daisy.

“Stuffing a dog is barbaric,” Val mutters. It’s the first thing she’s said in over an hour.

Jon asks, “So do we actually think the tape is even there?”

“It’s all about the vinyl,” says Caleb.

“Yeah, but,” I say, “Carter’s record collection is massive, and now it’s been added to an even more massive collection. How will we know where to start?”

“What did the letter say again?” Randy asks.

Caleb reaches into his jacket pocket and unfolds the paper. I didn’t know he’d been keeping with him. Was it just for this trip? Or has he had it along every day since he found it? “‘Get a kiss from Daisy and search for a hidden yesterday,’” he reads.

“Hmmm . . . ,” says Randy. “That almost sounds familiar, but . . . I don’t know.”

“Space Panda is twenty-one and over,” Jon reports from his phone.

“Sounds like a solo mission for me,” says Randy.

“I can go, too,” says Val.

We all look at her. She’s typing busily into Caleb’s phone, which she asked to borrow. “I have a fake ID.”

“Cool,” says Matt.

I resist the urge to comment on this, that it doesn’t surprise me, that her whole ID is actually fake, or isn’t it, or what? But I remind myself, Get through the gig, get through the gig.

Except I can’t resist asking, “Who are you texting?”

Val’s eyes don’t leave the screen. “A friend of mine who’s coming to the show. Weezil. He goes to Berkeley.”

“Cool,” says Caleb, probably thinking like I am that we’ll need every head we can get in that club tonight. It’s just too bad I don’t even remotely believe her.

The sun slips behind the mountains, and the sky darkens. Quiet settles over the van. With each mileage sign, our anticipation builds.

Then, Randy says, “This is déjà vu, like being on tour all over again.”

I think of my own feelings of circular motion. Randy’s comment sounds like an open door. “Did you tour up here a lot?” I ask.

“Only once. Should have happened a thousand more times, but . . . something always screwed it up.”

“How was it?” Jon asks.

“So amazing,” says Randy. “Junior year of high school, Savage Halos opened for Allegiance to North, actually. They were just about to blow up, it was right before they signed with Candy Shell. It was the first time Eli and I had really gotten to hang out since Poison Pen broke up.”

“That was your band with Eli?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

What were you guys like?” Caleb asks.

“We were pretty good. Our lead singer was a guy named Zane. He went Ozzy, though, like literally brought a mouse to a gig and bit its head off.”

“You’re kidding,” I say.

“I wish. Hormones, man. Anyway, that band fell apart. I kinda thought Eli and I would put a new band together, but . . . he’d met Kellen and their songwriting styles were really perfect for each other, at least at the beginning. Eli and I were compatible players, but not writers.”

“Savage Halos were better, anyway,” says Val, not looking up. “Sear My Face rules.”

“You found our album?” Randy asks.

“Sure did,” says Val.

“Well, thanks.” Randy sounds sincerely touched. “But, no way. Allegiance was so great. And Eli’s songs ruled. But anyway, we toured up the coast with them that spring, and we got to play the Fillmore, opening for the Dave Matthews Band.”

“That must have been huge,” says Jon. “Those guys can play.”

“They overplay,” says Caleb.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Jon replies like a stodgy Englishman.

“It was a sick show,” says Randy. “I remember standing on stage at soundcheck, and Eli and I were both testing guitars, and we looked out at the room. I mean, this was a place where Hendrix, the Doors, Cream, the Who—they all played, and we used to geek out about all those classic bands, man, back when guys really played rock, not just rehashed it, and there we were. . . .”

Randy trails off. A second of silence. I wonder where he’s gone . . . then he’s back.

“And Eli, he was always thinking big, such an idealist. He was like, We’ll headline here someday. And I was like, Maybe we’ll headline. And he said, You guys will open for us. He meant it as a joke, except that’s kinda how it turned out.”

“You guys opened for them at the Fillmore?” Caleb asks.

“Well, no. Other places, but not there. Savage Halos was never exactly mainstream. Eli promised me he’d get us an opening slot on that last tour, and I’m sure he tried . . .” I sense some doubt in whether Randy actually believes that. “. . . but Candy Shell had up-and-comers they wanted on board, and you know, a promise in the music business is rarely a real promise.”

Caleb and I share a look. Randy’s putting fifteen years of perspective on it, but we can still hear the hurt.

“That’s too bad,” says Val. “Record labels are bastards.”

Randy shrugs. “Sometimes. Anyway, like I said, Eli was a dreamer. He said a lot of things, just, idealizing, that was what he did, thinking of what would be awesome. Start his own label, write three albums a year, open a rock club in London . . .” Randy trails off. After a pause, he adds, “Everybody always knew better than to believe him, but, you kinda couldn’t help it.”

The car returns to silence.

“There it is,” says Matt from the front seat a little while later. We all look up and get our first glimpse of the San Francisco skyline.

“Here,” Caleb says, handing his phone to Randy. “Put this on.”

The song that comes on is Allegiance to North, the big hit off their first album, a song we’ve all heard a billion times called “Excuses in Technicolor.”

“Nice,” says Randy, rolling down the windows.

He cranks it ear-bleeding loud.

Jon grabs his guitar and calls out chords, as we all start to sing:

It’s all black and . . .

“A!” calls Jon.

whiiiiiite with you, And when I . . .

“E!”

tryyyy to prove, That I’m . . .

“G, B minor, E!”

different and debonaire

“G, B minor, D!”

In my tuxedo and greased-back hair

“Hits on E!”

The PER. FECT. Gen-tle-MAN.

“F sharp minor!”

But oh no, Just when I

“A!”

thought that I knew

“G, B minor, E!”

Your excuses in technicolor, Make me blue

“F-sharp minor!”

Oh no, No matter what I do

“G, B minor, E!”

Your excuses in technicolor, Paint it new

“D to E!”

Your excuses are mixing me u-uuupp!

“This is going to be awesome,” Caleb shouts over the guitar solo. A minute later, I feel my phone buzz. A text from Caleb:

      Don’t tell them yet, but I’ll play the songs, if we find them.


We HAVE to.

I feel a thrill at reading this, and flash him a quick smile before singing along with the next song.

We light into the Mission, buzzing, free, alive, far from home and ready for anything—

Until Randy pulls up at Tea & Crumpets.

“This is it?” says Jon. Before us is a tan brick building, a Masonic Temple. Dead fluorescent light spills out the front door. There is a gathering of people visible inside, milling around. They all look old.

“It’s in the basement,” I say. “Petunia said to go in around back. It could still be cool.” But inside I’m knotting up with worry. There is nothing worse than showing up for a gig and finding out it’s lame. Especially when you’ve driven six hours and spun lies to get there.

There’s a back door down concrete steps. A handmade sign announces the TEA & CRUMPETS ALL AGES SALON. It’s exquisitely made with lace doilies and script letters hand cut from gold foil paper. There is a teacup on one side, and a unicorn reading Alice in Wonderland on the other.