“Danger,” says Jon. “This is not looking very rock ’n’ roll.”

“It’s supposed to be a good crowd,” I say weakly.

We enter into a storage area that’s dank and smells like old towels. Through the next door, we find ourselves in a low-ceilinged basement with cement poles here and there. There are speakers and mics, a crooked house drum kit, and frayed amps set up beneath two harsh yellow lights in the corner.

“Ouch,” says Matt, eyeing the drums like he just witnessed someone wiping out in the school hallway. “Good thing I brought my own cymbals.”

Across an empty sea of concrete floor, lit only by strands of multicolored holiday lights strung around the poles, is a little sitting area, thrift-store furniture and floor lamps arranged on a patchwork of threadbare oriental rugs. Past that is a counter with a popcorn machine and a cooler of sodas and fruit.

There are five people sitting in the chairs. A wideframed girl stands up. She’s wearing a magenta polyester dress that is straining to fit her. “Hey, you must be Dangerheart,” she says. She’s got thick glasses with pointed rims, like something a grandmother in the fifties would wear. She has a triangular green handbag that matches. Her friends are a collection of sweaters, polyester pants, hipster sneakers, more thick glasses, and retro hairstyles.

“Hi,” says Caleb.

“I’m Petunia. You guys can unload by the stage and when you’re done, we have tea sandwiches and Dandelion made her signature crumpets.”

“That sounds adorable,” says Val with a spoonful of sarcasm, except I probably agree with her.

We drop our stuff, get our paper plates of crumpets, which are dry and made from whole wheat and likely flax and who-knows-what-else, and then sit on the couches. We take up two, and Petunia and Dandelion and their other friends sit on their side and it feels like the worst social event ever.

“So glad you guys could make it up,” says Petunia.

“You’re from LA,” says Dandelion. She’s dressed in a similarly retro lime-green housedress, with a thick strand of costume pearls. “Do you know the Lapels?”

“Oh, not really,” I say, “are they new?”

This seems to offend one of the boys, causing him to get up for more tea.

Petunia is about to answer when there is a huge sound from above, like twenty cases of grapefruits just got dumped on the floor. Then there is a long scrape, followed by another chorus of thumps.

“Oh God, they’re at it again,” says Dandelion.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“There’s a monthly African dance class in the church hall.”

The sound of hundreds of feet thumping and sliding continues over the next hour, as the first band of the showcase, New Erasers, plays. It’s a three-person band in matching black V-necked sweaters, two boys and a girl, drums, bass, and accordion, and they are all equally hunched in half as they play. The girl whisper-sings her lyrics and the drummer plays with brushes and it is barely possible to decipher their songs with the dancing horde from above.

Halfway through the set, Val springs up from the couches and hugs a tall, pencil-thin guy with frizzy hair who just entered. So, Weezil exists.

By the time New Erasers finishes, there are only about fifteen people in the room, just enough for it to feel even more empty. They stand in clumps, far back from the stage. Dangerheart starts to unpack, and I begin to feel the sinking certainty that this is so lame, and what are we doing here? Why did I think this was a good idea? And I can see the same solemn disappointment on the band members’ faces. They’re all staring quietly into space as they swap places with New Erasers. So, so disappointed.

And then I hear a clap of hands from behind us. A slow, sarcastic clap.

Jon turns, and squints. I hear footsteps striding toward us.

“Isn’t that Ari’s brother?” Matt wonders.

Oh no. I turn, and before he even steps into the stage light, I can see the pro teeth, gleaming from behind their predatory smirk.

“There they are!”

“Shit,” I mutter to myself.

“Hello, Dangerheart. Jason Fletcher, associate talent scout for Candy Shell Records. I’m sure Summer’s told you all about me.”

19

MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 20m


Amazing night so far at #TeaAndCrumpets in SFO! Things are about to heat up as #Dangerheart prepares to take the stage!

“She hasn’t, actually,” Val says immediately.

“Oh no? Ah, no big deal.” Jason smiles broadly. “Well,” he says, “I didn’t realize you’d scored such a cool gig.” He looks directly at me. “Now it makes sense.”

The band looks at me quizzically, but Jason is on it before I can even speak.

“I saw your set at my brother’s party. Not bad. I told Summer, with a little polish, you guys could really be something.”

“Summer didn’t mention that,” says Val. I can feel the glare.

“No? Well, it probably slipped her mind.”

“What do you want?” I ask him. “They’re just about to go on.”

“Just came by to say good luck.” Jason looks around at the sparse crowd. “I get it. You guys want to keep your indie cred. Start small . . .” I can hear it coming, and I’m thinking, Don’t say it, don’t say it, but I understand that of course, he’s going to. Of course this was when he was planning on telling them all along. “That crowd I would’ve had you in front of tonight is at least five hundred, but, I suppose that’s selling out, or something. Also, no crumpets.”

“What crowd?” Caleb asks.

Jason’s smile is enormous, and all I can do now is watch.

“You know,” he says, “opening for Sundays on Mars over at the Rickshaw Stop? I wanted you guys, but . . . like I said, I get it. And it worked out anyway. Your pals Freak Show were available.”

Unbelievable. He brought in Freak Show? That had to be just so he could twist this knife. I want to scream at him. I want to cry. Both feel impossible. I’m frozen.

And the band’s eyes have all turned to me.

“Ooh.” Jason is checking his watch. “Gotta get back. Anyway, good luck.” He looks pointedly at Caleb. “Summer’s got my number if you guys want to come by the club after the set. I put you on the list. We could talk about the future. I’ve always got more dates.” He takes one more theatrical look around the basement. “Adorable.” Then he turns and strides away, leaving us in stunned silence.

“Um, so, are you guys ready to go on?” Petunia appears at the edge of the stage light.

“It’s going to be a few minutes,” says Caleb slowly. “Sorry.”

“Okay,” says Petunia with a sigh, “well, but our sound curfew is at nine forty-five, so . . .” she heads back to the couches.

“Curfew,” mutters Jon, pointedly staring at the floor. “WOW.”

I feel Caleb’s eyes on me. I can’t believe I let it come to this, and I don’t want to look, but I force myself to. “True?” he asks.

I nod. “He treats bands like crap, guys. He put Postcards out on tour and they’re totally flailing now. We don’t want him involved in our business. I didn’t know this gig would—”

“What, completely suck?” says Val. “But you knew, you had to know it wouldn’t be as good as playing the Rickshaw.”

“I wasn’t sure,” I say, and it sounds oh-so lame.

“This is because of what happened to you with Postcards,” Jon adds. “That’s why I’m playing under a curfew.”

“You should have told us,” says Matt. “So at least we had a choice.” Even Matt . . .

In my mind, I’m thinking about how I know I have to take this. That I deserve this, for keeping the gig from them. But I also need them to know that it’s not that simple. “Caleb,” I say. He’s looking near me, but not at me. “Jason wanted to advertise the gig using your connection to Eli. I knew you wouldn’t want that.”

“I’m not sure the rest of us wouldn’t want that,” says Jon. He looks at Caleb. “We wouldn’t be here if people knew who you were.”

Oh boy. I figure this will ignite Caleb, but Val jumps in before he can respond.

“That’s not the point,” she snaps. It’s hard to tell if she’s meaning to defend Caleb or not. “We could’ve still taken that gig under the condition that he not use Caleb’s background.”

“But if we did use his background, we’d probably get a huge crowd,” Jon says.

“You were fine with this before,” says Caleb quietly.

“That was before we ended up here, at a dumb gig, on a wild goose chase after songs that we’re not even going to play!”

“I was going to play them!” Caleb whisper shouts, glancing around. The sparse crowd is definitely noticing. We’re violating the dirty laundry rule so badly. “I decided you guys were right, but hell, maybe I was wrong.”

Jon holds up his hands. “Okay, cool, but still, the Rickshaw . . .”

“He probably wouldn’t have given it to us without using Eli’s name,” I say, but hearing the name makes me picture the five hundred people, the lovely staged framed by red curtains (I stalked it more than once online). Sure Jason would have been there somewhere, but . . . I feel sick again.

Val pounces, like she’s been waiting for this. “Did you ask him?”

I bite my lip. “No.”

“I’m not saying I’d want to work with Jason,” Val continues, “but you just thought about yourself and not about us.”

“I did think about you guys,” I say weakly.

And then Val looks at Caleb and says, “I told you.”

Caleb doesn’t respond; he’s lost in the spiral of this mess. But I can’t help it, that comment sends me over the edge. “You told him?” My voice rises despite the crowd, who are definitely all curious onlookers to this car crash. “You know what I haven’t told him? Haven’t told anyone?”