They finish, and the applause is full-on. “That’s all we’ve got,” says Caleb. “Thanks.”

I see them all allowing a moment to smile and soak it up. A gig completed, at long last, even if under ridiculous circumstances. I watch them pack up and as they move offstage, my stomach flips with anticipation about how our next interactions will go. Maybe having played a great set will make things easier. Or maybe, now that they know they can do it, they’ll feel like they’re better off without my drama.

“That was excellent,” I say to Caleb.

“Thanks,” is all I get, head down.

I let him put his guitar in its case, then try, “What did Randy say to you?”

Caleb stands. He glances at me for a moment, our eyes finally meeting, but he looks away. He does smile, but it’s into space, not at me. Still, it’s something. “He said, ‘There’s always another gig, and this is it.’”

“‘On My Sleeve’ was pretty amazing.”

More relief from Caleb. “Yeah. It felt good.”

I want to hug him but instead I sort of pat his shoulder. His shirt is cool with sweat. He doesn’t move, but he does smile at me. Getting warmer.

“So,” Jon says after packing up, “do we want to go over to the Rickshaw?”

“Let’s go to Space Panda first,” says Caleb, “and see about the tape. After that . . .” He glances at me. “Maybe.”

I don’t respond. If we are meant to go to the Rickshaw, I will face it. But I’m glad we’re going after the tape first.

We thank Petunia, explain that we have a bunch of driving to do, and duck out as the last band is playing. It seems clear from her frown that we won’t be playing Forecast: Sweaters! again anytime soon. We can probably expect some snarky comments online about our behavior, typical LA drama queens, that kind of thing. But hopefully there will also be mention that the set was great.

We get in the van, and after a couple blocks of silence, Caleb finally turns to me. “Was that true? What you said about Val? That her mom was engaged to Kellen?”

“Yeah, all true,” I say. “But I don’t know what it means.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Of all the things she’s ever said,” I admit, “I felt like I believed her last statement, about how she’s done everything in the best interest of the band, most.” The more I think about it, the more I can’t believe how I rushed to judgment, how easily I let myself believe in conspiracies without actually finding out the truth, without trusting the people around me.

“She doesn’t seem like the sleeper-cell type,” says Jon. “Though if she is, storming out on us would have been the perfect time to go get the tape.”

“Shit.” All my thoughts reverse. Val and her fake ID. Her friend Weezil, who could drive her there . . . and she’s got a half hour head start. . . . Suddenly, I’m right back to fearing the worst.

20

MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 2m


If all of music is connected by a single, secret soul,


I think I now know where it lives.

We barely speak for the next mile as Randy muscles his way through traffic.

“Even if she is after the tape for herself, or for her mom, or even Candy Shell,” says Randy, “she doesn’t know where it’s hidden.”

I imagine us all in the Vault searching, her on one side, us on the other.

“Neither do we,” says Caleb.

“Yes, we do,” says Randy as we sit at a red light. “Search for a hidden yesterday. That’s what we do after we kiss Daisy, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, it’s obvious,” says Randy. “Okay, not obvious, it did take me a little while to figure it out, or I should say to remember it.”

“What?” Caleb asks.

“He’s talking about one of the greatest rock ’n’ roll cover controversies ever. I remember going with Eli to vinyl shops and he was always looking for it.”

“Randy!” Caleb nearly shouts. “For what?”

“Do a search for Yesterday and Today, by the Beatles.”

“That’s not one of their albums,” says Jon. “I have the whole box set.”

Randy groans. “It’s not one of the digitally remastered albums. The iTunes versions are the British versions. This was an American release. They did the albums different in the US and England back then.”

“Got it,” I say, clicking on a link. There is a photo of the Beatles sitting on a luggage trunk, like the kind people would have taken when traveling across the Atlantic on steamships. “What about it?”

“Look for the picture with the babies.”

I scroll down and there it is. Another version of the cover, with the Beatles all dressed in white smocks, and covered in baby-doll heads and pieces of meat. “Gross.”

“But kinda awesome,” says Caleb, leaning over.

“Exactly,” says Randy. “The reaction to that cover was so bad that Capitol Records recalled all the copies, and they pasted a new cover over it, but then word got out, and lots of people tried to soak off the new cover to get to the old one. Lots of warped copies out there. My dad had one. But Eli and I were always looking for a perfect original cover that escaped the recall. There were very few.”

“So, if this Carter guy had one,” I say, “that’s where the tape is.”

“That’s got to be what he means,” says Randy.

Caleb has leaned away and is typing into his phone. When he feels me looking, he says, “Weezil’s number is in here from when Val used my phone. I’m trying to get in touch with her.”

“She’s not going to respond if she’s after the tape,” I say.

“But if she’s not, and she cools off and realizes she needs a ride home, she will.”

By the time we park ten minutes later, Val hasn’t replied.

We end up a few blocks from the club, and when we round the corner we find a giant snaking line to get in.

Given that I will probably live my life without ever boarding an intergalactic starship or meeting alien races in far-off nebulae, this may be the closest I come to experiencing alien life. It’s group after group of spindly club girls, all twenty-something (if not teens with fake IDs), dressed in shimmery short skirts with strappy tops, hair in spirals, glitter everywhere, multicolored eye paint, impossible heels, and most (and often too much) of every thigh. The dudes who surround them almost look like they should be on chain leashes fastened to metal collars. They loom with rounded shoulders in their baggy dress shirts, professionally torn jeans, and gelled hair. They speak in grunts. The women answer in high-pitched roller-coaster voices, twittery laughs with wide mouths. They’re constantly preening. A part of me wants to understand their customs, their language, and yet I might as well be an astronaut in a baggy white suit, except an astronaut would be noticed. Here I am invisible to them.

Caleb, Jon, Matt, and I stand off to the side while Randy gets in line. In his flannel, jeans, and beard, he looks like someone who’s come to fix the plumbing.

The walls thump, deep waves of bass washing over us. Through the high windows of the two-story brick façade, we can see wild lights spinning. There is a bar up on the roof, edged in palm fronds, and laughter spills down from it like rain.

The line barely moves, as groups keep strutting right up to the front, checking with the burly black-suited bouncer, and then walking right in.

“This is going to take forever,” says Caleb.

“Hey! Hey, you four!”

The shouts of the bouncer get our attention. And he’s looking at us.

“Yeah, you!” He waves us over.

“Um . . .” I glance at the band, and we make our way to him.

The giant man leers down at us. He has two fingers to a Bluetooth device in his ear. I notice a camera keeping watch from over the door, silhouettes up above, possibly looking down.

“Which one of you is Caleb?” he asks in an impossibly deep voice.

“Me.”

“The manager says I’m supposed to let your party in. IDs.”

“We’re not twenty-one,” says Caleb.

The bouncer exhales, so bored by this. “They’re minors,” he says into the Bluetooth. “Uh-huh . . . we’re going to need a chaperone.”

“Kill me,” says Jon.

Caleb motions to Randy, who pushes out of line, causing huffs around him.

The door opens and a tall, professionally dressed woman with jet-black hair and giant brown eyes steps out. “Right this way.”

“Any idea why the manager is letting us in?” Matt wonders from behind us. “Do you think we’re in trouble?”

“Stay cool, Matty,” says Jon. “They obviously knew we were coming.”

“Yeah, but who knew?” Randy wonders aloud.

Maybe the DJ got word that we were coming somehow,” I say. “Maybe he knows to help us.”

Caleb just shrugs. He’s deep in Fret Face.

We enter a world of dark and pulsing light that smells almost tropical. We have to walk single file through the tight crowd. The music hammers at my chest and saws at my ears. No melody, just urge and overkill. We pass a bar gleaming in red and amber, lined to the high ceiling with sparkling bottles, and a dance floor that is literally crushed with people.

“Whoa . . . ,” Jon breathes. He’s pointing to a platform along the far wall, where a line of girls wear identical skimpy silver dresses wired with white LEDs. They look like androids and dance with stiff movements. I wonder if they are paid to do that, or if that is really their idea of fun.

Caleb’s hand slips into mine as we thread through the shoulders and hips, as if our troubles are less important than getting through this zombie horde alive. Ahead I see a staircase to the balcony, where a couple DJs spin. The one in the center is lit in red and wearing a welder’s visor. The disco ball reflects in the glass. Something tells me that’s Claro.