Finding Abbey Road (2 page)

It's the half-million dollar question. And Val was counting on that money more than the rest of us, to pay for her legal fees as she pursues emancipation from her crazy mother, to rent an apartment of her own. . . .

But I'm not sure how your band can sign a record deal when you don't have a band.

Would Stanford really be so bad for Summer?

Oh hell, I don't know what to do about any of it.

“Hold on.” Caleb stops us at the edge of the parking lot.

School is between periods. We watch from a distance as students stream from one door to another. Everyone talking, laughing, silent, or joking, all deep in the drama of their lives, all connected by classes, late bells, hunger pangs, the desire to fit in, to stand out, to be the star of their movie.

We all think we're the sun at the center of our universe.

Of course the center of the universe is actually an all-consuming black hole. Does that mean that our best-case scenario is that we're each a tiny solar system, with a handful of planets, born to burn for only a cosmic blink of an eye, one of trillions that have shined before and after?

Maybe.

And yet still they all hurry, darting up the steps, getting to class, cramming for the quiz, rushing over to the Armpit to quickly suck down a cigarette, rushing to the wall behind the gym for a quick feel-up . . . all of them unaware that from this distance they are little more than ants on parade.

But then what does that make Caleb and me?

Out of the flow, apart from the parade, spectators. Does that make us blessed or cursed? Are we more awake, more aware, or just hopelessly lost in space?

Is there someone watching us from a similar distance?

Oh my God, Summer, get a grip.

“You okay?” Caleb asks.

“Fine,” I say, shaking it off. “I'm the one who should be asking you that.”

“It's all right,” he says, like it mostly isn't.

The second passing bell rings. The last stragglers stamp out their cigarettes, adjust their bras and boners, stow away their cheat sheets, and sprint for the doors.

Then the building is still again.

We cross the parking lot and enter through the glass doors of the PopArts wing. We skirt quickly by open classroom doors, until we are in the window-lined hallway that rounds the back of the auditorium.

“Aw, man,” says Caleb, “I just remembered there's a quiz in amplifier physics.”

“Should you go?” I ask him.

Caleb shakes his head, allows almost a glimpse of a smile. “Pretty sure this is more important.”

The hall ends and we duck through old blue double doors into the athletics wing, a bleak, windowless hall of faded tan brick walls and stained brown tile floors, reeking of sweat and ever-damp showers.

The walls are lined with sad trophy cases. Most of the photos and trophies are at least ten years old, some older than that. Once Mount Hope became famous for PopArts, any kid with real athletic prowess went elsewhere.

We find the case beside the gym doors.

It's for the swim team.

It's as dusty as the others. Photo corners have curled away from the foil paper background, its shine dulled with time. Some of the medals that hung beside pictures lie on the bottom of the case.

We look over the items. Apparently Mount Hope had state champion swimmers in the 1980s, and one kid named Topher went to Nationals and even swam in the Junior Olympics.

“There.” Caleb points to the bottom corner: a photo of four boys standing in their Speedos, arms around each other. They are grinning and holding up the silver medals around their necks. A strip of paper beneath the photo reads:

Countywide JV Invitational 1991. 200m Medley Relay 2nd Place

There are no names on the paper, but he's easy to spot: Eli White, second from the left, smiling brightly and actually looking better in a Speedo than his later, skinny-rock-star appearance would suggest. Actually, he's got kind of great shoulders, which I tell myself not to think and definitely not to say because eww that's my boyfriend's dad.
But more importantly, he looks so young, and that smile: it's got a light that I can't ever remember seeing in his later photos.

“Did you know about this?” I ask Caleb.

He shakes his head. “I don't think anyone did. He was only a freshman then.”

“When did he and Randy meet?” I wonder.

“I think when Eli was a junior?”

“This photo is ten years before Eli died. I guess if he stopped swimming after freshman year, and never did varsity, maybe no one ever made the connection.”

That said, here is another piece of information that seems to be conveniently missing from the narrative about Eli's death.

I text our mystery informant.

Summer: We're looking at the photo. So Eli was a good swimmer.

(424) 828-3710: A very good swimmer.

Summer: We already know he didn't actually drown. We need more.

. . .

(424) 828-3710: When can you meet?

I show Caleb the message. “My calendar is pretty free at this point,” he says.

Summer: Whenever.

. . .

(424) 828-3710: My associate will pick you up in twenty
minutes. By the loading docks behind school.

The message makes an arctic chill pass through my abdomen.

“You up for this?” I ask Caleb.

I wonder if I am.

He just shrugs. “Does it matter?”

Summer: We'll be there.

10:58 a.m.

We kill time in the Green Room. Coach says hello and looks at us sideways, no doubt wondering why we're not in class. But he doesn't hassle us.

There's no one manning the espresso stand during this period but there is a self-serve pot of coffee. Caleb and I fill cups, then see that there's no milk or sugar out. We drink them black and bitter.

It fits.

We stand around, fidgeting and quiet, try hugging, but we're wound too tight.

After fifteen minutes we head out the back hallway, past the practice spaces, down the stairs, and out. A hot breeze lashes our faces, funneled between the high school and the community center next door, carrying the smell of the Dumpsters that sit just beyond a low concrete wall. . . .

Suddenly it is September again—either five months or five years or five centuries ago, it's hard to tell—and
Caleb is playing a concert to no one, standing on this very wall, until I startle him. It's intense to remember that supercharged moment. Everything new, every moment a first, full of possibility and magic . . .

It's so different from now, when the world feels hollow and mocking. That September afternoon seems so innocent. Maybe this is how it always is. Like it's only when you look back that can you see how much you didn't know, see what a silly dreamer you were.

But, no, we weren't wrong to dream, because it turned out we were right! More right than we knew. We dreamed of a band and that happened, a
great
band. We dreamed of finding Eli, of making Caleb's past whole. We did that, too. And it's because of all that we
did
do that we're here now, with so much further to go.

Deep breath, Summer. Let the caffeine sink in.

Caleb puts his arm around me. “I can't believe you found me here that day.” I'm glad to know he's thinking the same thing. “I never would have come this far without you.”

I resist the urge to question how far we've really come, given that we're standing right back where we started and our band is in shambles. Our life in orbit around the Dumpsters.

But no, I have to believe we're headed somewhere. And he's right: we knew enough to believe in each other. At least I'm sure of that. We may be back where we started, but we
have come too far, way too far, to let our doubts win.

“We did it together,” I say, and turn him toward me and kiss him, harder than he's ready for. It takes him a second to respond, but then he does, and for one brief moment we both remember that there is also just this,
us
, kisses like comfort, and a heat that starts to build each second that our mouths and tongues and bodies are in contact—

A car engine roars from around the corner.

We pull apart. Let the world back in.

Damn.

“Are you ready for whatever's next?” Caleb asks me.

“No idea. You?”

“No idea.”

11:12 a.m.

The car rounds the corner with a squeal of tires. It's a cherry-red Audi. I recognize it before it pulls to a stop and I see who's inside.

“Guys.” Ari Fletcher lowers his expensive silver sunglasses. He's a senior who still looks like he's made of potatoes, and still has his obnoxious giant red headphones around his neck, but today, his standard-issue, know-it-all smirk is gone.

Actually, he looks scared as hell.

“Come on,” he says. “Get in, already.”

“Huh?” I can't help saying, because if Ari is here, then that means . . .

In my mind, I feel big heavy puzzle pieces sliding into place.

“I'm supposed to drive you,” he says, checking the clock. “We have to hurry.”

“Where are we going?” Caleb asks.

Ari checks his phone. He swallows hard and glances around like we're in a spy movie. “He won't tell me. Just that if I don't bring you, I'm grounded for a month and I can't go to Cabo for spring break, so get in.”

“Who's
he
?” I ask but I don't really need to.

I'm pretty sure I know.

11:14 a.m.

Caleb slides in the backseat. I take shotgun. Before I sit, Ari brushes a pile off the seat: takeout cups, energy bar wrappers, drumsticks, comic books, a copy of
Pump It!
magazine. His car smells like chocolate and boy. The second I close the door he tears off down the alley.

“So,” I say, “let me guess: Jason is behind all this.” I'm not even sure how that could be possible but who else could it be? There's no one who's been more invested in messing with us—

But Ari laughs dismissively. “Yeah right.” He revs the gas as we sit at the stoplight outside school, then guns it out onto Main Street, our necks whiplashing. “Like I'd do this for
him.
”

“Then who?” Caleb asks.

Ari is about to reply when his phone utters a sensual female moan.

“Nice,” I mutter.

Ari picks it up and reads a text. “One sec, gonna let him know that we're on the way . . .”

He replies with his thumb while drifting back and forth in our lane. “Ari . . . ,” I say as we race up on a line of cars stopped at a red light. I grab the wheel to get his attention.

“I got it,” he says, glancing up and slamming the brakes.

His phone coos as his message sends.

“Are you going to tell us where we're going, or who is behind this?” I ask.

Ari just stares ahead at the traffic, his face tight. Then his phone moans again.

“Ugh, can you please silence that?”

“I'll put it on vibrate,” he says. He might mean that as a joke, but his delivery is halfhearted. He checks the text and holds it up so we can both see the sender and the message:

Dad: Santa Monica pier.

“Your dad . . . ,” I say.

“Jerrod Fletcher?” Caleb asks from the back.

“I don't get why he wants to talk to
you
,” says Ari. “Does this have something to do with your label offer? Cuz believe me, I can understand why you'd be hesitant to work with my brother. He's kind of a d-bag sometimes and—”

“Yeah,” I say quickly, glancing at Caleb as I do. “That's basically it. We're not sure whether or not we want to work with Jason.” If that's what Ari is most inclined to believe, we'll go with that.

“It's huge money,” says Ari. He sounds jealous.

“It is,” says Caleb, “and we were supposed to give him an answer by today . . . I guess your dad wants to talk it over, try to persuade us or something.”

“Whoo, yeah,” says Ari. “I'm glad I'm just dropping you off and don't actually have to be there. He gets pretty pissy about stuff like this.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I say.

Meanwhile, my midsection is doing backflips into a pool of adrenaline.

Jerrod Fletcher is the one who led me to Eli . . .

Who sent Caleb the guitar case.

Which means Jerrod Fletcher knows Eli is alive.

Has known for sixteen years . . .

Does anyone else? We met Kellen McHugh, Eli's old band mate. He seemed to have no idea. I'm pretty sure Jason has no clue. Neither does Caleb's uncle, Randy. I always just assumed Jerrod was part of the enemy team after Eli's songs. . . .

But maybe he is something else entirely.

I try to catch Caleb's eye again. I want to break this down with him so badly, but once more his gaze is buried in his phone. God, who is he texting now? I know I shouldn't stick my nose
in, but I have to say something. I'll try to keep it casual.

Summer: What's up?

Caleb: Nothing.

My thumbs twitch, wanting more.

Summer: Let's not tell Ari anything we don't have to.

Caleb: Agreed.

But other than swearing at the traffic on the 405, Ari doesn't feel like talking, either. He drives like an idiot, or he's just really nervous, weaving in and out of lanes, gunning the engine, and yet never quite improving his position on the choked highway. After a few miles, he puts on SilentNoize, a rap metal band whose goal is to pump up jocks before they cause bodily harm, or to make you break speed limits. We all sit there in silence.

Eventually we get on the 10, curve briefly onto the PCH, and finally Ari pulls into the drop-off area at the start of the Santa Monica pier.

“You're really not coming?” I ask Ari as we get out.

“Hell no. Just supposed to drop you off. Dad says walk all the way out to the end.”