Exile by Kevin Emerson Read Free Book Online Page B

difficult, like something exceedingly special would need to happen for us to kiss again, and besides, shouldn’t Caleb be the one who initiates this time? Of course, at the same time, I didn’t mind that no one had witnessed us kissing. I felt almost paranoid after our sun date, the excitement of our connection dampened by my concern with how the world might cheapen it.
    Except then right in the middle of a search, while page results were loading, he just reached over, turned my chin with his finger, and our lips met again. This one was quick. Familiar, the kind that is meant to be just one of many. Like a habit. A good habit. And at least for that moment, I could care less what anyone might think.
    “What was that for?”
    “Um, for search engines? Does it matter?”
    “It really doesn’t.”
    “Good,” he says. “’Cause I think I’m going to have more kisses than reasons.”
    And I melt. And we kiss more.
    With the terrible task of naming settled, what the band really needs next is a goal.
    A gig.
    And so on Tuesday morning Caleb and I meet up at the front doors of school and prepare to split up, Special Forces-style.
    “Remember,” I say to him, “Operation Swordfall is going to be bloody. But it’s vital.”
    Caleb takes a deep, queasy breath. He’s been more quiet than usual this morning, ever since I met him in the parking lot by his car. His face gets blank when he’s nervous. I call it Fret Face. I know he’s not looking forward to this operation, but when I asked him if anything else was wrong, he said he was fine.
    “I know,” he mumbles. “Do I really have to?”
    Caleb’s mission is to make amends with the members of Android Necktie. “We’re going to be playing the same gigs as them,” I remind him, “moving in the same circles. We won’t have them on our side, but if we can at least keep them from actively rooting for our failure and telling everyone that Dangerheart sucks, that would be good.”
    Caleb sighs, but he nods in agreement. “Your missionalmost sounds worse.”
    “Operation Tater Tot? Yeah, it’s going to be ugly. But it’s equally vital.” I punch him in the shoulder. “Godspeed, man.”
    Caleb almost grins, but Fret Face is strong.
    I bound back down the steps and head around the side of school. As I go, I can’t help glancing anxiously at my binder, where I have etched twenty capital T’s across the top. This is the number of “tardies” you can get in a class without losing credit. They’re like player lives for Catherine. I’ve already pre-crossed out Number Three for this morning. At this rate, she may need to find the hidden cache of medical supplies if she’s going to survive this level of the High School game. Summer, meanwhile, is doing great.
    I round the corner and arrive at the Armpit, an awkward triangular cement area in the crux where the south wing of school meets the auditorium. A high hedge shields it from the office. There are windows up on the second floor, but if you’re close to the wall, this is one of the very few spots on school grounds where you can be nearly invisible. Thus the concrete is littered with cigarette butts and dip cups and wrappers. It’s too early in the year for a single gang to have claimed it, but there are a few clumps of boys standing around in clouds of smoke and testosterone, sizing each other up.
    The person I’m looking for is sitting on the short wall beneath the hedge.
    “Ari.” Ari Fletcher doesn’t hear me through his donutsized red headphones. He’s bopping his head and slapping drumsticks against his thighs. His two friends are hunched over an iPad, arguing about how best to proceed in some video game. It whines with trebly sounds of shrieking females and chainsaws.
    “Ari.” Ari is the son of Jerrod Fletcher, who happens to be the head of Candy Shell Records. But more importantly, Ari throws a yearly back-to-school party out at their beach home called the Trial by Fire. Invitation only. For most