you have one?â
Caleb nods. âMom and my grandmother took me to Italy when I was thirteen. You?â
âMexico vacation,â I say. âDo you think Val does?â
âIâll ask her.â Caleb types into his phone.
I check the time. âWe should be back by the end of school. If we talk to Matt, then go talk to your mom and Randy. . . . Then we try my parents tonight. Worst case, they say no and you go without me.â
Caleb wraps his arm around me. âThereâs no way Iâm going without you.â
We kiss, and the warmth of it beats back the drumming of my nerves. âWe could leave by Wednesday,â I say hopefully. âWe could be in London by the end of the week.â
Caleb nods. âIâd say this is crazy, but, what hasnât been in all this?â
I kiss him again, and our faces stay together for a minute, breathing each otherâs air. âAll we can do is try.â
2:24 p.m.
We walk past the main school doors just as the first students are rushing out. I already feel like a foreigner, like weâve forever broken the bonds that keep us trapped in orbit around Mount Hope High day after day.
Everyone is chatting, laughing, rushing to the next thing. Part of me wishes my biggest worry today was band practice, or a PopArts project, or where Caleb and I were going on our next date. Classic senior year stuff. We pass my old friends, Jenna, Callie, and the rest, with a couple guys I donât know. I have this weird feeling, a sort of vague itch, like all of them bother me, or like I feel left out? Which doesnât really make sense. But Iâve given up on expecting all my feelings to make sense at this point. None of us make eye contact as I walk by.
Caleb and I head for the Green Room, staying outside school, buffeted by the exodus. I keep flipping back and forth between thinking we can pull off finding Eli and thinking itâs insane. But if Iâve learned anything these past few months, itâs that sometimes you just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and not worrying about the what-ifs. Thereâs a very good chance this wonât work out, but until itâs actually dead, thereâs still a chance.
The Green Room is already crowded when we arrive, but I see that the hierarchy of bands still applies, and that despite our current troubles, Dangerheartâs table by theespresso bar remains vacant. Waiting for us.
As we cross the room, I hear a few whispers amidst the usual din: Denver, New York, she ran away . . . Itâs gossip but, in a way, the band might be even more revered, now that our road trip adventures have leaked out.
The question is, will any of the other members show up?
A few minutes later we get our answer: Matt, yes. Jon, no.
âHey, Matty,â I say, giving him a gentle hug before he sits down. His eye is still purple and swollen; soâs his nose. Two butterfly bandages cross his eyebrow, a couple stitches beneath that. Itâs like an abstract artist has attacked his boyish features.
âHi.â He notices me noticing. His voice is muffled from the swelling.
âHow are you feeling?â Caleb asks.
Matt smiles, but the injuries make it lopsided. âNot bad. The headaches have mostly gone away. Except for the headache that is my pissed-off parents.â
âThey werenât happy, huh?â
Matt laughs, but then winces, as if laughing hurts. âRandy called them from the ER, once we knew it was serious enough that I needed stitches and scans and stuff. So, they were prepared, and they even bought the story that I slipped on icy steps, but when they actually saw me last night? Yeah, they still freaked out.â
âIâm sorry,â I say.
Matt nods. âItâs okay. So . . . ,â he starts but then glances up and pauses.
Maya Barnes is at the front of the espresso line. She leans on the counter, eyes straight ahead, face
Pierre V. Comtois, Charlie Krank, Nick Nacario