Finding Abbey Road (7 page)

I just sit there in the car. The exhaustion from this day—or this week, maybe even this whole year—is really starting to set in. As is my doubt about whether my parents will listen to me. The idea of a grounded girl asking for a trip to London is about as insane as they come. But then again this whole situation is insane. Maybe it'll be like how two negatives equal a positive.

You know things are bad when you are looking to math for moral support.

“So . . . ,” says Caleb. “Should I come in? Or . . . not.”

“I think not,” I say, not sure at all. “I have to convince them that this is what's right for me. If you're there they might dismiss it as me being irrational because I'm in love.”

“Isn't that part of it?” I turn and see that Caleb is smiling, the most free he's seemed all day. His face lights up and it seems extra bright considering the clouds he's been under, and I have one of those crystalline moments where the rest of the world sort of shatters and falls away because you love this person, and he loves you back, and what else
really matters and DAMN this boy is hot. How do I even go five minutes without jumping him?

“Definitely,” I say, rubbing my hand on his arm, letting my fingers mingle with his.

But Carlson Squared don't do irrational. I'm not sure when the last time was that they listened to their hearts.

Still, I keep sitting there.

My phone buzzes. When I check it, my gut tightens.

Jason: It's decision day. . . . And I haven't heard a peep.

I show Caleb, then put my phone on Do Not Disturb.

“We should probably just tell him no,” says Caleb.

“Probably,” I agree, but don't reply to the text.

“You sure you don't want me to come in?”

I lean over and kiss him, though my mouth is dry. My gut is flooded with adrenaline. “Nah. I'll text you with the verdict and we'll take it from there.”

“Good luck,” says Caleb. He doesn't mean to, but he sounds like he thinks I'm a goner.

So do I . . . but no. This has to work. Despite how much I want to run in the opposite direction, I can't keep avoiding them. I have to go in there and make them see.

I get out of the car. Caleb drives off. Step by step, I make my way into the house. I try to tell myself that this is no big deal.
Come on, Summer. You got this.
But I know it's a huge deal. I want to believe that what I'm about to ask for makes perfect sense, that I just have to make them see that. Except I worry that maybe it makes no sense.

My heart is racing. All this feels like some kind of reckoning.

Because to make them believe in what I'm asking for, I have to reveal a side of me that I've been hiding.

I have to be the real me.

First, though, I'll hit them with pride.

I take a deep breath and hold it as I walk through the door. “Guys, check it out,” I say when I enter the kitchen. Dad is reading in the living room, sitting in his favorite stiff chair by the window. Mom is coming downstairs, probably because she saw me get home. Dad still in his work khakis and tie. Mom in a knee-length skirt and a cardigan sweater. All business.

Dad comes over and peers at my phone, adjusting his glasses. He looks sleepy; it's that time of day when he is fighting a nap the whole time. Naps are inefficient, after all.

“This is from Andre,” he confirms, still reading. Then he straightens and looks at me with something like a smile, relieved, though still a little begrudging, given last weekend's events. I expect him to say something approving, but first he points Mom to the phone. “Take a look.” As she's reading he looks at me. “What do you think?”

I don't know how to take the question. “It's . . . great,” I say, and I think I feel like maybe I mean that. “Right?”

Mom finishes reading and she's beaming. “That is excellent, Cat.” She gazes at me warmly. “All's well that ends well,
right?” She turns to the refrigerator. “Should we have some pie to celebrate?”

Her comment makes me squirm. It's like she's dismissing the past, brushing last week's little
incident
under the rug.

All's well that ends well.

So much of last week was amazing, not just a problem that needed a satisfactory ending . . .

Some of the biggest moments in my life . . .

“Actually,” I say slowly, carefully, like tiptoeing through a minefield, “it's not really over.”

Mom pulls the leftover pie from the fridge. She glances up at me, not saying anything, but it's as much of a
go on
as I guess I'll get. “What's up?” asks Dad. He's trying to sound casual, but at the same time he moves over to the bar and puts both hands on the counter, like he's bracing for whatever I might say.

“I have something to ask you guys,” I say, “and I know it's going to sound like a crazy thing to ask, but it's also something that's super important to me, so before you say no, just . . . hear me out.”

Carlson Squared share a glance.

“Okay,” says Dad. He hasn't moved. Mom starts slicing pie.

The room is silent, the air still. Expectant.

Or lethal.

And I suddenly know that I should shut my mouth and
run.
Get out, Summer, before it's too late.

But no. I won't. Not anymore.

“I know I messed up last week,” I begin. “That you trusted me by letting me travel with the band, and that I betrayed that trust by lying to you about the interview. And maybe I don't deserve it, but this email makes it look like I'll probably get into Stanford. If not, there's still the other schools and I have those interviews in a couple weeks and all. My point is, I know you guys want me to go to college, and it looks like that's going to happen. . . .”

“Wait, I'm confused,” says Dad. “Isn't that what you want, too?”

“Yes,” I say, but ah crap there I am immediately lying. It's like I duck before I even think! Except, there
have
been moments when I've wanted to go. Not nearly as many as the moments where I've known I'm
supposed to
want to, but still.
Keep talking . . .

“But I've actually been struggling this fall because while part of me does want to go to college next year, another part of me wants to . . .”

Say it, Summer.

I can't.

Oh, God, be the girl you want to be and say it!

Deep breath . . .

“Part of me doesn't.”

Mom places the first slice on a plate.

“What do you mean?” Dad asks.

“Well,” I say, “it's just that, another part of me imagines something different. I love music so much . . . I don't know if you guys even know that.”

“Cat,” says Dad, “we know that.”

Do you, really, though?
“Well, maybe, but I don't think I've really told you
how
much. Like I love working with bands, like with Dangerheart, and part of me sometimes thinks about . . .”
Don't say it! You have to. This is now or never
. . . I feel myself seizing up as the words come out: “. . . taking next year to work on the band full-time, to get further in the music scene, like maybe an internship, and really go for it like I can't do while I'm in high school, or . . . from college.”

“You mean like, not even going to college next year?” Dad asks. He's still staring at the counter, both hands planted. Mom is putting the pie away.

“Maybe, yeah,” I say. “I mean I definitely want to go to college, at some point, I think. But music . . . it's what I dream about, what I've imagined, I—I don't know.”

“Is that what you want to ask us?” Dad says slowly. “To take a year off before college?”

“No, I mean, not yet. It's something I've thought about but I'm not sure yet. I'm still trying to figure it out. I just wanted you to know that it was . . . a thing. On my mind.”

Another deep breath. Hands clasped because they're shaking. “What I really wanted to ask you is about Dangerheart. We know . . .” I pause again, my nerve failing . . .
almost
there
. Just have to get this out. “Remember I told you about Eli White's lost tapes . . . we know where the third one is, now. It's actually in London and . . . we want to go get it.”

Silence. It occurs to me that I barely spent two minutes trying to tell the truth and I'm already back to lying. Oh well. There's no going back now.

So I stumble on: “It—it's important to Caleb and Val, but it would also be huge for the band. I mean, we've come this far, and to find all those lost songs would be amazing. And then this whole big search would be over. No more asking to go on crazy trips or anything. And we can make the money back from gigs, and it would only be a few days of school and then, like I said, this would be behind us and—”

There's a flat smack as Mom places a trio of forks on the counter. “Wait,” she says. “You're asking to go to London.”

“Yes, just to find this last tape.”

“Not a week after you lied your way to New York. . . .”

“I didn't—” but I stop. Even though that's not exactly how it happened, or maybe it kind of is, I need to focus on the goal here. “Yes, I guess that's true.”

“When are you proposing to do this?” Dad asks.

“Well, it would be best to do it soon, so that we have the song and we can—”

“How soon?”

It seems totally insane to say this. “This week.”

Mom looks at Dad. Dad looks at Mom.

And of course I know. Obviously the answer will be no.
I can barely believe I'm letting these words come out of my mouth. There is no possible way that they are going to go for this. And each silent second feels like a year.

“Cat,” Dad finally says. His eyes flash to mine but then his gaze settles somewhere back on the counter. “Where is all this coming from? I mean, you're running off with this band, missing school—”

“It would just be a couple days,” I repeat.

“It's not just that,” Mom says, and suddenly her tone has gone cold. “The office called today. We know you skipped all of your classes after third period.”

“Oh, that . . .” Crap! Busted again. “Well, it was because Caleb and I had to talk about this lost song. We'd just figured out where it was, which is why I'm here now. If we went and found it then we wouldn't have to miss any more school or anything I swear—”

“Okay, enough,” says Dad. He doesn't sound mad . . . but getting there. “Caleb seemed like a nice enough kid the few times we've met him, but this is all getting out of hand. Cat, I know you're in love, and this lost song business is certainly intriguing, but you can't just fly off to London and miss school, and you can't just talk about taking a year off to mess around with your band.”

“Dad, it's not messing around!” I know I sound petulant when I say this, but I can't help it with my heart on overdrive.

“But you're going to have so many years after college,”
Mom says. “If you get out of school and you want to manage bands, you'll have a whole decade in your twenties. I know that seems like forever from now, but it's not. Take it from us. You're going to have so much time for things like this: band shows, impromptu trips to Europe. Or who knows, maybe even as a graduation present. Cat . . . I think you just . . . you have to see the bigger picture here.”

I can hear the
no
between every word and it's tearing me apart. “Mom, my twenties are forever from now! And besides, this
is
the bigger picture. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to do something amazing, and it's right there for the taking. Let me go to London and I'll go to Stanford like a good girl—” Where are these words coming from? Desperate. Am I even serious? Or just spinning more lies— “And I won't even fuss about it.”

“See?
That
kind of talk, right there,” says Dad, his voice rising. “It's not being a
good little girl
to go to college. It seems like ever since you started dating this boy, you—This just isn't the Cat we know.”

“That's my point!” I say. “Maybe I'm not the little
Cat
you think you know. But that doesn't have anything to do with Caleb. It's what I'm trying to tell you—”

But Dad isn't hearing me. “How can you expect us to believe you after last week? How can we trust you? If we let you do this, you're just more likely to . . .” He throws up his hands. “You'll want to go on tour all summer, miss college, or worse, start college and drop out and ruin your future
chances. Where is it going to end?”

“Dad, that's not how it's going to be!”

But Dad shakes his head like he's made up his mind. “I think you're in over your head here, Cat. This world of music and musicians is clearly messing with your thinking in some unhelpful ways. I mean, we are talking about tapes left by a drug addict who killed himself and abandoned his family! He is no hero.”

It takes all my will not to respond. I bite my lip hard as the tears come.

“I know you love working with this band,” says Dad, “but . . . you're not even
in
the band.”

“Wow,” I mutter.

“That's not—” says Dad. “What I mean is you're a girl on a
trajectory
, a high achiever, college-bound, and I'm sorry but we're just not going to let this band preoccupation derail your potential. It has to stop.”

“Dad, it's not a
preoccupation
,” I say, my voice tight, trying not to sob. “It's a passion!”

“Then maybe you need to find another passion!” Dad balls his fist and I see him shake off a surge of anger. “I'm sorry, Cat, but, man! You have academics. You had volleyball . . . We've stood by and let you shun so many other possibilities in school, things like student government . . . Honestly you're lucky, damn lucky, to still be getting considered for a school like Stanford with all the time you waste on these bands! It is a privilege to have what you have, and to listen to you take
it for granted, and to ask for these silly things is . . . I've had enough! Taking that phone call from Andre, having to fly you home, watching you slouch around that scummy practice space . . . it's not you, Catherine! It's not you.”