Free Finding Abbey Road by Kevin Emerson Page A

family snack time now.
    â€œYou have so much potential,” Dad says. “I just . . .” He looks so disappointed, so sad, like he might cry, too. And, God, on top of all of this, the guilt that I am letting him down nearly pushes me under completely. “I just don’t understand why you’re not content.”
    If it were possible I would laugh. I think of my college essay, the one I wrote at Canter’s at four in the morning,still easily the weirdest, or maybe truest, thing that’s ever come out of my head.
    Maybe the only thing I’m content in is my discontent.
    Oh hell, Summer.
    â€œI’m going upstairs,” I say, wiping my nose. “Thanks for listening.” I shouldn’t have added that last comment, but I couldn’t help it.
    â€œLet’s talk more later,” says Mom, in damage-control mode.
    â€œRight.”
    4:31 p.m.
    I have my phone out by the time I’m at the top of the stairs.
    I send the first text when I’m in my room, door shut. When I get the answer I want, I breathe deep, hearing only the deafening hammering in my chest, thudding inside my ears.
    I check a couple websites. Do some quick math on the calculator.
    Text again.
    And wait.
    The answer arrives. Again, unlike downstairs, Summer gets what she wants.
    And so finally I text Caleb.
    Summer: Are you home yet?
    Caleb: What if I told you I was parked around the corner from your house.
    Summer: I would say that I love you and you are the bestest.
    Caleb: Should I come get you?
    Summer: No, I’ll come to you. Sit tight. I’ll say I’m taking the bus to meet Maya or something. Doesn’t matter. They’ll know I need some time to cool off.
    Caleb: That bad, huh?
    Summer: Worse.
    My fingers tremble, the nerves buzzing, my skin electric.
    Summer: Caleb?
    Caleb: Yeah?
    Summer: What if we went tonight?
    4:56 p.m.
    Our first stop is the Hive. We pass through the usual gateway cloud of cigarette and weed smoke, sidestep the empty bottles spilled over from the trash cans by the door, the legs of musicians sitting in the hall. It’s all I can do not to wave away the smoke, trying to keep my fresh outfit of clothes clean for as long as possible.
    They’ll need to last awhile.
    On the way over, I checked my shoulder bag at least ten times. Phone. Phone charger. Passport. Driver’s license. Extra underwear. One pair of socks. A spare T-shirt. Toothbrush and some makeup. All the cash I had: a stunningthirty-two dollars. I changed into clean jeans, a long underwear top under a T-shirt, and a hoodie. Everything a good girl needs for a three-day international trip when she also has to walk out of the house looking like she’s just going to the mall for an hour.
    This is insane. I know it. The day has spiraled so far from where it began. And at this point, it feels like to stop moving would cause everything to collapse around us.
    We hurry up to the practice space. Caleb is pulling the key from his pocket when we both pause, our eyes meeting.
    There’s music coming from inside. A song I know too well.
    â€œShit,” Caleb mutters. He opens the door.
    Jon is kneeling by his amp, wrapping up cables and putting them in a black duffel bag. His phone is plugged into the PA and blaring a song by Postcards from Ariel. My old band, his new band. Hearing Ethan’s voice makes me tighten up, and I hate that he still has that effect on me.
    Jon looks up. Sees us. Looks away fast.
    â€œBoning up on your new band?” Caleb asks. He’s trying to look indifferent, standing there with his arms folded, but he can’t hide the hurt in his voice. I rub his arm, hoping we can avoid a fight. We have way bigger problems than Jon right now.
    And apparently Jon has bigger concerns than us.
    â€œGot a show tonight,” he says. He reaches over and taps his phone, silencing the song, and returns to packing away cables and pedals.
    He unplugs his amp, tucks the cord in the back.