Chapter Four
Jitters is booming this morning. Linzi insisted on coffee before we hit the road to Arizona. I insisted on Jitters, and I didn’t bother denying it when she said I only wanted to see “the hot coffee shop guy” again.
“And one vanilla frappe,” Tim says from across the counter.
I watch the bracelets on his arm as he reaches across the counter. The words Live to Ride are engraved in red and black rubber, but he pulls his arm back before I can read the rest. I wonder about the untold stories behind his bracelets, if he’d leave a rubber bracelet behind just like Spence left the paper star.
I drop a few bills into the plastic tip jar as Tim tells us the best route back to the interstate. He wishes us a safe trip, and I hope this frappe wakes me up soon because the lack of a good night’s sleep mixed with road tripping has me barely running.
“Hand me the keys,” Linzi says in the parking lot. “I’ll drive a while. You need more sleep.”
I wait until after the vanilla frappe brain freeze to let the passenger seat back. Linzi says it’s just interstate for the next few hours and puts The Ocean in Moonlight’s CD into the player. Billboards fly by my window for miles and miles until even Tim’s coffee can’t keep me awake.
The yellow sign at the gas station stings my eyes. Linzi slips back into the driver’s seat and cranks up. She watches the fuel hand rise and tells me it’s about time I woke up. We’re near the state line, about to leave New Mexico and enter Arizona.
“Switch,” I tell her as I unhook my seatbelt. I can’t believe I slept that long. Or that I’m actually still kind of tired.
We run inside for a restroom stop and more caffeine, then trade seats, and I drill her on directions to this night club because I’m certain she’ll be asleep or just waking up by the time we get there.
“It’s called Night Owl. I searched for images of it earlier. The O is actually an owl,” she says.
As tired as she is, she can’t stop rambling about The Ocean in Moonlight, guessing which songs they’ll perform and giving me play by play of the fantasies she’s played out in her head all day while I slept, like her meeting the Moonlight guys and becoming Keegan’s roadie girlfriend. She falls asleep just after telling me about how she’d take pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower with him, if they let her go overseas on a tour with them. I just want to make it to Night Owl. Paris can wait.
I still don’t know how a Moonlight concert is going to give me answers. But they know Spence. They gave him flyers. Maybe they’ll give us some answers. I feel like I’ve made a full circle – from the cover band back around to the real band – and while I know no one can rock out to a Moonlight song on drums like Keegan can, I actually wish I was back in Fallen Elk Grove at The Lyric listening to the cover band. If my chase for forever ends, it will be at Night Owl. I hope they’ll at least play my song.
The orange owl stares at me, reading me, questioning me, and I start questioning myself all over again. Then I question why I’m letting an owl in the form of neon lights lead to this kind of stress. Linzi pulls me through the crowd, but our chances of nearing the stage are slim to none. We’re in Moonlight territory with Moonlight fans who have been with the band since before the days “Ocean Air” dominated radio stations.
“Do you think we’ll get to meet them?” Linzi asks.
Her eyes sparkle with glimmers of hope and stage lights, and I don’t want to burst her bubble of excitement.
I shrug my shoulders. “You never know,” I say, hoping the opening act’s bass drowns out my doubtfulness.
I do hope we get to meet them, though. I just have to figure out a good icebreaker to ask them about their undead friend with flyers.
We only advance about three feet forward before a barricade of drunken college idiots block us from closing in on Linzi’s band. Between the puddles of spilled beer and flying legs of crowd surfers, I find myself regretting this even more. If it wasn’t Linzi’s dream band, I would have already hauled myself to the back of the room. Instead, I remain standing, staring at the picture of an ocean with a full moon on Keegan’s drum, willing him with my mind to come on stage and make this worth it.
And my luck hasn’t run out just yet. Their lead singer emerges on stage and introduces them, like they really need an introduction. Their lead guitarist plays a few chords, and the chaos begins. Everyone around us jumps up and down and shouts out lyrics. I regret my decision to wear flip flops tonight. But Linzi is right there with the crowd, here in Moonlight territory, screaming the words and slinging her hair and telling me how OhMyGod! That is TheKeeganLawrence!
I want to close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else. Back inside The Lyric watching a Moonlight cover band. Watching the stage lights reflect off the face of undead Spence Burks. I want to be surrounded by forever chasers, and no one in this room fits that description. The Ocean in Moonlight doesn’t even fit. Keegan is steady and calm. The bassist has a half-drunken sway going on. The random violinist who makes this band sound different looks about he’s as bored as he’d be playing in a symphony orchestra. I seriously hope they’re just tired or partied too hard during their pre-tour celebrations.
“Haley!” Linzi screams into my ear. “This is your song!”
At least I think she was trying to tell me this was my song. The bass vibrates through my flip flops, and when I attempt to speak, I feel it buzz in my throat, and I know she can’t hear me anyway. “Chase Forever Down” blares, sizzling through my veins from the floor up, and it’s not the bass that’s making the room buzz. It’s the lead guitar.
I wish I knew the lead guitarist’s name. Linzi never mentions him, as he’s not TheKeeganLawrence, but he’s into the song. He’s head banging, even though the song isn’t heavy enough for it, and his perfectly gelled hair slings sweat all over the front row of the crowd. While he’s not singing into the microphone, his lips move along with every word of the song. I’m waiting for him to snap a guitar string because he’s playing with so much heart. As one chord bleeds into the next, from one song to another, he never stops. He’s a real forever chasing rock star.
The last lines of “Ocean Air” echo in the room, and the guitar fades into a hum. The lead singer apologizes for not being able to hang out after the show like they usually do. He says something about the summer tour kicking off, a long night of driving to the next town, and I think he’s thanking everyone for coming. But it’s impossible to hear anything over the beer-drenched people next to me shouting in each other’s faces about whose house they’re going to go to after the show.
Linzi is drunk on adrenaline and excitement, and she rambles about how incredible they were live and how disappointed she is that she can’t meet them. My thoughts are focused on those orange flyers, though. The concert itself was lackluster. After the way Linzi raved about Keegan for so long, I expected more. He just didn’t compare to the cover band’s drummer. That guy was so into the music that he couldn’t keep hold of his drumsticks...the same drumsticks he gave to Spence after the show...after he helped them load their equipment...
“We have to go! Now!” I shout the words, hoping Linzi can hear over the crowd, and I grab her arm.
She asks ten questions in a row as I push through toward the back of the room, but we can’t stop now. They’ll have a stage crew. They don’t need help, and they don’t need nearly as much time to pack up equipment. We stop under the orange owl, and I swallow the dry midnight air. Linzi asks what we’re doing and if I’m crazy, and for the first time, I think I might be.
“Haley, slow down,” she says. “Just stop.”
So I do. I look around and try to guess where a band would be loading their equipment after a show. Both side parking lots are full of cars and people leaving, and we’re dead center in front of the night club which means…
“Around back!” I say. “We have to get behind this building. Go! Now!”
I point to the left parking lot, which is slightly more vacant
than the right, and Linzi does as she’s told, looking for the fastest route around Night Owl.
“Lead guitarist,” I say, trying to convince myself that I have a game plan and that it might actually work. “What’s his name?”
“Barney,” Linzi replies.
“What?” I stop between two cars and look back at her.
“Jason Barnes,” she says.
I nod. “Okay, Jason. I can remember that.”
I keep walking but Linzi protests from behind me.
“You can’t call him that,” she insists. “He’ll know you’re not a fan. Any real Moonlight fan knows that he’s Barney, not Jason Barnes. He’s been Barney since he was in high school. Even teachers called him Barney. And their bassist, he’s not Dustin. He’s Redd, two Ds. You have to know these things. Please don’t call him Jason. I’ll die of embarrassment,” she says, in typical overly dramatic Linzi fashion.
Surrender consumes me. It’s not like we’ll really find these guys anyway.
“Okay. Fine. Barney. He’s Barney,” I agree.
I question this grand decision of mine as we come upon what looks like a back alleyway, dark and quiet and right out of a real episode of CSI. It screams out crime scene, and I literally scream when a guy’s voice asks me what I’m doing there.
“Whoa! Hey! It’s safe!” the guy yells at me.
Linzi’s fingernails dig into my arm. My mind tells me to run, but my legs don’t respond, and just as my heart thumps as loudly as a bass drum, the broken streetlight behind him flickers just enough light to see his face – goatee first – and I breathe. It’s TheJasonBarnes, better known as Barney.
“You shouldn’t be back here,” he says.
Obviously. “Yeah, I know, it’s just – my best friend is a huge fan, and we came all the way from North Carolina, and she just really wanted to meet you guys.” I feel like this is the biggest lie ever, and it really couldn’t be more true.
“Okay, cool,” he says.
He’s so laid back, even in a dark alley with stalker fangirls at midnight. He motions around the building, and Linzi’s nervous breathing quivers behind me.
A long black tour bus is parked behind Night Owl, the same picture on its side that was on Keegan’s drum. The silver words The Ocean in Moonlight are surreal, sparkling in front of me like a million silver paper stars. Their crew packs amps, guitars, and mic stands into the storage compartments as Barney calls for Redd and Keegan to come over and meet us. Linzi begins to pour her heart out while simultaneously trying not to come across as a Moonlight stalker. Redd laughs at something she says, and Keegan nods along, his dark dreadlocks bouncing with every shake of his head.
“North Carolina, huh?” Barney asks.
I look over my shoulder and know this is my only chance, so I send up a prayer to the God of Paper Stars and go for it.
“Yeah, North Carolina,” I say. “But we actually saw the tour flyer in a coffee shop in Oklahoma. Road trip.”
“Ah cool,” he says, nodding along. “Where you headed?”
“Well…I’m not really sure. I’m trying to meet up with the guy who put the flyer up in Oklahoma, but I don’t know if I’m headed the right way,” I say.
“You’ve made it this far,” Barney says. That’s totally not the response I wanted. “How awesome is that? You saw that in Oklahoma and ended up here.”
I keep smiling and swapping glances between his face and the broken streetlight back down the alleyway.
“We have a show there later this summer,” Barney continues on. “We sent flyers with him about a week ago. He puts them up for us anytime he’s in any of the areas, on his way to events, you know, coast to coast. He hits a lot of great concert towns along the way.”
Pretending to know what he’s talking about is the only option now. “I bet that’s awesome promotion for you,” I say.
“Oh yeah, especially during summer tours. It’s great having a guy in his position support us, telling people to go to our shows or pick up our new album. California loves us as much as Arizona does,” Barney says, rubbing his goatee like he’s reminiscing.
“Awesome,” I say again.
He probably thinks I don’t know any other words.
Linzi bounces back over to us, waving back to Keegan and Redd, and she waves Keegan’s autographed drumsticks in the air like SOS flares.
“So what’s the best route out of here?” I ask Barney.
“Well…” he pauses and looks around. “Back down the alley, through the parking lot, and back to the front of Night Owl, for starters.”
“She totally means interstate,” Linzi explains, talking with her drumsticks like they’re her new arms.
Barney laughs. “I know. I was kidding. It’s about six hours straight across to the coast, I-10 the whole way. Then take the exit to Crescent Cove. Just watch the road signs, takes you straight there.”
The ocean floods me with relief. I can taste the Pacific salt water and ocean air, and I haven’t even crossed the California state line.
“You freaking rock!” I say, channeling Linzi’s personality more than my own.
He shrugs and nods. “Yeah, I try.”
Linzi twirls in circles, knocking her drumsticks together. I press my luck one last time.
“How will I find him when I get there?” I ask.
Barney laughs and shakes his head, like this is the silliest question ever asked. “Oh, you’ll see him when you get there. Don’t worry. Drive safe!” he says. He hands me a guitar pick and walks back toward the tour bus.
“Six hours?” Linzi asks as we walk farther and farther away from the broken streetlight. “That’s a long drive. This adrenaline is going to wear off,” she reminds me.
“I can drive. You can sleep. I’ll sleep when we get there,” I say.
We stop for gasoline at the state line, and I stock up on Mountain Dew for the rest of this across-California drive. Linzi drifts off not long after we enter Cali, and I play “Chase Forever Down” on repeat until it feels like background music because I’m too tired to focus on it. Six hours feels like sixteen hours, but when I see the sign that says Crescent Cove is five miles away, the adrenaline rush kicks in just one more time.
The sun peeks at us over the horizon as I take the Crescent Cove exit, but the sunrise hasn’t welcomed the morning with its orange-pink ice cream sherbet colors. Everything is still blue. The sky. The ocean. The lights on the billboard.
The billboard! I slam the brakes and pull off the highway, sending my sleeping best friend flying forward like a rock from a slingshot.
“Damn Haley!” she screams, now awake and tugging on her tightened seatbelt.
She mumbles that I’m trying to kill her, but all I can do is point to the sign above us. The blue-white lights reflect off the canvas, illuminating the thousands of silver stars and the giant words Welcome to Crescent Cove! Home of surf star, Colby Taylor!
“Oh. My. God.” Linzi speaks the words I can’t say.
I pick my jaw up off the steering wheel and shake my head. There he is, plastered across a giant sign holding a black surfboard decorated with stars and tiny crescent moons. He’s blonde and chiseled and tan and alive.
I look to Linzi, hoping she’ll understand my speechless best friend code. And she does. She throws her head back against the seat, shaking her head and sending her blonde locks whipping across her face.
“The girl from the ‘boro was right,” she says. “He’s not Spencer Burks anymore. He’s Colby Taylor. He really is the west coast surfer!”
She motions up at the billboard. “We could’ve been here two days ago!”
“Then you wouldn’t have Keegan Lawrence’s drumsticks,” I say.