Encore to an Empty Room by Kevin Emerson Page B

of a man who had his dreams beaten out of him, who had to settle for the normal life that he’d always wanted to run from?
    And that normal life is so bleak that he tries to kill himself, only we’re supposed to be happy for him getting that same life back at the end?
    It’s all making me feel fidgety, bordering on dread. Maybe it’s my slightly nauseous, overfull belly, or the college applications looming just beyond the holiday, or maybe it’s the idea of what happened to George Bailey: that the choices you make right now, when you’re eighteen, will set up the chain reaction of your whole life. George went from “I know what I’m gonna do tomorrow and the next day and the next year and the year after that,” to jumping off a bridge, and it all started with decisions he had to make atthis same point in his life. . . .
    Maybe I should be writing my essay on this.
    I’m just glad when the movie’s finally over and we’re watching the best of Saturday Night Live Christmas episodes.
    I sleep anxiously, but it’s not all fretting about the future. There’s also a little echo of anticipation for Christmas, for the wonder and simplicity of toys under the tree and pajamas all day. Santa came until middle school, even though I’d stopped believing long before that. I think Mom and Dad were just hesitant to let it go. But there’s still a little buzz inside me for the magic of the day.
    I come downstairs to find that Mom’s feeling it, too. She’s hidden the pickle ornament in the tree—but without my brother there, it’s just me and Dad rooting around in the branches, and he’s letting me win. Mom just watches and seems sad. It leaves me feeling grumpy and claustrophobic and glad to finally get out the door and on my way to Caleb’s.
    Our Sunday search for more song clues came up empty. We reread On the Tip of Your Tongue, the collection of interviews and journal entries from Allegiance to North, and scoured the backwaters of the early internet. We dug up an Eli White murder conspiracy page but it was from something called GeoCities and we couldn’t get it to load. After a couple hours I could feel the last embers of our enthusiasmfrom the meeting with Vic fading. Maybe talking to Randy today will yield some results. We can run Vic’s conversation by him and see what he thinks.
    Unlike the early-rising duo of Carlson Squared, Caleb, Val, and Charity are all still lazing around drinking coffee and eating cinnamon rolls when I arrive. Randy is on the couch. His face is the color of concrete.
    â€œWild Christmas Eve?” I ask him as he nurses an orange juice in a sunny corner.
    He toasts me with the glass. “Drove back this morning. As is tradition. Me and my buddy Pearl take our royalty checks and gamble them away.”
    â€œYou get royalties for Savage Halos?” I ask. That was Randy’s band, back in the same years as Allegiance.
    â€œYeah,” says Randy. “ Sear My Face was big in Germany and certain Baltic states. Twice a year we get these international royalty checks. It’s just enough to have a little fun with, so we do.”
    â€œAnd how did that go?”
    He grins weakly. “My Christmas present to you is a high five.”
    Caleb and I help Charity make bacon and eggs. After we eat, we gather around the tree to exchange gifts.
    Deciding what to get Caleb was tough. I’d had this scarf all picked out for him for a month, but then at the last second I panicked, worried it was too girly, and got him a new capo, a cool locking kind because he’s been complainingthat his slips when he’s playing and it messes up his tuning.
    â€œThank you,” he says, kissing my cheek. He rarely does that around Charity but out of the corner of my eye I see that she’s smiling. “This is definitely the right kind.”
    â€œYou sure?” I ask and suddenly I am wondering if he actually