Exile by Kevin Emerson

guests, the Trial involves surviving Ari’s patented punch and making it home with your dignity. For bands, it has a different meaning. Getting an invite is a big deal, and the best bands in school are always there. Jerrod is usually also throwing a party up the dune in their ridiculously lavish house at the same time, so there is the bonus potential of star sightings. Last year, Hatchet from Ninja Harem came careening down to the beach with her action figure of a boyfriend and they tore off their clothes and went skinny-dipping right in front of everyone.
    More important than what you’ll see, though, is that your band might be seen. Ever since Allegiance to North and PopArts, the scouts at Candy Shell know to keep an eye on Mount Hope’s latest bands, and the gig has gained mystique: play here, and you might get noticed. Postcards is the latest example.
    Which means the Trial is also the place where I beganto lose my last band, not that I knew it at the time. Part of me wants to avoid this gig, to keep that from happening all over again with Dangerheart. And yet, I know it’s the best gig they could get to start out, and the best way to introduce themselves to the scene.
    “Ari.” I give him a friendly kick in the shin.
    His eyes finally snap up and when he sees it’s me, his peeled-and-mashed face quickly reforms into a smirk. He puts his sticks between his legs, pointed straight up, and slips off his headphones.
    Ari looks kinda like somebody built him out of potatoes, lumpy beneath his wide, baggy jeans and hoodie, his face blotchy with acne. He barely looks like a senior. And yet in spite of this, he has a sort of amazing record of scoring with girls. He’s one of those rare cases where his self-confidence can, in moments—especially involving alcohol—overcome his appearance. Part of it I know comes from the fact that he’s the son of a big record-label exec at a school full of aspiring bands (though Ari’s own thrash-hop bands have been notably bad throughout our years here).
    “Hey, Summer.” He flashes his patented smile, but luckily, I’m immune. The stick erection isn’t helping. Also, he’s looking me over. I imagine punching him in the face, like with a flat palm to the nose, so his head would snap back and slam the concrete wall. Mmm, so nice. But sadly, bad for business. I settle for crossing my arms and his eyes finally return to my face. “How you holdin’ up?”
    Ooh , can I please hit him? It takes all my strength to stay calm. He’s of course referring to my former situation with Postcards, with Ethan. Must . . . resist . . .
    “Peachy,” I say briskly. “Listen, I’ve got a band for your party.”
    “Ah, interesting.” Ari pulls his drumsticks back out of his crotch and starts tapping on his legs. “I know someone who’ll be glad to hear about this.”
    I ignore this comment as hard as I can. “Knock it off. Also, your rudiments stink.”
    Ari’s sticks freeze. “Like you’d know.”
    “Actually I do. Your paradiddles are sloppy because your right hand is botching the double beats. You need to work on your fundamentals.”
    Ari rolls his eyes, but he puts his sticks down again, this time laying them flat on his legs. “Obviously you’ve had a lot of time on your hands to study up on what real musicians do.”
    Oh, Ari. His outsides may look like potato, but inside he’s pure turd. Invoking one of the classic barbs between clans of the PopArts tribe . . . God, I hate this. It’s one of my least favorite positions in all of life. When you need something from someone, they have power.
    “Who’s the band?” Ari asks.
    “Dangerheart,” I say. “They’re really, seriously good. And you know I know good.”
    “Members?”
    “The drummer is Matt Prader, freshman but seriously gifted, Jon Lim is on guitar, he’s that transfer, and then the singer is Caleb—”
    “Hold on. Caleb Daniels? You want me to invite Mr. I-Just-Ruined-the-Best-Band-in-School?” He