Beat the Band (17 page)

“Look, I’m not going to pretend to be someone I’m not, okay?”

“I’m not saying to pretend to be someone else. Just a cooler version of yourself.” I burst through the first set of doors we come to. Sean trots to keep up. “Haven’t you been listening to my dad? We have to present a rock-and-roll attitude. Pokémon is
not
rock and roll.”

Sean stares at the cards he’s still holding in his hands. There’s a wistful look in his eyes. “I thought he was just talking about when we were onstage.”

Because we came out the front, we have to walk all the way around the school to the bike racks at the back. “Look. Okay. It’s like, say you had a Lamborghini.”

“I’m never going to have a Lamborghini. My mom says it sends a bad message. Girls like you for the wrong reasons.”

“Yeah, right, whatever. Listen to your mom’s advice on women. Good idea. Anyway, just
say
you had one. For the purpose of this example. And it’s got some, you know, Pampers advertisement painted on the doors.”

He looks perplexed. “Why would it have a Pampers advertisement on the doors?”

“I don’t know. The dude who owned it before you was strapped for cash. Who cares? The point is, it’s on there. You wouldn’t pick a babe up in that car until you repainted it, right? It’s the same machine underneath. The same engine. Same doors. Same interior. But now it’s got a nice, shiny new paint job. It makes all the difference. And it’s the same with us. We have to maintain an attractive external persona. And, you know, later on, like fifteen years from now, when you’re married, you can laugh and tell your wife that your car used to have a diapers advertisement on the side. Right now you’ve got to front, man. It’s just as important as us learning the songs.”

“Fine. Geez. I won’t talk about Pokémon with anyone anymore. Being cool is almost too much work.” He pockets the cards and stops walking.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I didn’t ride to school today, remember?” He motions toward the street. “My mom’s picking me up. I’ve got a dentist appointment.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “Well, don’t let him numb your mouth. You’ve got to sing later.”

Sean laughs. “I’d do a lot of things for you, Coop, but getting fillings without Novocain is not one of them. I’m sure it’ll wear off by tonight. See ya.”

He peels off and heads toward the road.

I continue on around the school. Past the baseball field and tennis courts.

Just as I am cutting toward the football field, Helen rounds the corner of the rust-colored track. Her hair is pulled back and her cheeks are rosy. She’s breathing heavy but smoothly and her eyes are super-focused on where she’s headed.

And Oh. My. God. Helen Harriwick is totally stacked. I never would have guessed it from all the baggy sweatshirts she’s always wearing, but the tight white T-shirt she’s got on now makes it abundantly clear. And her legs are long and toned, looking damn fine in those tiny running shorts. Who knew she was packing a swimsuit model’s body underneath all those clothes?

As she passes by, my eyes follow the bouncing balls, and I have to say, it sends an electric charge all over my body.

She stops by a bench to grab a water bottle. For a moment, I am in complete awe. I watch her take a drink. Spray some water on her face. I want to move toward her. Feel myself take a step in her direction.

And then, suddenly, a shudder courses through me. A voice in my head,
For Christ’s sake, Coop, shake it off. That’s Helen Harriwick, dude. What the hell are you thinking?

I clench my eyes shut tight. Try to erase the image of Helen as a hot girl from my mind. But it lingers there. Like a camera flash. Almost brighter, more intense with my eyes closed.

I open my eyes to try and focus on something —
anything
— else. But all I see is Helen. Running again. Her butt ticktocking so wonderfully in her shorts.

Oh, jeez.

Go!
the voice in my head shouts.
Get out of here! Before it’s too late!

I turn quickly and walk off. Flipping the channels in my brain. Battle of the Bands. Prudence. Dad. Miss Jerooni.

Helen.

Helen running.

Helen running in tiny shorts and a tight T-shirt.

Oh, no. No, no, no. This is not good.

This is not good at all.

THERE’S AN HOUR TO KILL
before I have to head over to Helen’s house, so I grab a couple of slabs at Napoliano’s. I’ve got the place pretty much to myself, save for the apron-clad man-of-few-grunts Arturo and the occasional dude or dudette coming in to pick up an order.

I’m sitting in one of the three plastic orange booths by the faded framed posters of Italy. I glance down at my grease-stained paper plate and realize that I’ve already consumed a slice and a half of my pizza and haven’t tasted a bite of it.

The image of Helen running on the track keeps badgering me.

I lift the remains of my second slice and take a bite. This time, I savor the sweet tang of tomato sauce, the salt of the cheese. But only for a second before my mind wanders off again like an idiot child attracted to something shiny.

Helen Harriwick is
hot
.

The thought sticks in my brain like a burr. One that I am going to have to dislodge before I see her this afternoon. I do not need anything clouding my judgment. I have way too many questions to get answered for the school form, and I am not going to waste this prime opportunity.

I look at the Parmesan-wheel clock on the wall. Forty minutes have evaporated and it’s time to head out. I clear my plate and leave.

It takes me way less time to get to Helen’s than I thought it would. I’m ten minutes early as I coast up to her smallish two-story house, the aluminum siding painted a faded brick red. The front yard is neat and tidy. Three metal numbers — 687 — have been nailed to the post by the front door and are canted a little, like they’re sledding down a steep slope.

I’m not sure where to put my bike. Somebody might jack it if I leave it out here. Locking it up to the post by the front stoop would probably seem weird. Maybe Helen’ll let me put it in her backyard. That way, if anyone I know passes by, they won’t see my wheels and put two and two together and get sixty-nine.

An image pops into my mind.
No, no, no! Do not go there! Not with Helen!

I shake the thought from my skull, then lay my bike on the slate path leading to Helen’s front door, bound up the three concrete steps to the porch in one stride, and ring the doorbell. It makes a metallic
BING-BONG
sound.

The red wooden door opens and a warm clean-laundry smell wafts out. Helen is wearing formfitting powder-blue sweats. It’s weird seeing her away from school like this. Standing there, head tilted to the side, her body framed in the door.

The same electric chill I got at the track dances across my skin, traveling up my back and down my arms.

“Hey,” she says with a smile. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, sorry. Do you want me to come back later?”

“No, it’s fine. I just got back from cross-country, though. I need to take a shower. Would you like some juice while you wait?”

I zero in on her full, moist lips. Watch them form each one of the words.

My breath is shaky.
Okay, what the
hell’s
going on? Get a hold of yourself, dude. You are after bigger game here. Prudence is the prize. Prudence and her hot-as-hell friends. Let’s not forget that.

“Sure. That’d be great,” I say.

“Come on in.” She steps aside.

“My bike.” I gesture behind me.

“Oh.” Helen glances past me. “The garage is unlocked.”

I wheel my bike over the lawn, by the windows that look into the kitchen, and lift the heavy garage door. Helen’s got the cleanest garage in the universe. Everything’s in order. Rakes and shovels leaned up against the back wall. Clay pots stacked in the corner. Garden hose perfectly wound and hung on a hook. Makes my garage look like a junkyard.

Normally I’d just drop my bike on the floor, but a garage this clean calls for use of the kickstand, for sure.

I return to the front porch and follow Helen inside. Everything’s just as spotless as the garage.

“My mom wants to meet you,” Helen says.

Cool. Her mom’s around. This could turn out well, actually. I need her e-mail address and signature. They’re two of the biggest hurdles I have to leap. If I can knock those out this afternoon and get a few more questions answered, I’ll be golden.

“You’re the first boy I’ve ever brought home,” Helen continues as we make our way through the kitchen. “She’s excited. But don’t worry. I told her not to be.”

Never brought a boy home? Really?

“Hi, Mom,” Helen calls out as we walk down the hall.

We enter the showroom-ready den and there’s Mrs. Harriwick, sitting on the couch, a laptop on her legs, wearing jeans and a button-up man’s shirt. She looks way younger than my mom. Hair short, blond-streaked, cut in a swoop across her forehead. Hazel eyes just like her daughter’s.

“Well, hello there.” Mrs. Harriwick looks up from her computer. “You must be Cooper,” she says with a half smile. “Just give me a second here while I finish this up.” She peers at her computer, her fingers flying across the keys. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a World of Warcraft addict.”

Helen looks at the floor.

Mrs. Harriwick laughs, a few more clicks on the keyboard. “Could be worse things, right? Passes the time. Do you play, Cooper?”

“No. My friend Sean does, though. Apparently he’s like some kind of level eighty Dwarf Warrior with a ton of gold and legendary items.”

“Really?” She sits up straighter, excited. Like I just told her they both have the same birthday. “What’s his game name?”

“I don’t remember. Dorfwit or Hoofchomp or something.”

Mrs. Harriwick places her computer, still open and running, on a side table. “Well, tell him if he ever wants to join up for a quest, I’m Pacheleine, a level seventy Night Elf Hunter.”

“Sure. Okay.” I glance over at Helen, who is blushing.

Mrs. Harriwick pats the couch next to her. “Would you like to have a seat?”

Helen shakes her head. “We have to get to work, Mom.”

Mrs. Harriwick smiles. “Ah, yes. Helen tells me you two are working together on a Health project.”

“Yeah,” I say. “We have to present a lesson to the class in a couple of months. Thanks for letting us get together at your house.”

“Please.” She brushes my thank you aside with her hand. “It’s nice to have some male energy around for a change. We’re all girls here. Helen, me, and the cat. So, what’s your project on? Maybe I can help. I don’t know if Helen told you or not, but I’m a dental hygienist. I know a few things about health.”

“It’s . . . um . . .” I feel my face get hot. I look over at Helen for some help. Then back to Mrs. Harriwick. “We didn’t get to choose or anything.”

“Birth control,” Helen says, saving me. “We have to discuss the different kinds and their effectiveness.”

Mrs. Harriwick nods approvingly. “Now
that
is something I wish they’d have taught
us
in high school. Not that I don’t love my girl. God knows, I don’t have a clue what I’d do without her. She keeps the house so clean. And she’s become quite the little chef since I haven’t been able to do much cooking. But she was an accident. There’s no denying that.” She laughs wistfully, staring off into what I assume is the past.

I look over at Helen, her cheeks flushing even more than before.

Mrs. Harriwick shakes off the memories and smiles. “A
happy
accident, of course. Just one I wish I could have pushed back a few years. You know. Until I’d sowed a few more oats.” She exhales loudly. “No regrets, right? Anyway. Nice to meet you, Cooper. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. There’s not much, I’m sorry to say. Haven’t been able to get to the market the last little while. But if it’s there, it’s yours.”

She grabs her laptop and adjusts the screen again as Helen and me take our leave.

“SORRY,” HELEN SAYS SOFTLY
as we enter the kitchen, her cheeks and neck patchy with pink.