Beat the Band (19 page)

“Ah, so, that’s why you run. I was wondering. I mean, it seems like so much work for something nobody even watches.”

“What are you talking about? Cross-country’s thrilling. We have tons of fans. And cheerleaders, too.”

I look at her doubtfully. “Really?”

“No.” She chuckles. “Of course not. It’s totally boring unless you’re doing it. I started running a couple of years ago, when things . . . weren’t going so great at school. It’s like a release. I get in this zone. It’s hard to explain. And besides, I can just do it, right? I don’t need any equipment or to count on anyone else.”

“That’s cool. It keeps you out of trouble. I can see that. Not that you ever get into trouble, right?”

“Actually, I got detention twice last year. For cutting Home Ec.”

“Seriously? I never would have guessed that.”

Helen laughs. Then pauses, regarding me for a second. “It’s funny. You talk more than some girls I know.”

“Do I? Really? Huh. I don’t know. I guess I just . . . find people interesting.” Oh, God, I’m going straight to the fiery pits when I die.

“It’s nice, actually,” Helen says. “Most guys don’t want to take the time to get to know you. It’s more like, ‘Hi, want to go to bed?’”

I laugh. Maybe a bit too hard. “Yeah, most guys are dogs. Only one thing on their minds. Although, don’t get me wrong, I’d be lying if I said that kind of thing doesn’t flit through my brain every now and then. But what’s the point of it all if you don’t get to know the person inside, right?”
What the
fuck
are you talking about, Coop? Are you high?
“I mean, personally, I hope the girl I finally end up with . . . in that way . . . I just hope we’re friends first.”

Hello? You
just
admitted you’re a virgin to Helen Harriwick!

Oh, my god. I did.

And
what
is all that other crap? You don’t honestly believe that stuff, do you?

Oh, my god. Do I?

Helen looks at me. She smiles.

“We’re wasting time again,” she says. “If we keep this up we’re going to have to meet after school every day.”

Maybe I’m just hearing things, but it sounds like there’s a quiet hopefulness in her words. Like maybe she would really like that.

I wait for the clenching in my gut. The internal recoiling. But nothing comes.

Okay, seriously, did someone put an alien pod under my bed? Have I been body-snatched?

Because something is
not
right here.

“HEY, BUD.” DAD SMACKS ME
on the back of the head as he walks by the couch. “Turn off the idiot box, we’re going to the hardware store to pick up some supplies for our light show.”

I kill the TV and get to my feet. “Let me grab a sweatshirt.”

This weekend could not have come any sooner for me. I am wiped. Helen and I have met at her house five times in the last seven days — and that’s on top of our two detention afternoons. Supposedly we were meeting so we could put together a kick-ass lesson plan — one Mrs. Turris would be so impressed with that she would let us off the hook of having to do two presentations.

But honestly, I’ve been pushing for the meetings in order to get this stupid school form completed. Once I got Helen’s mom’s signature and e-mail, I thought I’d be able to wrap it up pretty quickly, but it took way longer to finish than I ever imagined.

In the end, though, I think it will be worth all the work. And I’m pretty certain Helen is going to welcome the change of scenery. I can’t imagine she isn’t fed up with the increasing torment that’s been going on at school lately: The
BIOHAZARD
signs stuck to her back, the mayonnaise on her seat, the Krazy Glue on her lock, her notebooks getting stolen, the chewed gum in her ponytail, and the dissected frog she found in her lunch bag.

But for some reason, now that the application is finally filled out, I can’t seem to bring myself to hand it over. So it sits on the top shelf of my locker, tucked inside my History textbook, harassing me every time I open the door.

“Hurry it up, bumblescrew,” Dad calls out, “before your mother comes home and puts the kibosh on.”

We’re out the door and headed toward the station wagon when I notice Dad’s wearing a black satin bowling shirt with a flaming skull on the back and a red do-rag on his head.

“Uh, Dad,” I say. “What’s with the outfit?”

“What?” He glances down at himself. “You don’t like my polish?”

“It’s . . . um . . . why are you wearing that?”

“I’m just trying to get into the rock-and-roll headspace. I can’t ask you guys to do something I’m not willing to do myself.”

Oh, Jesus. I really don’t want to be seen driving around town with Dad looking so ridic.

Unless, of course, it’s
me
who’s doing the driving. Then anyone who saw me might think I picked up a hitchhiker or something.

“Hey, Dad,” I say. “Can I drive?”

He stops by the driver’s side door and studies me over the roof. “Have you gotten your Learner’s yet?”

“No. But it’s just a stupid written test. It’s not like it’s going to help me drive any better. Besides, by the time I get around to it, you’ll be back at work again. And I’d much rather have you teach me how to drive than Mom.”

Dad considers this a moment. “That’s a good point.” He jiggles the car keys in his hand. “All right. But you listen to everything I say.”

“Of course.”

“And we keep this on the q.t.”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, let’s do it.” He underhands the keys to me.

“Cool,” I say, catching them. They feel heavy in my hand. There’s an excited thrumming filling my chest as I walk around the car, open the driver’s side door, and slide onto the cracked pleather seat.

I don’t know if the stale smell of our car is stronger than usual, or if my senses have just become hyperaware now that I’m behind the wheel, but even the fat deck of pine tree air fresheners hanging from the stereo dial does nothing to mask the heavy scent of old coffee and mildew that permeates the air.

I slide the key into the ignition and am about to start up the wagon when Dad swats my arm with the back of his hand.

“Hey, hickoryhead,” he says. “You want to maybe pull your seat up so you can reach the pedals? Or strap on your safety belt? Adjust your mirrors, perhaps?”

“Oh, sure.” I slide the seat closer to the wheel. Check that my feet can work the gas and brake. Pull on my seat belt. Tilt the mirrors to make sure I can see behind me. Then start the car and crank up the tunes on the stereo.

“Yeah. I don’t think so.” Dad clicks off the music. “Listen to me. Learning to drive is a privilege. Not a right. But it’s a privilege that comes with many benefits. Not the least of which is exponentially increasing your chances of putting the candle in the cupcake. So pay attention.” Dad gestures toward the floor. “You know which one is your brake and which one is the gas?”

“I’ve won the NASCAR Sprint Cup on my Xbox like a million times, Dad. I got it covered.”

“This isn’t a video game, fella. You crash in real life, you don’t get to press the restart button.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Yeah, well, the jury’s still out on that one.” He gestures at the steering column. “You know what all the letters stand for? P, R, N, D?”

“Park, reverse, neutral, drive.”

“Good.” Dad twists and looks over his shoulder. “Okay. So now the first thing you want to do is check your surroundings. Get the lay of the land. What’s the traffic like in the street? Are there any kids playing nearby? Any sue-happy old ladies that might dive onto your bumper so she can help fund her retirement account?”

I glance around. “Looks all clear.”

“Fine. Now put your foot on the brake, shift her into reverse, and ease down the driveway.”

I grab the gearshift and notch it down to R. It takes me a second to get the feel of the brakes. The car jerks a bit as we move into the street.

“Take it easy, now,” Dad says. “I don’t need you putting my back out.”

I coast us safely into the road, then stop and shift the car into drive.

“Okay, so, you want to go easy on the gas as you —”

I press down the gas and we jolt forward.

“Hey!” Dad smacks my shoulder. “I said
easy
.”

“Sorry.”

“Think gradual. Everything is measured. Speeding up. Slowing down. Give yourself enough time to start and stop so you can do it
gradually
.”

“Okay.”

I start down our street, trying to keep things smooth. I can actually feel the weight of the car. The power of the engine. There’s an exhilarating rush about it, but also a dizzying terror. The idea that if I hit someone I could actually kill them. It’s almost like what I’d imagine holding a gun for the first time would feel like.

“You’re doing good,” Dad says. “Keep a steady speed. No more than thirty.”

Dad has me make a couple of turns, though I hit my wipers both times instead of my signal, and I keep swinging wider than I should. Luckily, there aren’t too many other cars on the road.

The wind picks up, blowing dried leaves across the street. Several houses we pass are decorated for Halloween.

As I approach a couple of kids on their bikes, my whole body tenses up.

“It’s okay,” Dad says, noticing my anxiousness. “Just give them a little room.”

I steer around them — giving them a wide berth — and breathe easier once we’re past.

“So, I’ve been listening to the tapes we made,” Dad says. “And I’ve come to the realization that your friend Sean can’t sing to save his sandbag. Take a right up here.” He points at the next intersection.

I slow down, clicking the correct control for my signal this time, and turn the corner.

“I thought we could get away with it, but he sounds like a cat getting a colonoscopy. We’re definitely going to need somebody else.” He adjusts the bandanna on his head. “What about Matt? You think he has any pipes?”

“Forget it. He goes off-key singing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

“How about his girlfriend?”

“No. She’s not going to be in the band. It’s bad enough she shows up to most of our rehearsals already.”

“That’s my point. She’s already there. Why not utilize her?”

“Because. It’s not going to happen.” I feel myself getting irritated. Like Dad’s trying to stuff me into a pair of wool boxers. I can see it now. Valerie taking over the band. Making us change our name. Probably to something
French
. Deciding what songs we should play.

“Well, you’re going to have to find
somebody
. And soon.” Dad gestures to the green pickup truck heading toward us. “Now be careful. Watch this guy. You’re hogging the middle of the street. You want to ease over a little so he has plenty of room to pass.”

Suddenly, I get a surge of panic. “What about the cars parked on the side of the road?”

“Obviously you don’t want to hit those. Just slow down.”

But I can’t. I’m frozen. “There isn’t enough room,” I say. I see it all unfolding in front of me as the truck closes in on us. The head-on collision. The crunch of metal.

“Slow down, Coop. Ease over to the side.”

The truck bears down on us.

“Jesus Christ!” Dad shouts.

He grabs the wheel, pulling it down just as I wrench it to the right, causing us to careen off the road. Somehow, instead of slowing down, we speed up. The car bucks and lurches as we thump over the curb, onto a lawn, and into the midst of someone’s elaborate Halloween display. Tombstones and haystacks and skeletons and pumpkins and vampires are sent hurtling through the air before the station wagon finally stalls out with a violent shudder and a great big belch.

The bed-sheet remains of a ghost flutter down onto the windshield, blocking out the light.

My heart is doing gymnastics in my chest.

“Are you okay?” Dad asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, my hands strangling the steering wheel.

“Good. ’Cause I’m gonna beat the crap out of you when we get home. What the
hell
were you thinking?”

“I don’t know, I just . . . I got scared all of a sudden —”

“Come on. Move!” He’s already unbuckled his seat belt and is clambering over to the driver’s seat. “Switch. Let’s go. If we get caught, I’m gonna lose my freakin’ license.”

I unstrap my seat belt and struggle to climb under him into the passenger seat. Our limbs tangle as we try to change places. I get a whiff of his Old Spice cologne underscored by the sweaty smell of panic.

“Ow!” Dad hollers. “Goddamn it. You nutted me.”

“Sorry,” I say.

When we’ve finally changed positions, Dad starts up the car.

I glance back at the road. Apparently the truck didn’t stop to see if we were okay. But an old man has just come out of one of the neighboring houses and is tottering over to us.

Dad rolls down his window, reaches out, and yanks the sheet off the windshield. “Buckle up.”

I’ve barely clicked my seat belt in when he throws the car into gear and guns it. We’re off the lawn and back into the street in no time. He peels out around a corner, sending my shoulder hard into the door and leaving a smoky trail of burning rubber behind.