Beat the Band (22 page)

Dad claps ecstatically as he walks over to us. “Now
that’s
what I’m talking about. Finally we sound like we’ve got a pair.”

Put a stop to this, dude. Before it’s too late.

Helen laughs, out of breath. “That was fun,” she says, her face glowing.

“Wow,” Sean says. “You were totally stagg.”

“Amazing,” Matt adds. “You should go on
American Idol
.”

“It’s been so long since I sang anything.” Helen looks at me shyly. “I didn’t know I could still do it.”

“That was . . . insane,” I say, a swirl of emotions filling my chest — awe and anger, annoyance and elation, attraction and repulsion — all at the same time. “You’re incredible.”

She smiles. “Thanks.”

“I’d put it to a vote,” Dad starts.

I open my mouth to protest but my throat is plugged with the thick stew of feelings roiling around inside me.

“But frankly, I don’t give a tiger’s tit what these chucklenuts think,” he finishes. “You’re hired.”

“Dad!” I say. At least I think I say it. But no one is paying any attention to me.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Helen’s beaming. “Are you sure? I mean it was really fun, but . . . Are you sure?”

“Surer than sure.” Dad turns to us and glares. “And if anyone has a problem with it, they can take it up with my hairy ass.”

Sean and Matt are all, “Yeah, of course,” and “Absolutely. Are you kidding me?” while I sit on my drum stool, completely stunned.

How can they just stand there and agree to this? Can’t they see what an absolute, complete nightmare this is going to be?

My heart beats hard in the center of my skull. A cold sweat blankets my entire body.

There will be no running of the bases, I can tell you that. This is not just a rain delay. It’s a freakin’ nuclear missile dropped right in the center of my baseball stadium.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE OUR BAD LUCK,”
I say, jostling through the bodies in the crowded hallway. “Why did she have to be any good?”

“Tell me about it,” Sean replies. “Now Helen’s going to be the one who gets all the hottest babes.”

I look at him sideways.

“And to top it all off,” Sean continues, “I just found out Tianna’s got a new boyfriend.”

“Let it die, dude. We have
way
bigger problems on our hands here.”

“But it means she lied to me when she said she wasn’t ready to be in a relationship.”

“Which is just another one of the
thousand
reasons you should be glad you’re not together anymore.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugs. “On the upside, Helen
is
an amazing singer. Which makes
us
look that much better. Did you know she was in
Grease
in eighth grade? I looked it up in our junior high yearbook. I knew she had to have done
something
before.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care if she was on Broadway,” I say. “We have to find somebody else.”

“Why? At least she gives us a chance to win. Which would mean that many more groupies.”

“Don’t you get it? We’re not going to win. Because the boos are going to be so loud no one will hear us. Having her in the band defeats the whole point of being in the Battle of the Bands in the first place. We are
not
going to look cool with Helen Harriwick fronting us.”

“What if we put together a persona for her?” Sean says. “Like a bank robber or something? She can wear a ski mask and nobody’ll know it’s her.”

“Never mind,” I say. “I’ll figure something out.” He doesn’t get it. No one does. When I tried to explain to Dad how bad this was going to look for me, he just laughed and said there was no
I
in
band
.

The first bell rings, and Sean glances at his watch. “Dang. I’ve got to get to English. Ms. Murkin makes us read love poems in front of the entire class when we’re late. I’ll catch you in Health.” He trots off down the hall and disappears around the corner.

“Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof!” a voice barks up behind me.

Before I can turn around to see who it is, my History textbook is batted out of my hand. It skitters across the floor, the papers I had tucked inside fluttering in the air like giant moths.

Dean Scragliano and Frank Hurkle tear past me, laughing like hyenas. They kick the book back and forth like they’re playing in the FIFA World Cup.

“Goddamn it.”

Sniggers and whispers fill the corridor as a prickling heat dances up my neck.

I pluck up the trail of papers that leads to my textbook, which is splayed open in a classroom doorway. It’s in sad shape. Several of the pages are accordioned, and the cover is scratched to hell. Mr. Chumley’s going to have a panda when he sees what I’ve done to his brand-new History book.

I rub the cover on my pant leg to clean off some of the dirt.

“What do we have here?” a girl’s voice says as the loose papers are snatched from my hand.

I turn to see Bronte rifling through the pages and am momentarily spellbound by the tight white sweater she’s wearing that hints at her lacy bra underneath. Then, like a fist to the face, it hits me that the Our Lady of Mercy form is somewhere within that stack.

“It’s just garbage,” I say, lunging for my papers.

Bronte dodges my hand and laughs. “Must be something pretty juicy if you want them back so badly. Love notes, perhaps?”

“Just give them to me. I’m late for class.”

“Ah-ha!” Bronte shouts, waving the application and letting all the other papers drift to the floor. “I had a feeling there was something good in here. I’m psychic, you know.” She winks at me, then looks over her shoulder and calls out, “Prudence! Come here. Look who’s been holding out on us.”

Prudence saunters over to us, looking fairly bored. “What’s going on?”

Bronte triumphantly hands the application over to Prudence.

She flips through the form. “I thought you said you weren’t done with this. This looks pretty complete to me.”

“I just finished it over the weekend,” I say, my palms starting to sweat. “But —”

“But what?” Prudence studies me.

“I still need to confirm a few things.” Part of me feels like grabbing the papers and hightailing it down the hall but instead I just stand there. I don’t want them to think I’m not still on board with the plan. Because I am. I’m just — well — I don’t know
what
I am anymore. Life was so much simpler when I didn’t have all these stupid “feelings” to contend with.

“Wow. You even got her mother’s signature.” Prudence grins like a cat with a cup of cream. “Pretty impressive, Coop.” She chortles as she folds the papers up and places them in her purse. “Can you imagine the look on Helen’s face when she gets her acceptance letter in the mail? Absolutely supreme.”

“All she’ll need is that one final”— Bronte makes a little shoving gesture —“
push
over the edge, and she’ll be gone, baby, gone.”

Bronte and Prudence bump fists, exploding their nugs on impact as they crack up.

I force a laugh, but inside I feel seasick. Like the whole world is canting.

Why, though? What’s the problem here? If Helen transferred schools it would solve all of my problems. It’s want I want. Isn’t it?

Of course it is, you idiot. Do not let whatever evil seed Helen has planted in your brain cloud your logic. Maybe she’s hot. And maybe she’s funny. And maybe she’s cooler than people think. But
. . .
that’s the thing. None of it matters. Because perception is the key here. You can never forget that.

Oh, God, I’m losing my mind. Can you go insane at sixteen?

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Prudence says.

“Huh?” I stare at her, wondering if she can hear my thoughts.

“What’s the straw that’ll break the Hot Dog’s back?” Prudence peers at me. “You’ve spent quite a bit of time with her lately —”

“Not that much.”

“More than the rest of us,” Prudence says. “What have you learned about her? Something we can exploit. A weakness? Her biggest fear?”

My gut grips up. “I have no idea. I don’t know her that well. All we’ve done is work on the project.” I glance over my shoulder. “Look. I have to get going.”

Bronte takes a step closer, boxing me in. “You seem nervous. Something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong. I’m just . . . late for class.”

“Oh, come on, Coopee.” Prudence leans in and whispers in my ear. “Don’t go yet. Just think for a sec. What would rock the Sausage Queen to her core?”

Her warm breath spreads out over my cheek, nearly making me swoon. “I — I don’t know. I mean, people have been tormenting her forever and she still hasn’t switched schools.”

Prudence nods. “You’re right. It has to be something big. So big she can’t ignore it as just another prank.”

“It should be public,” Bronte adds. “To make it that much more humiliating.”

Suddenly Prudence squeals with excitement. “Oh, my God. I’ve got it! I am
so
good.”

“What?” Bronte smiles.

“Yeah, what?” I ask, my throat dry.

“Well . . .” Prudence stops herself. She looks at me sideways. “Actually. Now that I think about it. I’m not sure Coopee should know about it.” She turns to Bronte. “He might try to put a stop to it.”

“What?” I say, feeling like I’ve just been smacked. “That’s ridic. Why would I do that?”

Bronte studies me. “Yeah, he’d probably leap in and try to save her at the last minute.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I would not.”

“Oh, be honest,” Prudence teases. “You’ve developed a soft spot for the Hot Dog, haven’t you?

Bronte laughs. “It’s only natural. With you spending so much time with her and all. It’s like Stockholm syndrome or something.”

“I
haven’t
spent that much time with her. And I haven’t developed anything.”

Prudence and Bronte crack up at this.

“Relax, Coopee.” Prudence smiles and grabs my arm. “We’re going to take care of this one on our own. It’ll be painful for her. Like ripping a few hundred Band-Aids off her hairy arm. But it’s the right thing to do. In the end, everyone will be happier for it.”

The girls turn and head off down the hall, laughing and whispering to each other as they go. I stand there and watch them turn the corner, annoyed that they wouldn’t tell me what they have planned for Helen.

But also glad that they didn’t. Because there’s a part of me that’s worried for her. Even though I know leaving the school would probably be the best thing that ever happened to her. Not to mention how much it will help me and my sitch.

Still. I hope it’s not something too, too awful.

“ARE YOU OKAY, COOP?”
Helen asks. “You look exhausted.”

I pull my hands down my face, feeling totally drained. “Chorus people are brutal.”

She clicks a link on the library computer. “I didn’t know you were in chorus.”

“I’m not. Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” I gesture at the screen. “Let’s just get the stupid contraceptive statistics and get out of here.”

Who knew it was possible to ask sixty different people the same question and get the exact same response every time? It’s taken me two weeks to get through everyone in the school chorus, but it wasn’t until I crossed the last five people off my list today that I lost all hope of finding a new singer for our band.

“Okay, write this down,” Helen says.
“Teenage girls who are sexually active and avoid using any type of contraception have a ninety percent chance of becoming pregnant within a year.”

I scribble down this statistic in my notebook, though I’m not sure I get everything exactly right as my mind is spinning like a pinwheel in a hurricane.

My only chance now is that Helen gets her acceptance letter quickly and decides to transfer to Our Lady of Mercy before the end of the semester. Then Sean can go back to being our singer and we can still attain — if not full-on rock-god fame — then at least demigod status.

Helen reads,
“Forty-eight percent of all new STD cases each year will occur among
people age fifteen to twenty-four.”

And being a rock-and-roll demigod is certainly good enough to get a nice sampling of groupies who’d be willing to do some base running.