Beat the Band (23 page)

Helen scrolls down the screen.
“Nearly fifty percent of all Americans age fifteen to nineteen have had sex at least one time.”

I copy this down, wishing that I was one of the lucky forty-six percent. Thinking about how my plan of joining the more fortunate half of the population by year’s end is in serious danger of being completely demolished. Wondering why Helen talking about contraception, pregnancy, and STDs is turning me on so much.

“Most teen pregnancies — over eighty percent — are
unplanned,”
Helen continues.

I hate to admit it — and I never would to anyone — but the fact that Helen’s such an incredible singer is just adding to my confused state of mind. It’s like she’s got this inner fire that comes blasting out when she sings that leaves me shifting on my drum stool with a colossal stalagmite in my shorts.

“Twenty-five percent of teen females and eighteen percent of teen males won’t use any kind of protection the first time they have sex,”
Helen reads.

Though maybe it’s not her singing at all. Because all she’s doing now is talking and it’s having the exact same effect on me.

“Cooper? Why aren’t you writing this down?” Helen’s deep hazel eyes are fixed on me.

I blink. Close my mouth, which, apparently, has been hanging open. I look down at my pen hovering ineffectually over the nearly empty notebook page.

“I . . . um . . . got distracted. Sorry. I was thinking about something.”
Come on, Coop. You can do better than that. Unless, of course, you want to tell her what’s really on your mind.
“Your mother,” I say, which wilts my wang like salt on a slug. “I was just . . . wondering how she was feeling. You know. If she was still stressed. And on stress leave. You know, Sean and her have already done several World of Warcraft quests together. He says she’s pretty good.”

Helen looks away. Her neck flushes. “Listen, I wasn’t totally honest with you, Coop. About my mom. She’s not on stress leave. She’s on disability. She hasn’t worked in over a year.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling like the biggest A-hole on the planet for bringing up her disabled mother in order to bail me out of an awkward situation.

“She has Lyme disease.”

The question forms in my head, though I stop myself from actually asking it.

“It’s a bacteria that affects your nervous system,” Helen says, reading my mind. “It makes her dizzy and tired and shaky. A lot of the time she’ll get bad headaches.” Helen grabs the mouse and starts scrolling down the screen again. “It’s not like she’s going to die or anything. You just can’t clean people’s teeth very well when you feel like that.”

“Huh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

Way to go, Coop old buddy. You tricked a sickly woman into signing an application form for her tormented daughter. How do you feel about yourself now? What’s next? Signing up to hunt baby seals?

Helen looks at me funny. “What?”

“What what?” I say, feeling like I might fall off my chair.

“All the color just drained from your face.”

“Did it?” My voice squeaks. I clear my throat. “Did it?” I repeat in a lower register. “I guess . . . I haven’t been sleeping very well lately.”
Sure, go ahead. Shovel the lies on. Who cares that you’ve been sleeping like a near-dead dog on NyQuil? What’s it matter now?
“I mean . . . It’s everything, really. The band, and this project, and my dad being out of work. I guess it’s all catching up with me.” I rub my eyes. “Would you mind if I just copied down the URL and took these notes at home? I think I need to get some rest.”

Of course, what I
really
need to do is to sort this whole mess out. And get my priorities straight. Oh, God, I sound like Mr. Tard every time I get sent down to his office.

But in this particular case it applies. I need to get clear. And stay focused on the goal: Hitting a home run with the babes this year. Preferably with Prudence. Or Gina. Or Kelly. Or Bronte. Or all four of them at once.

Everything else is just fogging the issue. I have to get back on course. Remove Helen from the situation. When that’s done, everything else will fall into place.

I can’t let anything distract me from that one simple fact.

I LIE IN BED TRYING DESPERATELY
not to think about Helen, but doing a piss-poor job of it.

My brain is no longer under my control. No matter how hard I attempt to imagine Prudence dancing around in see-through underwear, Gina and Kelly hot-oil wrestling, or stumbling upon Bronte’s secret Internet porn site — all my mind wants to do is picture Helen.

And not even naked.

Just smiling. And laughing. And singing in our band.

What the hell’s
that
about?

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Stay clear. Stay focused. Once she’s accepted to Our Lady of Mercy and decides to go, she won’t even be eligible to sing in the band. And that’s the best of all possible scenarios.

Is that really true?

Yes, of course it’s true. Jeez. Why wouldn’t it be true?

But isn’t there a flicker of —

No! There’s no flicker of anything! Just shut the hell up!

I’m busy wrestling with my stupid brain, trying to smother my rogue thoughts with the pillow of logic, when my cell phone rings. I reach over and grab it from the nightstand. It’s Sean.

“’Sup?” I say.

“Turn on your computer,” Sean tells me, his tone urgent. “Go to the iTunes store. Right now.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

I groan as I swing my feet off the bed and slog over to my desk. Wake my laptop from its slumber and wait for the wireless to connect.

“You want to give me a clue here, dude?” I ask.

“Are you on iTunes yet?” he says.

“Working on it. Hold on.” I click on the iTunes icon and watch it bounce. “This better not be you wanting me to hear the latest Michael Bublé ‘masterpiece’ again.”

“Look at the banner. What do you see?”

“Lady Gaga’s got a new album out. I’m absolutely stoked.”

“Wait for it to change.”

I wait. The banner shifts. And I can’t say I’m not surprised.

“50 Cent’s doing a Christmas album? That’s a little bizarre, dude, but is it worth making a phone call for?”

Sean sighs loudly. “It’s coming up next.”

“Why don’t you just tell —”

The banner turns again, and what I see makes me jerk back.

“Uh-oh,” I say. “It can’t be.” I laugh nervously. “Do you think it could be the same —”

“Yes,” Sean answers. “It’s Understain. The Canadian band no one’s ever heard of before. Go ahead. Listen to their first single. ‘Grind the Rump Roast.’”

“Wow. That’s crazy.” My pulse quickens. My temples throb. “I must have listened to a thousand different bands. What are the odds?”

“You said they were unsigned.”

“They
were
. Two months ago. At least according to their MySpace page. Maybe they don’t update it. How the hell should I know?”

“What are we supposed to do now? I heard Mr. Tard suspended those three seniors — the ones who handed in that fake demo — for a month.” Sean’s tone is getting more and more panicky. “Someone in the music department’s going to figure out we jacked our songs. We have to confess. Maybe they’ll let us off easier if we do.”

“No way,” I say. “You never confess. To anything. Ever. Look, there are hundreds of thousands of bands on iTunes. And millions of songs. What are the chances they’ll see this particular one?”

“It’s called ‘Grind the Rump Roast’ for Christ’s sake. Someone’s bound to spot it.”

“All right. Take a pill. Let me think.” I stand and start to pace. Breathe deep. Run my hand through my hair. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got it. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

“LEAVE THE TALKING TO ME,”
I say, as Matt, Sean, and me head toward Mr. Grossman’s office before the first bell. “But while we’re in there, you guys scout out his shelves. See if you can spot the demo. Just in case he decides to be difficult and we have to sneak in later and steal it.”

We enter the chorus room and head toward the music offices.

Mr. Grossman is sitting at his desk reading the newspaper and drinking tea.

“Knock, knock,” I say, sticking my head inside.

He looks up from his paper and sighs. “You’re interrupting my ‘me’ time. This better be important.”

The three of us step inside his mess of an office. Books, magazines, and a trillion CDs stacked up everywhere. Spilling out of every shelf of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. I thought
I
was into music. We better hope to hell he hands over the demo because there’s no way we’re going to find it in here ourselves. I can tell by the look in Matt’s and Sean’s eyes that they’re thinking the exact same thing.

“We need our Battle of the Bands demo back,” I say.

“Is that so?” Mr. Grossman asks. “And why is that, pray tell?”

“My computer’s hard drive died. So now you’ve got the only copy. There are a few places around town who are interested in us playing some gigs. But they wanted to hear something first.”

“Yeah,” Sean adds, for no reason.

“I’m afraid we don’t return demos,” Mr. Grossman says. “It states that specifically in the entry form you filled out and signed. Sorry.” He lifts his newspaper as if that’s the end of the discussion.

“We know about that,” I say. “We were just hoping you might make an exception in this case.”

Mr. Grossman lowers his newspaper again. “And why would I do that?”

“Because of what I told you. My hard drive —”

“Yes, yes. You said that already. But I don’t understand. Why not just make another demo? Your band is rehearsing, is it not?” He glares at Matt and Sean accusingly. “Just record one of your rehearsals.”

“Yeah, we could, I guess,” I say. “But the demo
you
have was recorded in a studio. That we rented. And we don’t have the money to do that again.”

Sean and Matt nod their heads in agreement.

Mr. Grossman folds up his paper and places it to one side. “Do you have any idea
why
we hold on to the demos?” He addresses his question to Sean, who just shakes his head. “Well,” he tents his fingers, “in the past, we’ve had some
issues
.”

I can feel Matt’s and Sean’s rising panic. “Issues?” I say.

“Perhaps you’re aware that we’ve already suspended a group of students for submitting a demo that was not, shall we say, thoroughly authentic. It might surprise you to learn that this is not the first time something like this has occurred.”

“Seriously?” I lace my voice with what I hope is genuine indignation.

“And because of this,” Mr. Grossman goes on, “prior to the competition, the judges listen to the CDs for a second time. Then, if there are any glaring discrepancies between the band’s performance and what has been presented to us on the demos, we can take appropriate action.”

Sean gulps but I pretend he didn’t. Have to keep a calm front.

“That’s chill,” I say. “So, we’ll just borrow the demo, make a copy, then return it to you first thing tomorrow.”

Mr. Grossman exhales heavily and waves his hands around. “Never mind.” He pulls out one of his desk drawers, rummages around, and removes our demo. “Here. Take it.”

I look over at Matt and Sean, then reach out and slide the CD from Mr. Grossman’s fingers. Talk about easy. “Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it,” he says.

I hold the CD up. “We’ll get this back to you then. In a couple of days?”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” Mr. Grossman sips his tea. “Mrs. Ward, Mr. Blonsky, and Ms. Hosie all have duplicates. I’ll just send one of theirs down to AV.”