Beat the Band (30 page)

“In the house, you did this?” Mom’s jaw is twitching. “In
our
house? The one we scrimped and saved for.”

“I know, I know.” Dad looks like he’s eighty years old. “It was colossally stupid.”

“You
think
?” Mom says.

“Look, I’m an idiot,” Dad goes on. “I’ve
been
an idiot. You were right. This whole band thing . . . I got carried away. I just . . . I don’t . . . It made me feel alive again. Like I was part of something exciting. I thought maybe we could spin it into something bigger. And that people wouldn’t look at me like I was, you know, a loser.”

Mom’s face softens. “You’re not a loser, Walter.”

“Yeah, well, the jury’s still out on that one,” Dad says. “Anyway, I’m sorry.” He looks at me and my friends. “To all of you guys. Christ, I don’t know how you put up with me. You deserve a medal, that’s for sure.”

“Are you kidding, Mr. Redmond?” Matt says. “We wouldn’t sound half as good as we do without your help.”

“Yeah, we were totally sucko before you came on board,” Sean adds. “Now we might not totally embarrass ourselves at the Battle of the Bands.”

Dad smiles sheepishly. “That’s nice of you to say, boys.” He drapes an arm around my mom’s shoulders. “But I think my days of band managing are over.”

Once all the firemen and fire trucks have left, my family and friends take a tour of the damage.

And it’s bad.
Real
bad.

“Ooooh myyy God.” Sean is absolutely goggle-eyed.

“Eh. It’s not so terrible,” Dad announces. Like if he says it out loud it’ll be true.

But the wreckage is way worse than I had even imagined. It’s like an ash-filled swamp down here. There are giant blooming black stains on the ceiling. Brown scorch marks all over the walls. The couch and coffee table and bar are demolished.

And forget about my drums.
All
of our instruments are waterlogged and trashed.

Mom’s mouth makes a perfect stunned O as she sloshes across the carpet.

“I’m gonna take care of everything.” Dad gestures at the mess. “Don’t you worry. By the time I’m through you won’t even recognize this place.”

“I don’t recognize it now,” Mom says.

Dad laughs nervously. “That’s funny. Seriously, though. It looks worse than it is. And band? We’re going to salvage as much of this as we can. Whatever we can’t, I’m going to find a way to replace. Don’t sweat it.”

But I know, standing there in the middle of all that destruction, there will be no Battle of the Bands for us.

“I’M VERY SORRY TO HEAR THAT,”
Mr. Grossman says after I tell him why Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare is going to have to bow out of the Battle of the Bands. I didn’t go into too much detail. I just said we had a fire and that our equipment was destroyed. “Is there no other option? Perhaps you could rent some instruments.”

“Yeah, I don’t think we can swing that,” I say. “Financially and all.”

“But surely your parents’ insurance will cover things.”

“They didn’t have any,” I lie. Dad says there’s no way we can make a claim. Not with him being directly responsible for the fire. “Not only will they not pay,” Dad insisted, “our rates’ll be jacked sky-high if they find out who caused it.”

I trudge from Mr. Grossman’s office feeling totally bummed, but also — if I’m being completely honest — a little bit relieved. At least now I won’t have to deal with the repercussions of taking the stage with Helen fronting the band. Especially since it doesn’t appear she’ll be leaving the school anytime soon, seeing as how she hasn’t received an acceptance letter from Our Lady of Mercy.

At least, as far as I know.

I’ve had to cease my secret visits to her mailbox because Mrs. Harriwick caught me on their porch again. I’m pretty sure she bought my excuse that I wanted to ask her about Christmas present ideas for Helen, but I also think if she catches me a third time — especially in tandem with her jammed-up mailbox — it might raise some suspicion.

But Helen hasn’t mentioned getting any letters. Even with my subtle and leading inquiries: “My parents are thinking they might want me to transfer schools next year. . . .”, “I got this weird notice in the mail the other day that said I was accepted into the book of the month club. And I didn’t even apply. . . .”, “Someone told me that Mr. Tard is gunning for the principal position at Our Lady of Mercy. . . .” And so on.

Now that the Battle of the Bands thing has resolved itself, I’m really glad Helen’s letter hasn’t come. Sure, she’s going to be the target of Prudence’s teasing till we graduate, but at least she’ll never put two and two together and find out that I played a major part in filling out her application.

“What did Mr. Grossman say?” Matt asks as I step up between him and Sean at our lockers.

I grab my lock and spin the combo. “He said he was sorry.”

“Not half as sorry as I am,” Sean grouses. “Do you have any idea how expensive a Mesa/Boogie amplifier is? My Uncle Doug will be garnishing my allowance for the next ten years to replace it.” He sighs. “Even so, it’d be totally worth it if we were still going to play. Then Tianna would be all jealous watching me onstage, getting swarmed by a mob of screaming girls.”

“Yup.” I grab my Health text and notebook. “It’s too bad.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Prudence strutting down the hall. It dawned on me last night that her big plan to humiliate Helen will most likely involve the Health presentation that we’re giving in a few days. It’s why she didn’t want to tell me about it. I don’t know how I missed that.

I wonder if there’s any way I could get Prudence to abort her mission without her getting suspicious. Because, yeah, it’ll be bad for Helen. But if Prudence does whatever she’s planning on doing while I’m standing in front of the class next to Helen, it’ll be humiliation by association.

“I’ll catch up with you guys after detention.” I snick my lock shut and head off to catch up with Prudence.

“Hey, can I talk to you?” I say, matching Prudence’s step.

She smiles. “What’s up, Coopee?”

“I think you need to postpone whatever it is you have planned for Helen.”

Prudence’s eyes narrow. “And why do you think that?”

“She hasn’t gotten her acceptance letter yet.”

“You know this, how?”

She heads down the stairs. I move with her.

“Let’s just say I’ve been doing some covert ops. Just to make sure everything was going smoothly. I’m ninety-nine percent sure it hasn’t come. And personally, I think the whole thing works best if she’s already got her escape hatch when the embarrassment happens. Otherwise, her anger might fade.”

“That’s a very good point, Coopee,” Prudence says, heading toward the front doors. She stops before leaving the school and turns back to me. “But I don’t care. It’s happening.” She smiles. “And you know what else? She’s never going to forget it.”

With that, she pushes open the door and disappears outside.

Leaving me standing in the hallway, feeling like I’ve just been hurled off the Brooklyn Bridge with cement blocks tied to my feet.

TODAY HELEN AND I ARE GIVING
our Health presentation. Several pairs have already gone this week. Most of them were pretty lame and boring. Andy Bennett and Nicky Hickey just sat on stools at the front of the room and read alcohol facts off sheets of paper. Prudence and Sam were not much better. Sam did most of the talking while Prudence just pointed to things on a poster like the world’s hottest game-show hostess.

At least Matt’s and Sean’s project provided plenty of gross-out moments with giant pictures of herpes sores and parasitic crabs projected on a screen at the front of the room.

Helen and I have a pretty kick-ass presentation, but I’m glad we didn’t have to go first. And even though I’m happy we’re finally getting it over with, I feel like I’ve got a noose cinched tight around my neck and the milk crate I’m standing on is wobbling beneath my feet. Especially since — if I’m right about Prudence’s plans — things could get seriously ugly today.

Hopefully, Mrs. Turris will be able to keep a tight rein on the class. Though somehow I doubt it.

Anyway, once it’s done, I can put this whole stupid semester behind me.

Helen and I get to class early so that we can set up. She connects her computer to the projector for the PowerPoint presentation while I put together our contraceptive diorama.

I’ve got a whole whack of fruits and vegetables — ends cut and glued down — standing triumphantly on a poster board: a zucchini, a carrot, a banana, a parsnip. I roll a different type of condom on each one. Ribbed, glow-in-the-dark, lambskin, Leviathan. I unfurl the female condom and insert it into an “everything” bagel. Take out the pack of birth control pills I “borrowed” from my sister’s nightstand. Place the bottle of spermicidal lube next to a gargantuan cucumber for a hands-on demonstration.

Then I carefully display the extremely graphic eleven-by-fourteen-inch posters I printed out in the computer lab. There’s one of a woman inserting a diaphragm, another of an X-ray showing an implanted IUD, and, for good measure, a giant wrinkly scrote with its vas hanging out, ready to be snipped.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Turris says, bustling into the classroom. “You guys look like you’re all —” She does a double take as she passes my grand display of grotesquerie. “Well. That’s . . . very . . . visual.”

I smile. “Yeah. We want to make sure people remember what we have to say. All the things we learned doing this report, Mrs. Turris — how to protect yourself from disease and unwanted pregnancy. This stuff is super-important. I, for one, am very grateful we were assigned this topic.”

“Yes,” she says, giving a little head shake as she averts her eyes from the vasectomy poster. “I’m glad.” She moves to her desk and takes out a coffee thermos. “Don’t forget to leave some time for questions. That’s ten percent of the grade.”

When the class arrives and is settled, we dim the lights. Helen stays standing, and I take a seat on one of the stools.

“Good morning, ladies and gentleman,” Mrs. Turris says. “Today’s lesson on contraception will be taught by Helen Harriwick and Cooper Redmond. Please give them your undivided attention.”

I was feeling nervous before, but now it’s like someone’s got their hand clenched around my nads. Finding it hard to breathe. To think. To speak. I try to remember what I’m supposed to say first, but all I get is this whooshing sound in my head.

Helen clicks the remote in her hand, and the first PowerPoint slide is projected onto the screen at the front of the room. A picture of a pregnant teenage girl. “Over thirty percent of women will get pregnant before the age of twenty.”

“That’s my baby!” Andy calls out.

Mrs. Turris slaps the legal pad she’s taking notes on. “Another word out of you, Mr. Bennett, and I’m taking points off your project. Something you can scarcely afford.”

I use this diversion to flip through my notes. But somehow they’re all mixed up. And the light’s too dim. My first page is missing. Damn it. I try to shuffle the papers quietly, but I can’t find my opening line.

Helen goes on. “Eighty percent of these pregnancies are unplanned.”

“Was
yours
?” some dude coughs from the back of the room, which sends a wave of laughter throughout the class.

“Who said that?” Mrs. Turris cranes her neck. Does she really think anyone’s going to confess?

It suddenly feels like my shirt collar is too tight. I should probably say something. Tell everyone to shut the hell up. But I’m too preoccupied with trying to remember my part of the presentation.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Helen seems unfazed. She doesn’t miss a beat. Just keeps rolling forward. “Nearly all of these pregnancies could have been avoided if some form of contraception had been used.”

“Spay that bitch!” a girl bellows.

Mrs. Turris leaps to her feet. “Excuse me! I will not put up with these shenanigans. I expect you to give Helen and Cooper the same attention you’d like for yourselves.”

Helen clears her throat and continues. “Teen mothers are at a much greater risk for dropping out of high school, and less than two percent of them will end up getting a college degree before they’re thirty. Eight out of ten teen moms will have to turn to welfare to support their families.” She clicks the remote, and the slide switches to a dude with thick syphilis sores glazing his back.