Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(12)

“Because you get to work with me.”

Helen places her hand over her heart. “Oh, excuse me. I’m sorry. I must have missed the memo describing what a privilege that is. Remind me again what you bring to this project? Besides your D average?”

“Besides my D-plus average.” I start up the stairs. Helen follows. “Let me think. Hmm. Oh, yeah. I also bring this.” I reach into my pants pocket and pull out a big ol’ bird which I brandish in front of Helen’s eyes.

She nods. “Right. Maturity. That’s what I figured.”

“Okay, Miss Maturity.” I stop on the landing. “Why don’t you tell me what you bring to the table? I mean, other than your glowing reputation and wild popularity.”

Helen glares at me, her eyes narrowed into little slits. “Screw you, Cooper.” She shoves her face close to mine, which kind of surprises me. “You’re a real prick, you know that?”

It throws me off my stride. Her vehemence. By the time I open my mouth to respond, she’s already headed down the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” I call after her, but she doesn’t turn around. Just keeps going.





“WHY DON’T YOU GUYS just bring your instruments over this afternoon?” I say, shifting into a lower gear as Matt, Sean, and I cycle up Cardiac Hill. “We’ll just lay down a few simple tracks and see how they sound.”

Matt laughs. “Okay, what part of ‘No, we aren’t doing this’ didn’t you understand?”

“I just don’t see the harm in giving it a shot.”

“Because it’s pointless, Coop,” Sean says, huffing and puffing as we reach the steepest point of the climb. “Recording us playing is only going to confirm what we already know: we stink. And honestly, I don’t see us getting any better in three months.”

My thighs are burning from the slog of pedaling. I can hardly wait until I get a car and I never have to bike this stupid hill again. “Just for kicks, then,” I wheeze out. “We don’t have to . . . hand it in.” My lungs scream for mercy. “We’ll just . . . have some fun.” I think I might hurl. “We can smooth the songs out with my computer and GarageBand.”

“Forget it,” Matt says, “I already told Valerie we’d watch a movie today.”

“And I’ve got to Skype my Uncle Doug,” Sean adds as we reach the top of the hill. “So he can do my Algebra homework for me.”

“Fine, get all your stuff out of the way and we can do it after dinner,” I say. “I’ll be expecting you.” I peel off and race down my street before they can protest.

Matt yells after me, “I’m not coming!”

“Me either!” Sean shouts.

“I can’t hear you!” I call over my shoulder. “Seven o’clock! Don’t be late! We have a lot of work to do!”

I coast up to my house, not entirely confident that Matt and Sean will feel guilty enough to show later. Still, I’m holding on to a tiny strand of hope.

I can hear Mom singing — or rather, butchering — the Beatles when I open the front door.

“She’s got a chicken to ride. She’s got a chicken to ri-hi-hide. She’s got a chicken to ride. And she’s not scared.”

“Those aren’t the words, Mom,” I say as I step into the kitchen, heading straight for the cupboard to forage. “Not even close.”

“What are you talking about?” she says, opening the freezer.

“It’s a ticket to ride.” I laugh, reaching past the already opened bag of Doritos and grabbing the brand-new bag of Cheetos hiding in the back. “Not a chicken.”

“Are you sure? I guess that does make more sense.” She pulls out a Tupperware container with something beige in it. “Now what’s this?”

Angela walks into the kitchen, blabbing on her cell phone. “I’m so sure,” she says. “Like I even care.”

“We’re having an early dinner today. Are you feeling more Salisbury steak or pot pie?” Mom asks me, shoving the mystery food back into the freezer.

My stomach heaves. If I have to eat another cardboard encased microwave meal I may put myself up for adoption. “I’m leaning more toward homemade oven-fried chicken, roast potatoes, and corn on the cob,” I say, tearing open the bag of Cheetos.

Mom laughs. “Right. And who’s whipping that up in the next,”— she glances at the sunflower clock on the wall —“twenty minutes, before I have to be at Porterhouse Nick’s?”

I groan. “Are we going to be eating frozen foods for the rest of our lives?”

“I don’t want to reschedule, Graham!” Angela barks into her phone. “Oh, um, let me think. Maybe because we already rescheduled this week.”

Mom sighs, her whole face looking weary. “You know the deal, Cooper. Once your father’s back to regular hours at work, I won’t have to —”

“I know, I know,” I say, feeling like a dick for even bringing it up. “I’m sorry. Pot pie will be great.”

Angela huffs. “Yeah, whatever. Have fun at the gym, *. I hope you strain your groin.” She snaps her phone shut and tosses it onto the kitchen table.

“What’s wrong?” Mom pulls a family pack of pot pies from the freezer and places it on the counter.