Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(13)

“He’s going to break up with me. I know it.” Angela flops down into a chair, the legs scraping on the floor. “And it’s all because of my giant schnoz. I need a nose job.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Mom says. “You’re beautiful, honey. You’re just coming into your own. You’ll see. Six months from now you’ll be beating the guys off with a stick.”

“Yowch,” I say, popping a handful of cheese puffs into my mouth. “Is that how you do it, Ang? No wonder guys keep breaking up with you.”

Angela shoots me a double-barreled finger salute.

I laugh and start to make my escape with the Cheetos when Mom calls out, “Wait, Coop. Where are you going?”

“The basement.”

“Your father wants to talk with you.”

Oh, great. Just what I need right now. “About what?” I ask.

Mom blushes, then turns away. “Just . . . go into the family room.” She starts fumbling with the box of pot pies. “It’s important.”

Okay, what the hell is going on?

Angela chortles. “Jesus, Coop. Are you failing out of tenth grade already?”

I flash her a screw-you glare, then turn back to Mom. “Can’t I talk to him later? I have a lot of work to do.”

“No.” Mom drops one of the frozen pies and it slides into the sink. “Go. He’s waiting.”





DAD’S SITTING ON THE COUCH watching Grand Prix darts and drinking a beer when I get to the family room. There are two empties already on the side table. For the last three years Mom’s been pretty strict, rationing the beer because of Dad’s diabetes, but he’s been ignoring the rules lately.

“Mom said you wanted to see me?” I say, hovering in the doorway with my bag of Cheetos.

He looks over at me. “Oh, hey there, bud. You got to watch this.” He gestures to the TV with his bottle, his dry and cracked fingers permanently grease-stained. “These guys are really good. I didn’t even know they had dart championships, did you?”

“No.” I want to get this over with as fast as possible. “So, um, Mom said you had something you wanted to tell me?”

“Come on. Have a seat.” Dad takes a tug on his beer and pats the couch beside him.

I glance over my shoulder, feeling more than a little uneasy. When Dad wants to talk to me, he just talks. It’s never been this kind of arranged-meeting sort of thing. Is he going to tell me Mom and him are getting a divorce? Or that we’re going to have to sell the house and move? Or that I’m going to have to get a job to help support the family? I don’t know if I could handle any of those situations.

“Get over here,” Dad says. “This is the grand finale. You don’t want to miss this.”

I drag myself away from the door and slog over to the couch. I place the Cheetos bag on the end table. Dad scoots over a little and I sit. He smells like a combination of beer and Old Spice.

“O’Shea is ahead right now,” he says. “But this Adams fella is coming on strong.”

On the TV, two beer-bellied dudes are chucking darts at a board.

“Wow, yeah, nice aim.”

“So, how’s tricks?” Dad asks, his eyes glued to the screen. Is it me, or is he acting really weird?

“What do you mean?”

He turns his head toward me. “What do I mean?” He cuffs the back of my head. “Girls, chucklenut. I’m starting to worry about you. Your two buds have dipped their toes in the hootchy pool. What about my boy? These are precious years you’re letting slip by. High school is an all you can eat muffet. It’s no time to be shy.”

Is this what we’re talking about? My opportunity to score with girls? I can’t believe that this is Mom-sanctioned. “Yeah. It’s chill, Dad. Seriously.”

“I’m just sayin’.” He takes another slug of his beer. “Anyway. So . . .” He clears his throat. “Your mother and I were wondering . . .” Why are his ears getting so red? “Your Mom and I felt that . . .” Dad rubs the back of his neck. Looks over at the door. “Maybe you should go close that.”

I follow his gaze. “The door?”

“Yeah. So we’re not disturbed.”

“What the hell’s going on, Dad?”

“Nothing’s ‘going on.’ I just want to spend some man-time with my boy.” He claps my shoulder awkwardly. “Everything’s normal. This is normal. We’re just a normal father and son here. Chatting about . . . normal guy things.”

My skin suddenly feels too tight on my face. I lean away from him. “Okay, you’re starting to freak me out.”

“Look, just close the damn door and then we can talk in private. This is personal stuff.”

I get up from the couch cautiously and make my way to the door, keeping my eyes on him the whole time. I pull the door shut, then walk back to the couch and sit at the far end.

“So . . .” Dad coughs. He won’t meet my eyes. “Last night, when I was in the garage . . . your mom came . . .” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

A grossed-out chill rockets up my spine. “Okay, could you please finish that sentence.”

“No, that’s not . . .” He tilts his head, cracking his neck. “Listen. Your mom came out to the garage while I was working on one of my projects. You remember that massage chair I found by that Dumpster a few weeks ago? I’ve almost got if fully functional. Except that it still sort of gooses you every once in a while. But I’m almost there.”