Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(16)

“You were in a band?” My voice is thick with doubt.

Dad laughs. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“No, I just . . . didn’t know.”

“We were damn good, too. The Spiroketes. Landed me a flock of squanch, I’ll tell you that. Cindy Berman. Alison Hripsack. Kathryn Jaspers. Lynn Skayling. Wendy Figlia.” He’s got this far away, life-used-to-be-so-great expression on his face. He blinks hard, shaking off the memory. “Anyway, we tried to keep the band chugging after high school, but you know how things go.” Dad taps his lips, the wheels turning behind his eyes. “Still, it’s a shame about those tapes.”

“Yeah, that would have been cool,” I say. “I guess I’m just going to have to start looking into the priesthood.”

“Hold on a second. Don’t go hanging up the guns just yet.” He stands and starts to pace. “Three months, huh? Three months. Yeah. We could get you sounding decent by then. But the demo. That’s the rub. And if you can’t use my high school band tapes, then what?” He stops. Runs his hand through his thick black hair. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Okay, hear me out.” Dad looks all excited, his fingers twitching. “This going to sound a lot like stealing. But really, I think we can justify it.”





“I DON’T KNOW,” I say. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.”

“Look,” Dad says, “when the situation is as dire as yours, you can’t apply everyday morals and values. You gotta shove all that stuff to the side. And besides, technically, you’ll just be borrowing the music. Ultimately, your band is going to have to live and die on its own.”

We’re hunched over my MacBook, scrolling through whacks and whacks of unsigned bands on MySpace, searching for someone I might be able to safely crib — I mean borrow — a few songs from for my demo.

The door to the basement squeaks open. “Good night, yellow brick road,” Mom sings down from the top of the stairs. “What do you say, Walter? You coming to bed?”

“It’s good-bye, yellow brick road, hon.” Dad looks up from my laptop. “And I can’t come up right now. I’m helping Coop out with a school project.”

“It’s past midnight. Cooper, you should be in bed.”

“I know, Mom,” I say, my eyes burning from staring so long at the screen. “I have to finish this. It’s due tomorrow.”

“That’s why you don’t leave things to the last minute.”

“We shouldn’t be too much longer.” Dad gestures at a band called Sinus Trouble.

“All right, but don’t wake me up when you come to bed, Walter. I’m babysitting the Bermans’ kids all day tomorrow. I need to have my wits about me.” Mom shuts the basement door. Her footsteps clip-clop over our heads.

I click on the Sinus Trouble page and we take a listen. They sound like a mix between Linkin Park and Collective Soul. Not my particular bag of chips, but definitely polished.

“Forget it.” Dad waves them off. “Too good. You’ll get busted for sure.”

I yawn and close my eyes. My head feels like it’s filled with sand. I start to drift off.

“Right there,” Dad says, jolting me awake. “Understain.” He points at the screen. “They do covers and originals. They’re unsigned. And they’re from Canada. Even better. Click on them.”

It turns out Understain does a pretty good rendition of “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper.” Good, but not great. They also play a passable “Paint It Black.” One of their better original songs is some kind of meat protest anthem called “Grind the Rump Roast.”

Again, it’s decent, just not brilliant.

In other words, absolutely perfect.

Dad and I turn to each other.

“Can you download those?” Dad asks.

“Better if I blast them on my computer speakers and record them that way. Then, it’ll actually sound like we were playing in the basement.”

Dad points at me. “Good call. Now, when you hand this in to the teacher, you have to play it completely cucumber. Look him in the eyes. Keep it brief. If he asks you questions, don’t go into long explanations. The best way to approach this is to keep telling yourself that this Mr. Grossman character is a jerk for not giving you more time to make a demo. It’s his fault, really. He drove you to this.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Good luck.” He stands and claps me on the shoulder. “You do know, though, that if the shit comes down, I’m gonna have to deny any knowledge of this. You’re a kid. You’ll recover. It won’t be so easy for me. When you get to be my age people think you should know better.”

“It’s cool,” I say. “I won’t narc you out.”

Dad smiles. “That’s my boy. Now, let me know how it turns out. If you get in, we’re gonna have a buttload of work to do.”





MY CHEEKS AND NOSE are numbed by the damp air as I ride my bike through the mist that rises off the asphalt. I remember listening to the rain last night, in between bouts of fitful sleep, and praying that it would let up before I had to go to school this morning.

And while everything around me is wet, my mouth is as dry as an empty taco shell.