Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(17)

The pilfered demo whispers to me from my backpack. “You are going to get expelled from school. This will go on your permanent record. You think babes are going to want to date a thief?”

“Shut up!” I say. “I’m not stealing. I’m borrowing. There’s a difference.”

Okay. Be caszh. The demo isn’t talking to me. That’s ridiculous. I am the baron of bull. This is no big deal. I’ve been dishonest to teachers my entire life.

“But never on this scale before,” the demo warns.

“I said, shut up!”

I take a deep breath. There’s not a chance in hell Mr. Grossman will be able to tell that I jacked these songs. How could he? Does he spend his free time prowling MySpace and listening to mediocre unsigned Canadian bands? Doubtful. So just chillax.

I take the turn onto Division Avenue, my tires slooshing through a puddle.

I had to lie to Matt and Sean so they wouldn’t be wondering why I couldn’t ride to school with them today. I told them I had early detention. It’s weird. I can’t remember ever having actually flat-out lied to my buds before. I have to say, it didn’t feel real good, but it had to be done. It’s their fault I’m having to jump through all these hoops. If they’d showed up last night, like I asked, none of this subterfuge would be necessary.

The hallways are pretty barren when I step into the school. Just your early drop-offs and a few pre-caffeinated teachers wandering around like zombies. I adjust my backpack, get myself focused, and start toward the music department.

It’s funny how long and bright the hallways seem when there aren’t a billion kids jostling to get to class. And how you can hear your footsteps so much louder. And how everything smells like fresh pencil shavings and wet newspaper.

I’m hoping that Mr. Grossman won’t be in the chorus room, so I can slide the demo and entry form under the door without having to do a face-to-face.

But when I arrive, there he is, sitting at his piano, scribbling something on staff paper.

I stop in the doorway, a lump in my throat.

Okay. I either do this or I don’t.

“Don’t,” the demo calls out from my backpack. “Just throw me in the trash and we’ll never speak of this again.”

“Get the hell in there, chucklenut,” I hear Dad’s voice in my head. “Are you going to take advice from an inanimate object? Or from your dear old Dad?”

The demo sighs. “It’s not too late. The teacher hasn’t seen you yet. Just back away quietly —”

“Mary, Mary, she’s so hairy!” Dad sings loudly, drowning out the voice of the demo.

“Yes?” It’s Mr. Grossman. Looking at me over his glasses with his squinty eyes. He’s got this pinched-up look on his face, like he knows I’ve done something wrong but hasn’t quite figured out what it is yet.

I swallow and step into the room. “I’ve got a demo for the Battle of the Bands.” Keep it brief. Get in and get out.

“Very good,” Mr. Grossman says. “Give it here.” He gestures toward me. His hand looks enormous. Like it could reach out and snap my neck.

I swing my backpack around and dig out the CD. “Here.” I pass the jewel case off to him, keeping my distance.

He looks at it and raises his eyebrows.

“What?” I say.

“Your entry form?”

“Oh, right.” I pull the folded-up form — complete with Matt’s and Sean’s forged signatures — from my bag and give this to him as well.

Mr. Grossman unfolds the paper and studies it. “Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare?” he says. “It sounds lewd. What does that mean?”

“Short and simple,” I hear Dad whisper.

“It’s not lewd. It’s just an inside joke. From grade school.”

Mr. Grossman levels his gaze on me. Waiting for me to elaborate.

“This kid,” I say. “We dared him to eat an old boloney sandwich. Off the cafeteria floor. It’s just . . . It’s nothing. . . . He moved away. But not because of the sandwich. His father got transferred, I think. I’m not sure. . . .” I feel Dad giving me an internal head-cuffing. “Anyway. That’s it.”

I can tell by Mr. Grossman’s curdled expression that he doesn’t like my answer. “I don’t recognize any of these names from our music program.”

For a brief moment, I consider mentioning that Sean was in chorus for a few days last year, before Mr. Grossman kicked him out, but then think better of it. Instead I just say, “Nope.”

“And why is that?” Mr. Grossman asks.

Yeah, why is that, Coop? Could it be the fact that the three of you are amazingly unmusical?

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

I shrug. “Don’t know.”

He sniffs. “Hmm. Curious.”

What the hell does that mean?

“The committee will listen to the tapes over the weekend. Announcements will made Monday.” Mr. Grossman places the demo and the entry form beside him on the piano bench, then returns his attention to his staff paper.

I guess . . . that’s it.

I spin around and walk out of the room, feeling dizzy and sweaty all over, like I may chum the fish, even though my stomach is hollow from not eating this morning.