Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(18)

“YOU’RE IN LUCK,” Mrs. Turris says after the bell rings and everyone settles down. “I’m going to let you use the class period today to get some work done on your projects.”

She grabs a stack of papers from her desk and hands them to gerbil-cheeked Trina Boyle in the first row. Trina takes one and passes the stack behind her.

“Since this project is such a large undertaking,” Mrs. Turris continues, “I’ve set a strict timeline to help you pace yourselves.” The class lets out a collective groan, which causes Mrs. Turris to smirk. “These are hard deadlines that I expect you and your partner to meet without excuses. In two weeks, a basic summary of your lesson will be due. Two weeks after that, a first draft lesson plan. And the like. So keep these schedules handy. If you follow the plan, you should have no problem once it comes time to give your presentations.”

I glance over at Helen, who is already taking notes. She’s the only one moving her pen. I wonder if Mrs. Turris would notice if we worked on opposite sides of the room. Probably.

“Once you get your copy of the schedule, find your partner and get to work. There are reference materials in the bookshelves at the back of the room, and of course there’s your Health text, which is a rich source of information.”

Everyone’s up and shuffling around. Matt and Sean scoot their desks together. They’re already talking and laughing it up.

Jerks.

I stand and start across the room, only to be assaulted by the facial-hair-challenged Andy Bennett, who bumps my shoulder.

“Watch it, Corn Dog.” He smirks.

“Is that you, Andy?” I say. “Oh, thank God. I knew that sphincters couldn’t talk, but for a second there —”

Andy shoves me. “You want me to break your face, butthead?”

“Do I want you to give me head?” I say loudly. “No, Andy. I do not.”

Several kids nearby laugh.

“That’s it,” Andy grabs two fistfuls of my shirt. “You’re dead.”

“Head? I already told you, Andy. I’m not interested. Read the poster on the wall, dude. No means no.”

His face crimsons. He keeps hold of my shirt with one hand and cocks a fist with the other.

“Hello?” Mrs. Turris calls from the front of the room. “Do I need to send you two to the principal?”

Andy grits his teeth and pushes me away. “Watch your back, Corn Dog. ’Cause you’ll never know when I’ll be coming.”

“On my back? Dude, no thanks.”

“You’re a real comedian. Just you wait.” He makes an I’m-watching-you gesture before walking off.

What a dink.

I make my way over to the empty desk across the aisle from Helen, feeling an invisible noose tightening around my neck. She’s already marking pages in her textbook with Post-its.

“So, whadda we got?” I say.

Helen looks up at me for a second, then goes back to her scribbling.

“That’s cool. I’m down with that. We’ll work on our own thing and compare notes later.”

I slap my Health book on the desk and start flipping through it. I pretend to be looking stuff up but really my mind is bouncing around like a SuperBall. The Battle of the Bands. The songs we’ll do if we get in. The Phenomenal Four wearing tight sweaters and dirty dancing to our music.

I glance over at Helen, swaddled in her thick, baggy gray sweatshirt, hunched over her book. I wonder what she’s packing under all those clothes. You never know. Sometimes the biggest diamonds are buried below a ton of rock.

“What?” Helen’s caught me looking at her.

“Nothing.”

“You were staring at me.”

“Was not.”

“I’m not blind, Cooper.”

“If I was going to stare at anyone it wouldn’t be you, I can tell you that.”

“Whatever. You’re obviously getting a lot of work done there.”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” I tap my temple for emphasis. “Not all of us have to write every little thing down. Some of us use our brains to store the information for later retrieval.”

“That would require you to actually have some brains.”

“On your period much? I hope you’re not going to be all raggy when we present our lessons, ’cause that’s not going to score us any points with the teach.”

“How’s my wonder team getting on?” It’s Mrs. Turris, the omnipresent-one herself. She grins down on us, hands on hips.

“Super.” I plaster a big smile on my face. “We were just discussing the female menstrual cycle.”

“I don’t see how you can be discussing anything when you’re so far away from each other.” Mrs. Turris grabs my desk and drags me right up next to Helen. Man is she strong. “There. That’s better. Now you won’t have to shout at each other across the aisle.” She nods, satisfied with her work, and moves on.

It’s impossible to miss the sniggers and jeers —“Bet she likes it doggy style,” “Put your wiener between her buns,” “Make her use her Cooper Scooper”— that flutter around the room like crickets.

“Quiet down,” Mrs. Turris snaps, ignoring what’s actually being said and instead focusing on the decibel level.