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

I laugh. “Sorry. But remember what I told you at the beginning of the summer? About the natural order of things? Internet porn, live naked girl, and then the dirty deed? Well, we’re ready to take that next step.”

“Would you stop it with that stupid theory of yours?” Matt says. “You wouldn’t know the natural order of things if it crapped on your head.”

Sean snickers. I ignore him and give Matt a you-can’t-be-serious look. “Correct me if I’m wrong here, Matt. Maybe I shouldn’t be including you with me and Sean. Maybe you’ve already rounded all the bases. If you have, just say so.”

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Matt says, snapping his lock shut for emphasis.

“So, no. That’s cool. Maybe they’re more conservative up in Canada. Valerie probably wants to wait until you tie the knot or something. Tell me you’ve at least gotten to second, though?”

We start our trek past the soon-to-be-smelling-like-hell Dumpsters toward the back doors of the school.

“You know what?” Matt sighs. “The only people who talk about sex as much as you are the ones who haven’t even gotten up to bat yet.”

I slap my forehead. “Oh, my God. Not even second base? Jesus. What’s the point of letting Val cinch the choke chain so tight then, Mattie?”

“Valerie and I are doing just fine, thank you very much.”

“Well then?” I ask.

“It’s private.”

“It’s private,” I mimic. “Dude, you don’t think she’s gabbing about it to all her galpals? That’s all babes do. They talk and talk and talk about everything.”

“Whatever,” Matt says. “Anyway, even if I was going to tell you — which I’m not — I have no idea what your definitions of the bases are. I’m sure they’re probably incredibly sick and twisted.”

I place my hand on my chest. “Hey, when it comes to the bases I happen to be a purist. First is Frenching. Second is fondling the floppers. Third is rummaging in the basement. Home run is all the way.”

“I thought third was oral,” Sean says.

“No, that’s choking up on the bat,” I say. “And then of course there’s the conference on the mound. The knuckleball. A doubleheader. Extra innings. A grand slam. And, of course, the triple play.” I waggle my eyebrows at my friends. “Which also happens to be in my plans for this year.”

“In your dreams.” Matt grabs the door and holds it open.

“All great things begin with a dream, Mattie,” I say as we enter the building, ready to start what promises to be an epic first semester.





“AND HERE WE GO,” Mrs. Turris says, reaching her soft, pork bun hand into the blue shoebox that sits on her desk. I feel like I swallowed a still-buzzing bee as she pulls two slips of paper from the box.

I can’t believe we’re already being subjected to the humiliation lottery and it’s only third period on the first day back to school. Mrs. Turris says that this will be a “glorious and enriching opportunity” for us to work with one of our classmates for an entire semester. Each couple will get to research a specialized health topic, after which we will — as a pair of studied-up experts — present our findings to the class by “teaching” everyone what we’ve learned.

Not a ten-minute presentation. Not a twenty-minute demonstration. A full class period lesson with handouts, visual aids, questions and answers, and who the hell knows what else, the whole of which will make up 85 percent of our grade in Health.

It’s a big old diaper load if you ask me. Sounds like a way for our Health teacher to get out of doing her job. Make the helpless slaves do the dirty work.

When I brought this up to Mrs. Turris — in not so many words — she just laughed and said, “Cooper Redmond, you rascal, you’ve found me out.” Like it was all a big joke or something.

But she’s going forward with it anyway.

If this were one of those work-with-a-partner-for-one-week deals there’d be a lot less at stake. But we’re talking about being shackled to a person for three solid months — in and out of class. Depending on who you get, it could either be genius or a world of pain. If I’m lucky, I’ll get Matt or Sean. If I’m super lucky, I’ll be partnered up with one of the Phenomenal Four — Prudence Nash, Kelly West, Bronte Hastings, or Gina Lagotta. It’s rare you get four of the school’s hottest girls in one class, which I take as a solid omen for the year. Working that close with any one of them will give me ample opportunity to play some serious babesball.

The papers make a rustling sound as Mrs. Turris unfolds them. “Andrew Bennett and Nicholas Hickey,” she reads.

All the kids in the classroom snicker.

Andy winces.

Nicky’s head drops.

Class assbag meet Cabbage Boy. Sometimes there is justice in the world.

I can breathe again. The first pairing has been decided, and already two of the biggest booby prizes have been awarded. And to each other. Which is classic.

The only thing you have to know about Andy Bennett — besides the fact that he’s been desperately trying to grow a mustache for the last two years — is that he likes to spit Jell-O cubes at all the babes and can’t understand why this move doesn’t make them lie down naked at his feet.