Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(20)

Yeah, right. Like that’s ever going to happen.

“Right now,” Mrs. Turris demands.

I look at Helen and force a smile, pretending I’m willing to give this a shot. “When are you free?”

She sighs. “I have cross country practice from eleven to one on Saturday. But I can do it any other time.”

“Well, Saturday at noon is the only time I can do it, so I guess we’re out of luck.”

“See?” Helen says to Mrs. Turris, like this explains everything.

“Cooper.” Mrs. Turris glares at me.

“What? Our schedules don’t mesh. Is that my fault?”

“I’ll mesh them for you. Sunday from one to three. The Rockville Public Library. Be there, for the entire two hours. If either one of you doesn’t show up, you’ll both find yourselves with three months’ worth of detention. Then, you’ll have no choice but to work together. Are we clear?”

Aw, man. This blows. I was keeping the whole weekend clear to focus on Battle of the Bands stuff. There are set lists to be made. Rehearsal schedules to put together. Convincing arguments to be formulated in case Matt and Sean continue to be difficult.

And now this. A big boil on the beautiful boob of my Sunday — and just a preview of my life to come if we don’t make it into the Battle of the Bands. I swear, if our names aren’t announced on Monday, I’ll be packing my bags and booking a one-way trip to Tibet.





“WE ARE VERY PROUD to announce the four bands that will be performing in Lower Rockville High’s illustrious Battle of the Bands this year.” Mr. Grossman’s melodious commercial-ready voice pops and crackles over the school’s cheap-ass PA system like he’s speaking over a bowl of Rice Krispies.

I’m biting the hell out of my thumbnail as I sit on the edge of my seat in homeroom. There’s the sting of a ripped cuticle and the aluminum-foil taste of blood on the tip of my tongue. This ought to be the danger sign that tells me to stop gnawing on myself, but it’s been a pretty hang-cliff morning and I’m vibrating with nervous energy, so I just move on to another finger.

I skipped out on meeting Helen at the library on Sunday. Not on purpose. It just slipped my mind because I was so caught up in trying to learn to play our demo songs on the drums. They’re not as easy as I thought they’d be. I started practicing right after my bowl of Chocolate Lucky Charms and didn’t stop until after three. And by then, of course, it was too late. But it’s chill. I know Helen won’t narc me out, otherwise she risks getting us both three months of detention.

“First off, we’d like to thank all of the participants who entered a demonstration CD,” Mr. Grossman continues. “We were quite impressed with the high caliber of the performances submitted. Although, in one particular band’s case, we found their original song to be not so original, I’m afraid. I won’t name names at the moment. But I can assure you, we will be conducting a thorough investigation into what appears to be a case of blatant plagiarism.”

“Oooooooooh,” the class collectively responds.

Fuuuuck me.

I break out in a cold full-body sweat. My ears wah-wahing.

“And now, on to the announcements.” Mr. Grossman’s voice sounds like it’s echoing down a long tunnel. All of a sudden, I feel like Luke Skywalker trapped in the trash compactor. The walls closing in around me. “Our first band is an all-girl group, consisting of students Kelly West, Gina Lagotta, Bronte Hastings, and Prudence Nash. The Wicked.”

There are loud catcalls and enthusiastic desk smackings from most of the guys in the room. At any other time in my life, the thought of those four gorgeous girls singing and gyrating onstage would be giving me a blue steeler. But right now, I feel like I’ve just come down with the world’s worst flu.

“Our second band, whose members include Larry Fungfeld, Ernie Plingus, Greggory Zuzzansky, and Andrew Bennett, is Mj?llnir.”

I barely register the names of some of the school’s biggest losers. I can’t breathe. I stare at the door to the classroom. How obvious would it seem if I bolted?

Just take a pill, Coop. There’s no proof you stole those songs. They’re just going ask some questions. If you play it chill, you’ll glide right over this thing. You’ve done it before, you can do it again.

I look down and read the words DESK OF THE YEAR ’06 that somebody shakily carved into my desktop a million years ago. Well, there now, see? I’m sitting at an award-winning desk. Things are looking up already.

“Our third band, comprised of students Justin Sneep, Lucas Izzi, and Brody Carson, is Cheeba Pet.”

This gets a chuckle from about half the class. How did that get past the censors? Obviously, Mr. Grossman neglected to google “cheeba.” And yet, he somehow managed to find Understain — the most obscure amateur Canadian band possible — on MySpace.

I lay my head down on the desk. The wood veneer is cool on my cheek. I don’t know why I thought that this would go my way. Tenth grade is obviously going to be my year of disgrace.

“And our fourth and final band that will be competing in December sixteenth’s Battle of the Bands is . . .”

I wonder if I’ll even be able to get into another school. And if I do, will I get to start off fresh? Or will my new Corn Dog reputation trail me there like a bad smell?