Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(32)

Whoa. Yes. I like how this is going. Nightmare turns to dream-come-true. I feel myself walking a little taller.

“Outside the library,” I say, “you mentioned you had some kind of plan?”

“I do, but we’re going to have to work really fast.” Prudence produces some papers from a notebook and holds them out to me. “We need to fill this out.”

I take the pages and look at them. “What is it?”

“It’s an application form for Our Lady of Mercy,” Bronte says. “I picked it up on my way to school today. If Helen’s going to transfer schools, we have to get the process started for her.”

“We want to make it as painless as possible,” Gina adds, her video camera still going. “Literally. If the paperwork is done for her, all she has to do is go.”

Kelly tugs the lollipop from her mouth. “It’ll be good for you both, really. She gets a fresh start. And hopefully all these rumors about you and her fade away.”

“We’re going to have to do some detective work,” Prudence says. “And fast, because the deadline for second semester is November seventh. We filled out what we know already. But you’re going to have to get some of the more confidential information. We figure, since you’re working with her all the time, you’ll be able to find these things out. And then, of course, you’re going to have to get her mother to sign it. Which will be an entirely different kind of challenge.” She smiles. “But we think you’re up to it.”

“I don’t get it.” I flip through the pages. “Why would Helen transfer to another school just because we fill out the forms for her?”

The bell rings and the hall starts to clear. Prudence stops walking and turns to me. Her friends do the same.

“That’s just phase one, Coop,” Prudence says, touching my arm. Sending a shiver all over my body. “Laying the groundwork. But phase two — offering encouragement — is the most important part.”

Bronte steps up close to me. Her breasts brushing my shoulder. Oh, God. “And that’s where we’re really going to need your help.”

My jeans start to feel tight. My knees want to buckle. Must stay focused. “What —” My breath hitching in my throat. “What . . . do you need me to do?”





WE’VE FINISHED ALL OUR WORK in Math class with five minutes to spare before the end of the day. Which means only one thing.

Mr. Spassnick is going to tell us a joke.

“So, these two guys are out hunting moose,” Mr. Spassnick says, sitting behind his desk, grabbing a New York Mets hat from one of the desk drawers and tugging it on. “And they’re both staring down the sights of their rifles, scanning the trees.” He mimes sighting down a rifle.

I glance up at the clock. The second hand ticks off the time ever so slowly. My books are all stacked up and I’m poised to bolt once the dismissal bell rings. It’s crucial that I meet Helen at her locker before she heads up to the library for detention.

“There doesn’t appear to be anything out in the woods.” Mr. Spassnick grabs his briefcase and places it on top of his desk. He pops it open and starts putting papers inside. “And then, both of the guys hear a rustling sound in the bushes.”

Prudence promised me that nothing really bad would happen to Helen. But that life would have to be made uncomfortable for her if we really wanted her to transfer to a new school. Honestly, though, it was pretty difficult to concentrate on what she was saying at the time. After Prudence touched my arm and Bronte brushed me with her breasts, I just kept imagining all four girls naked and rubbing me down with oil on the couch in my basement. Gina filming the whole thing with her little camera. The five of us spending an entire night tagging all the bases known to God or man and then, when we’d exhausted those, making up entirely new never-before-imagined ones.

“All of a sudden,” Mr. Spassnick shouts, slamming his briefcase shut and springing to his feet, “this guy leaps out from behind a tree and yells ‘Don’t shoot, I’m not a moose!’ Hearing this, one of the hunters — BANG! — shoots the guy dead.”

“Cool,” Justin Sneep calls out.

Mr. Spassnick smiles. “So his friend turns to him and says, ‘What the heck are you doing? Why’d you shoot that guy?’ And the second hunter slaps his forehead.” Mr. Spassnick demonstrates the action. “And says, ‘Oh, dang it. I thought he said he was a moose.’”

There are a couple of embarrassed chuckles around the room. But certainly not the reaction Mr. Spassnick was probably hoping for.

“Don’t you get it?” He gestures at us. “Let me try that again. ‘I thought he said he was a moose.’ Huh? No? Okay. I thought for sure that one would get you guys. Guess we’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

“Please don’t,” someone groans from the back of the room, getting a much bigger laugh than Mr. Spassnick has ever gotten from any of his jokes.

“Who said that?” Mr. Spassnick scans the crowd, but the dismissal bell rings and everyone is up and out of their seats before he can pinpoint the heckler.

I’m first out the door, racing down the hallway, trying to dodge all the bodies streaming from the classrooms. Math is on the third floor. Helen’s locker is on the first, all the way at the end of the art annex. I’ve tried a number of times to get there before her, but each time I’ve been too late.