Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(33)

I am built for comfort, not for speed, so it’s a challenge to run this obstacle course of bodies and backpacks and AV carts and stairs at any kind of high velocity. I am sweating and sucking wind by the time I get to the art wing.

Helen is just stepping up to her locker when I arrive.

“Hey,” I say, huffing and panting. “How’s it going?”

She looks at me as she grabs her lock. “Why are you so out of breath?”

“Oh. I, uh, I just wanted to . . .” Whoa. Light-headed. I lean my hand up against the locker next to hers. “I wanted to make sure . . . you brought your Health textbook . . . to the library. . . . Because I left mine at home.”

“Of course I’m going to bring my Health text.” She starts to dial her combination.

I glance down and catch the first number: 32.

“The question is,” she continues, “do I need to bring a gas mask?”

I force a laugh and grab my stomach. “Yeah, no. I’m steering clear of cafeteria food for a while.”

“That’s probably a good idea.” She dials the second number: 8.

All of a sudden I’m feeling a buzz of shame in my chest. I start to look away, but then I think of the picture on my locker this morning. And the rain of corn niblets in the lunchroom. And all the whispering behind my back. Not to mention the things Helen has been saying about me.

“Are you going to head straight up?” I say, glancing down at her hand and catching the last number — 14 — before she snicks the lock open. “’Cause I was thinking of grabbing a soda. Could you tell Jerooni I’ll be there in a minute?” Thirty-two, eight, fourteen. Thirty-two, eight, fourteen.

“Yeah. Fine. Go ahead.” Helen opens her locker door and starts putting her stuff away. “I’ll meet you up there.” Her locker’s kind of a holy mess. It’s not what I expected, actually. It could rival mine for the amount of junk inside. She’s got all sorts of family pictures, poems, and quotes taped to the inside of the door.

“Cool,” I say. Thirty-two, eight, fourteen. “You want one?” I don’t know why I offered. Easing my guilt, maybe? “If we sit near the back of the library, we can sneak-drink them.”

“Yeah, okay. Get me a Dr Pepper.” She digs some change from the sweatshirt she’s got hanging in her locker, then counts it out. “Never mind. I don’t have enough.”

“No sweat.” I wave her off. “I got it.”

I got it? Coop, dude, you are totally going to blow your cover here.

“I mean . . .” I say, “you can get me next time. See you up there.” I turn and go before I swallow any more of my foot.

I round the corner and am texting Prudence with Helen’s locker combo before I forget it, and before I chicken out. I don’t really have a choice in the matter. This is self-preservation we’re talking about. And since Helen doesn’t seem to feel too bad spreading lies about me, why should I feel sorry about sacrificing her to save my own ass?

I stare at Helen’s locker combination on my screen, feeling slightly nauseous, like I’ve eaten one too many bags of Funyuns.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit the “send” button. There. It’s done. I can’t take it back now. Better to just keep moving forward. Focus on the next task at hand: getting all the information we’ll need to fill out the Our Lady of Mercy admissions form.





I GLANCE OVER THE SCHOOL APPLICATION form again before I enter the library. The girls have already filled in all the easy stuff — first and last name, phone number, home address, date of birth — and left all the doozies for me. Schools attended shouldn’t be too hard, but how am I supposed to get her to tell me what her parents’ work numbers and e-mail addresses are, or if she’s ever been tested for special education needs, or where the hell she was baptized?

And then there’s a stupid student questionnaire that has to be filled out. What are your hobbies? Your extracurricular activities? Books you’ve read lately? Plans for college?

Christ, this feels a lot like homework.

I tuck the form in my back pocket, so it’s handy in case I need to refer to it. I hoist up my backpack with the contraband soda — Dr Pepper for Helen, Mountain Dew for me — and step into the library.

Miss Jerooni looks up from her newspaper when she hears my footsteps. She recoils slightly, like she can still smell the beef bombs I let off in here Monday. Fanny and Alexander must remember me too, because they suddenly start flapping violently around their cage like they’ve just seen a cougar.

I smile big at Miss Jerooni as I sign in. She snaps her newspaper and goes back to reading. If I could work up a nice tooter right now, I’d hound one out loud and clear just to see the expression on her ferrety face.

Helen has taken up residence at one of the tables in the far corner of the library, just as instructed. I hadn’t actually planned the whole surreptitious-sodas-in-the-back-of-the-room thing, but it works out perfectly, because it puts us out of the sight lines of anyone passing in the halls.

I swing off my backpack and pop a squat. “Hey,” I say, digging the sodas out and stealthily handing Helen hers beneath the table. She examines the can, looking at the top, the bottom, the sides.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing.” She studies the soda can again. “You didn’t shake this up, did you?”