Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(34)

“Why would I do that?”

“To make me look stupid. To get me in trouble for having soda in the library. I don’t know.”

“Look, if your soda explodes it narcs me out as much as you, so chillax.” I grab a textbook from my backpack, open it up, balance it like a screen on the table, and place my soda behind my impromptu shield. Helen does the same with her Social Studies text, hiding her Dr Pepper.

I glance up at Miss Jerooni, then look back at Helen. “Get ready to open. On three. One. Two. Three.”

I cough loudly to mask the spritzing sound as Helen and I simultaneously crack open our cans. Miss Jerooni turns the page of her newspaper, completely clueless.

Helen — looking relieved — takes a quick sip and smiles at me, like we’re brothers-in-arms or something. Then she stares at my balancing book with a funny expression.

At first, I think that my fortress of soda-tude might be falling down. But it’s holding firm.

“I thought you said you forgot your Health text?” Helen says.

Oh, crap. Not cool, Coop. You can’t be slipping up like that.

“Huh. Look at that. Hiding in plain sight.” I laugh. “I can’t tell you how many times I rifled through my backpack. And my locker. I even asked Mrs. Turris if I’d left it in her classroom. Funny how you can search the same place over and over and still not find what you’re looking for. Even though it’s right there the whole time.”

“Less is more, fella,” I hear Dad whispering in my ear.

“Yeah, I do that all the time,” Helen says. “Sometimes I’ll be looking for my house keys for hours and then, when I finally give up, I’ll find them, like, right there on my dresser.”

Bingo. Opportunity knocks. It’s a stretch, but if I don’t start ticking off the boxes on this form, I’ll never get everything I need.

“My parents won’t even give me house keys anymore,” I say. “I’ve lost them probably ten times. It’s a good thing my mom doesn’t work, so there’s always someone home.” Okay, so my mother works now. But she didn’t used to. “How about your parents? Do they both work?”

“Yeah.” Helen opens her notebook and starts flipping pages

Damn it. That’s no help. I need details.

“My dad’s a machinist,” I say. “He wants me to go to trade school so that we can open a business some day. Redmond & Son. Or something like that. But I don’t know. It’s not really my thing. What about you? You think you’ll do what your parents do?”

“No way,” Helen says. “I hate math, even though I’m okay at it. And teeth gross me out.”

All right. We’re getting closer. Math? Math could be anything. But teeth? That’s a dentist, right? What else could it be? Oral surgeon, I guess. Christ, this is a pain in the ass.

“Teeth, huh?” I say. “So, who’s the dentist?”

“My mom’s a dental hygienist.”

“Really? That’s weird, because my family’s looking for a new dentist. Where does she work?”

“Bayview Dental.” Helen looks at me warily. “What’s with all the questions, Coop?”

I glance around, feigning innocence. “Questions? Was I asking questions? No, I was just . . . talking.” Bayview Dental. Bayview Dental. That’s easy. Because it rhymes with . . . what? Gray screw rental? That doesn’t help.

Helen pulls out a sheet of printer paper. “So, I found this interesting Web site where they talk about all the tests they have to do to make sure that condoms are effective.”

“Really?” I lean over and pretend to look at the page. I better leave her dad’s occupation alone for now. Move on to something else. “That’s fascinating. Wow, they really put those condoms through the ringer. You know what all those tests remind me of? The time when my sister was in elementary school and they did all these evaluations on her. You know. To find out if she had special needs. They said she didn’t have them, but I still have my doubts.” I laugh.

Helen glances at me sideways. “Huh.”

“So, uh, you ever have to do that kind of thing? You know, testing for special needs?”

She turns on me, her eyes narrowed to slits. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

I reel back. “It doesn’t mean anything. Geez. I was just . . . making conversation.”

“Oh, yeah, right. Casual conversation about my ‘special needs.’ Real funny.” She looks pissed. “And here I was thinking we were getting past all that immature crap. Stupid me.”

Okay, so does that mean she has special needs and is sensitive about it? Or that she doesn’t have special needs and is mad at me for implying she does?

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That didn’t come out right. I wasn’t making fun of you. I was just . . . trying to get to know you better. I mean, if we’re going to be partners and all, I figured . . . I don’t know. I guess I’m not very good at this ‘get to know you’ stuff.”

Helen regards me suspiciously. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe whatever you want. Honestly. I don’t care if you have special needs or not.”

“I don’t have special needs, Coop.”