Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(35)

Ka-ching! Another one bites the dust.

“Well, good,” I say. “I’m glad. But if you did, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I mean, John Lennon was dyslexic for Christ’s sake. Albert Einstein. Orlando Bloom.”

The only reason I know all this is because in seventh grade, when I was failing all of my classes, my mother was convinced I had a learning challenge. She did all this research and would rattle off the names of every famous person who ever overcame any kind of educational disability. Apparently, it never crossed her mind that I was just lazy and rarely handed in my assignments. All it took was her threatening to send me to a special school for me to pick up the slack and maintain a healthy D average.

“Anyway,” I say. “If I had to guess, I would have pegged you as one of those kids who skipped a grade.”

Helen’s face softens a little, which is good. “No. I never skipped.”

No grades skipped. Check.

“I was supposed to repeat third,” I offer up. “But Ms. Wade passed me anyway because she was afraid she’d end up having to teach me again.” I laugh. “What about you? Ever have to do a grade over again?”

Helen stares me down. “Okay, now I get it.”

My heart rockets into my throat. “Get what?”

“You don’t want to work. So, you’re trying to distract me. With all the questions and the chatting. Nice try.”

“No,” I say, able to breathe again. “This is working. We’re following Mrs. Turris’s advice. We’re establishing our relationship.”

“In other words, procrastinating. Come on. Let’s just get this done with so we can go home.” She looks down at the condom article and runs her finger along the page. “Okay, so, even though they test the condoms, they’re still not a hundred percent reliable.”

Damn. This is going to be even harder than I thought. I have to weave the questions in smoother, so it’s not so obvious. Otherwise, there’s no way I’m going to be able to get all the answers by the November deadline — and all the rock-and-roll glory in the world won’t be enough to save my demolished reputation.





“WE’VE GOT TO BRING ALL THIS CRAP down into the basement,” Dad says, opening the back of the station wagon. The entire car is crammed full of boxes and guitar cases and amplifiers and stereo equipment. “I drove over to your grandmother’s and picked up all my old music stuff.”

“Cool,” I say, feeling a rush of excitement as Matt, Sean, and me run over to the car. It’s Friday night and I’ve convinced the guys to sleep over so we can have an extra long practice tonight and then pick it up again tomorrow morning.

Mom stands in the doorway, wearing her pink cowgirl apron. “Well, that explains where you were all afternoon.” She holds the door open as Dad lugs his Fender amplifier up to the house. “Guess that means no job hunting, huh?”

“Parenting’s a job, hon. I’m helping the Coopster out.” Dad steps up onto the stoop. “I’ll get back on it tomorrow. I promise.” He gives her a kiss on the cheek as he enters the house.

“Whoa, look at all this stuff!” Sean shouts, pulling an opened box of record albums from the car. “It’s like he robbed a retro store.”

“Take a gander at these speakers.” Matt laughs as he wrestles a giant walnut-encased speaker tower from the backseat. “Holy crap, it weighs a ton.” He staggers under the weight of it as he lifts the behemoth from the car.

I grab Dad’s ancient turntable — the thick dust on the plastic lid flying up and tickling my nose — and follow the guys into the house.

We’re like a colony of ants, carrying Dad’s stuff in single file down to the basement, then returning to the station wagon to load up again.

Sean stumbles up the steps of the stoop and nearly drops the Roland synthesizer.

“Whoa!” Dad calls out. “Careful with that there.”

On our third trip from the car — Dad grabbing the guitar cases, Matt taking a box of videotapes, Sean snatching up a bag of cords and effects boxes, and me hefting the other speaker tower — Angela’s pristine Toyota pulls up to the curb. She steps out and strides over to Mom, who’s still manning the door.

“What’s going on?” Angela asks.

“Your father’s helping the boys out with their band,” Mom says.

“I hope he’s got a miracle in one of those boxes,” Angela says with a snort. “Because that’s what it’s going to take for them sound any good.”

“I’m surprised you wouldn’t want the miracle for yourself,” I manage to wheeze, barely able to keep my grip on the ridiculously heavy speaker. “So that you could —”

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you, Coop.” Angela tails me to the basement door. “Unless you want me to let it slip at school just how bad you guys suck.”

“I love you, sis,” I say, laboring down the stairs, peeking around the speaker to see where each next step is. Looks like I’m going to have to curtail my natural instinct to rank on Angela for the next few months. I don’t like it, but it’s all for a good cause.

It takes us an hour to get everything out of the car and set up down in the basement. It almost looks like an antique recording studio that you might see in a museum somewhere. With the old stereo and guitars and amplifiers and 4-track recorder.