Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(40)

He looks perplexed. “Why would it have a Pampers advertisement on the doors?”

“I don’t know. The dude who owned it before you was strapped for cash. Who cares? The point is, it’s on there. You wouldn’t pick a babe up in that car until you repainted it, right? It’s the same machine underneath. The same engine. Same doors. Same interior. But now it’s got a nice, shiny new paint job. It makes all the difference. And it’s the same with us. We have to maintain an attractive external persona. And, you know, later on, like fifteen years from now, when you’re married, you can laugh and tell your wife that your car used to have a diapers advertisement on the side. Right now you’ve got to front, man. It’s just as important as us learning the songs.”

“Fine. Geez. I won’t talk about Pokémon with anyone anymore. Being cool is almost too much work.” He pockets the cards and stops walking.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I didn’t ride to school today, remember?” He motions toward the street. “My mom’s picking me up. I’ve got a dentist appointment.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “Well, don’t let him numb your mouth. You’ve got to sing later.”

Sean laughs. “I’d do a lot of things for you, Coop, but getting fillings without Novocain is not one of them. I’m sure it’ll wear off by tonight. See ya.”

He peels off and heads toward the road.

I continue on around the school. Past the baseball field and tennis courts.

Just as I am cutting toward the football field, Helen rounds the corner of the rust-colored track. Her hair is pulled back and her cheeks are rosy. She’s breathing heavy but smoothly and her eyes are super-focused on where she’s headed.

And Oh. My. God. Helen Harriwick is totally stacked. I never would have guessed it from all the baggy sweatshirts she’s always wearing, but the tight white T-shirt she’s got on now makes it abundantly clear. And her legs are long and toned, looking damn fine in those tiny running shorts. Who knew she was packing a swimsuit model’s body underneath all those clothes?

As she passes by, my eyes follow the bouncing balls, and I have to say, it sends an electric charge all over my body.

She stops by a bench to grab a water bottle. For a moment, I am in complete awe. I watch her take a drink. Spray some water on her face. I want to move toward her. Feel myself take a step in her direction.

And then, suddenly, a shudder courses through me. A voice in my head, For Christ’s sake, Coop, shake it off. That’s Helen Harriwick, dude. What the hell are you thinking?

I clench my eyes shut tight. Try to erase the image of Helen as a hot girl from my mind. But it lingers there. Like a camera flash. Almost brighter, more intense with my eyes closed.

I open my eyes to try and focus on something — anything — else. But all I see is Helen. Running again. Her butt ticktocking so wonderfully in her shorts.

Oh, jeez.

Go! the voice in my head shouts. Get out of here! Before it’s too late!

I turn quickly and walk off. Flipping the channels in my brain. Battle of the Bands. Prudence. Dad. Miss Jerooni.

Helen.

Helen running.

Helen running in tiny shorts and a tight T-shirt.

Oh, no. No, no, no. This is not good.

This is not good at all.





THERE’S AN HOUR TO KILL before I have to head over to Helen’s house, so I grab a couple of slabs at Napoliano’s. I’ve got the place pretty much to myself, save for the apron-clad man-of-few-grunts Arturo and the occasional dude or dudette coming in to pick up an order.

I’m sitting in one of the three plastic orange booths by the faded framed posters of Italy. I glance down at my grease-stained paper plate and realize that I’ve already consumed a slice and a half of my pizza and haven’t tasted a bite of it.

The image of Helen running on the track keeps badgering me.

I lift the remains of my second slice and take a bite. This time, I savor the sweet tang of tomato sauce, the salt of the cheese. But only for a second before my mind wanders off again like an idiot child attracted to something shiny.

Helen Harriwick is hot.

The thought sticks in my brain like a burr. One that I am going to have to dislodge before I see her this afternoon. I do not need anything clouding my judgment. I have way too many questions to get answered for the school form, and I am not going to waste this prime opportunity.

I look at the Parmesan-wheel clock on the wall. Forty minutes have evaporated and it’s time to head out. I clear my plate and leave.

It takes me way less time to get to Helen’s than I thought it would. I’m ten minutes early as I coast up to her smallish two-story house, the aluminum siding painted a faded brick red. The front yard is neat and tidy. Three metal numbers — 687 — have been nailed to the post by the front door and are canted a little, like they’re sledding down a steep slope.

I’m not sure where to put my bike. Somebody might jack it if I leave it out here. Locking it up to the post by the front stoop would probably seem weird. Maybe Helen’ll let me put it in her backyard. That way, if anyone I know passes by, they won’t see my wheels and put two and two together and get sixty-nine.

An image pops into my mind. No, no, no! Do not go there! Not with Helen!

I shake the thought from my skull, then lay my bike on the slate path leading to Helen’s front door, bound up the three concrete steps to the porch in one stride, and ring the doorbell. It makes a metallic BING-BONG sound.