Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(42)

She grabs her laptop and adjusts the screen again as Helen and me take our leave.





“SORRY,” HELEN SAYS SOFTLY as we enter the kitchen, her cheeks and neck patchy with pink.

“For what?” I remove my backpack and lay it on the floor. Helen’s already got her schoolbooks on the table, so I figure this is where we’ll be working.

“My mom’s . . . I don’t know. She just blurts stuff out like that sometimes.” Helen goes to the cupboard and takes out two glasses. “She hardly ever leaves the house anymore. I think she’s, like, lost her social skills or something.”

“Is she okay?”

Helen moves to the fridge and grabs a carton of Tropicana. “Oh, sure. She just . . . had to take some time off work. On stress leave. I don’t know. She’s a little weird.”

“I didn’t notice,” I say, even though I totally did. I pull out one of the wooden chairs and sit. “I thought she was nice. It’s sort of cool that she likes computer games.”

Helen smiles. “I don’t get you sometimes.”

“What?”

She holds up the carton. “Juice?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t know,” she continues. “It’s like . . . you’re this bizarre contradiction.”

“I’ve been called a lot of things before. But that’s a first.”

She laughs and starts pouring the juice. “No. I just mean that . . . sometimes you’re like this guy, you know. Like a lot of other guys. Kind of obnoxious. Sort of egotistical. Really crude.”

“All this flattery’s going to go to my head.”

She laughs again. “Let me finish,” she says handing me a glass. “Then there’s this other side of you that’s totally unexpected. Like . . . an empathetic side.”

“I don’t know what that means.” I take a drink of my juice. “But I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“You should.” Helen returns the carton to the fridge. She grabs her glass and leans against the kitchen counter. Her neck swoops so nicely into her shoulder. I get a flash of me kissing her right there. At that exact spot.

Jesus, Coop. What the hell are you thinking? Are you trying to make the rumors Helen’s been spreading true? I mean, maybe if you want to transfer to Our Lady of Mercy, sure, go ahead. Otherwise you’re talking social suicide.

I give myself an internal slap to the face.

“It’s like the other day. When I didn’t have enough money, and you bought me a soda.” Helen’s still talking. Thank God. It means she didn’t notice my neck lust. “Or just now. You knew I was embarrassed about my mother but instead of making me feel worse about it you said something sweet.”

“I hate to dump on your donut,” I say, feeling a slight stab of guilt. “But you’re giving me way more credit than I deserve.”

“Okay, well.” Helen shrugs. “You may not want to believe that you have a soft side but it’s there. No matter how much you’d like to bury it under dumb jokes and crudeness.” She drains her glass and puts it in the sink. “Anyway, I’m going to run upstairs and take a quick shower. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

In the porn version that instantly starts playing in my head, Helen asks me to join her and we stumble up the stairs, tearing off our clothes, and step into the shower as Mrs. Harriwick cluelessly plays on her computer in the family room.

“Coop?” Helen says. “Did you hear me?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Sure. Go ahead. I’ll, uh, start doing . . . something.”

“I’ll be fast.” She heads off, out of the kitchen.

I sit there for a moment, the image of water cascading down Helen’s naked body in the shower mesmerizing me.

Until a voice in my head shakes me from the fantasy.

“Would you rather see her in the shower or me?” It’s Prudence, and she sounds a little ticked off. “This is your chance, Coop. Maybe your only one. Go get Mrs. Harriwick’s e-mail and signature. Find out what church they attend. Save yourself. Your reputation is on the line.”





MRS. HARRIWICK DOESN’T SEE ME standing in the doorway to the den. Her eyes have a slight unfocused look as she stares at the screen of her laptop. The only sounds I can hear over the heartbeat in my ears are the clickety-clack of the computer keys and the shower water running through the pipes in the walls.

I don’t want to do this. My insides are a tortured cocktail of guilt, dread, self-loathing, and desperation. I envy the Vulcans, even though they don’t really exist. What I wouldn’t give right now for the ability to completely suppress my emotions and work on pure logic. Because, logically, Prudence is right. I may never get another opportunity like this.

“Oh, really?” Mrs. Harriwick says, startling me, until I realize she’s just talking to her computer screen. “I don’t think so, Snarkbone. That’s just another dead end you want us to go down.”

The rolled-up school form in my hand absorbs the sweat from my palm. If this goes wrong, I don’t even want to think about the repercussions. And if it goes right, well, I kind of don’t want to think about that either.

I take a deep breath and enter the room. “Hi, Mrs. Harriwick.” My voice cracks. I clear my throat.