Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(45)

But honestly, I’ve been pushing for the meetings in order to get this stupid school form completed. Once I got Helen’s mom’s signature and e-mail, I thought I’d be able to wrap it up pretty quickly, but it took way longer to finish than I ever imagined.

In the end, though, I think it will be worth all the work. And I’m pretty certain Helen is going to welcome the change of scenery. I can’t imagine she isn’t fed up with the increasing torment that’s been going on at school lately: The BIOHAZARD signs stuck to her back, the mayonnaise on her seat, the Krazy Glue on her lock, her notebooks getting stolen, the chewed gum in her ponytail, and the dissected frog she found in her lunch bag.

But for some reason, now that the application is finally filled out, I can’t seem to bring myself to hand it over. So it sits on the top shelf of my locker, tucked inside my History textbook, harassing me every time I open the door.

“Hurry it up, bumblescrew,” Dad calls out, “before your mother comes home and puts the kibosh on.”

We’re out the door and headed toward the station wagon when I notice Dad’s wearing a black satin bowling shirt with a flaming skull on the back and a red do-rag on his head.

“Uh, Dad,” I say. “What’s with the outfit?”

“What?” He glances down at himself. “You don’t like my polish?”

“It’s . . . um . . . why are you wearing that?”

“I’m just trying to get into the rock-and-roll headspace. I can’t ask you guys to do something I’m not willing to do myself.”

Oh, Jesus. I really don’t want to be seen driving around town with Dad looking so ridic.

Unless, of course, it’s me who’s doing the driving. Then anyone who saw me might think I picked up a hitchhiker or something.

“Hey, Dad,” I say. “Can I drive?”

He stops by the driver’s side door and studies me over the roof. “Have you gotten your Learner’s yet?”

“No. But it’s just a stupid written test. It’s not like it’s going to help me drive any better. Besides, by the time I get around to it, you’ll be back at work again. And I’d much rather have you teach me how to drive than Mom.”

Dad considers this a moment. “That’s a good point.” He jiggles the car keys in his hand. “All right. But you listen to everything I say.”

“Of course.”

“And we keep this on the q.t.”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, let’s do it.” He underhands the keys to me.

“Cool,” I say, catching them. They feel heavy in my hand. There’s an excited thrumming filling my chest as I walk around the car, open the driver’s side door, and slide onto the cracked pleather seat.

I don’t know if the stale smell of our car is stronger than usual, or if my senses have just become hyperaware now that I’m behind the wheel, but even the fat deck of pine tree air fresheners hanging from the stereo dial does nothing to mask the heavy scent of old coffee and mildew that permeates the air.

I slide the key into the ignition and am about to start up the wagon when Dad swats my arm with the back of his hand.

“Hey, hickoryhead,” he says. “You want to maybe pull your seat up so you can reach the pedals? Or strap on your safety belt? Adjust your mirrors, perhaps?”

“Oh, sure.” I slide the seat closer to the wheel. Check that my feet can work the gas and brake. Pull on my seat belt. Tilt the mirrors to make sure I can see behind me. Then start the car and crank up the tunes on the stereo.

“Yeah. I don’t think so.” Dad clicks off the music. “Listen to me. Learning to drive is a privilege. Not a right. But it’s a privilege that comes with many benefits. Not the least of which is exponentially increasing your chances of putting the candle in the cupcake. So pay attention.” Dad gestures toward the floor. “You know which one is your brake and which one is the gas?”

“I’ve won the NASCAR Sprint Cup on my Xbox like a million times, Dad. I got it covered.”

“This isn’t a video game, fella. You crash in real life, you don’t get to press the restart button.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Yeah, well, the jury’s still out on that one.” He gestures at the steering column. “You know what all the letters stand for? P, R, N, D?”

“Park, reverse, neutral, drive.”

“Good.” Dad twists and looks over his shoulder. “Okay. So now the first thing you want to do is check your surroundings. Get the lay of the land. What’s the traffic like in the street? Are there any kids playing nearby? Any sue-happy old ladies that might dive onto your bumper so she can help fund her retirement account?”

I glance around. “Looks all clear.”

“Fine. Now put your foot on the brake, shift her into reverse, and ease down the driveway.”

I grab the gearshift and notch it down to R. It takes me a second to get the feel of the brakes. The car jerks a bit as we move into the street.

“Take it easy, now,” Dad says. “I don’t need you putting my back out.”

I coast us safely into the road, then stop and shift the car into drive.

“Okay, so, you want to go easy on the gas as you —”