Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(46)

I press down the gas and we jolt forward.

“Hey!” Dad smacks my shoulder. “I said easy.”

“Sorry.”

“Think gradual. Everything is measured. Speeding up. Slowing down. Give yourself enough time to start and stop so you can do it gradually.”

“Okay.”

I start down our street, trying to keep things smooth. I can actually feel the weight of the car. The power of the engine. There’s an exhilarating rush about it, but also a dizzying terror. The idea that if I hit someone I could actually kill them. It’s almost like what I’d imagine holding a gun for the first time would feel like.

“You’re doing good,” Dad says. “Keep a steady speed. No more than thirty.”

Dad has me make a couple of turns, though I hit my wipers both times instead of my signal, and I keep swinging wider than I should. Luckily, there aren’t too many other cars on the road.

The wind picks up, blowing dried leaves across the street. Several houses we pass are decorated for Halloween.

As I approach a couple of kids on their bikes, my whole body tenses up.

“It’s okay,” Dad says, noticing my anxiousness. “Just give them a little room.”

I steer around them — giving them a wide berth — and breathe easier once we’re past.

“So, I’ve been listening to the tapes we made,” Dad says. “And I’ve come to the realization that your friend Sean can’t sing to save his sandbag. Take a right up here.” He points at the next intersection.

I slow down, clicking the correct control for my signal this time, and turn the corner.

“I thought we could get away with it, but he sounds like a cat getting a colonoscopy. We’re definitely going to need somebody else.” He adjusts the bandanna on his head. “What about Matt? You think he has any pipes?”

“Forget it. He goes off-key singing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

“How about his girlfriend?”

“No. She’s not going to be in the band. It’s bad enough she shows up to most of our rehearsals already.”

“That’s my point. She’s already there. Why not utilize her?”

“Because. It’s not going to happen.” I feel myself getting irritated. Like Dad’s trying to stuff me into a pair of wool boxers. I can see it now. Valerie taking over the band. Making us change our name. Probably to something French. Deciding what songs we should play.

“Well, you’re going to have to find somebody. And soon.” Dad gestures to the green pickup truck heading toward us. “Now be careful. Watch this guy. You’re hogging the middle of the street. You want to ease over a little so he has plenty of room to pass.”

Suddenly, I get a surge of panic. “What about the cars parked on the side of the road?”

“Obviously you don’t want to hit those. Just slow down.”

But I can’t. I’m frozen. “There isn’t enough room,” I say. I see it all unfolding in front of me as the truck closes in on us. The head-on collision. The crunch of metal.

“Slow down, Coop. Ease over to the side.”

The truck bears down on us.

“Jesus Christ!” Dad shouts.

He grabs the wheel, pulling it down just as I wrench it to the right, causing us to careen off the road. Somehow, instead of slowing down, we speed up. The car bucks and lurches as we thump over the curb, onto a lawn, and into the midst of someone’s elaborate Halloween display. Tombstones and haystacks and skeletons and pumpkins and vampires are sent hurtling through the air before the station wagon finally stalls out with a violent shudder and a great big belch.

The bed-sheet remains of a ghost flutter down onto the windshield, blocking out the light.

My heart is doing gymnastics in my chest.

“Are you okay?” Dad asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, my hands strangling the steering wheel.

“Good. ’Cause I’m gonna beat the crap out of you when we get home. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know, I just . . . I got scared all of a sudden —”

“Come on. Move!” He’s already unbuckled his seat belt and is clambering over to the driver’s seat. “Switch. Let’s go. If we get caught, I’m gonna lose my freakin’ license.”

I unstrap my seat belt and struggle to climb under him into the passenger seat. Our limbs tangle as we try to change places. I get a whiff of his Old Spice cologne underscored by the sweaty smell of panic.

“Ow!” Dad hollers. “Goddamn it. You nutted me.”

“Sorry,” I say.

When we’ve finally changed positions, Dad starts up the car.

I glance back at the road. Apparently the truck didn’t stop to see if we were okay. But an old man has just come out of one of the neighboring houses and is tottering over to us.

Dad rolls down his window, reaches out, and yanks the sheet off the windshield. “Buckle up.”

I’ve barely clicked my seat belt in when he throws the car into gear and guns it. We’re off the lawn and back into the street in no time. He peels out around a corner, sending my shoulder hard into the door and leaving a smoky trail of burning rubber behind.

“Shouldn’t we wait?” I ask. “Or leave a note or something?”