Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(47)

“Right. That’s just what I need.” Dad glances in the rearview mirror. “They’ll make me pay for all that stupid foam and cardboard. Probably jack up the price so they make a tidy profit. Your mom’ll have my prunes.”

“But isn’t that, like, a hit and run or something?”

“Who did we hit? Dracula?” Dad makes a face. “He’s already dead.” He looks in the mirror again. “You think that geezer got our license plate?”

“No way. His glasses were thicker than Grandma’s.”

“Good. Then we have no witnesses. We’re in the clear. But you don’t mention this to anyone, you understand? Not even your buds.”

“Sure, Dad,” I say. “It’ll be our little secret.”





“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Sean howls. “That’s awesome!”

Matt’s eyes are wide. “Did you total your car?”

“Nah, it’s fine,” I say. “It just took a little while to pull out all the hay and pumpkin pulp from the grill when we got to the hardware store.”

“Oh, man.” Sean beams. “I wish I could have been there.”

“Yeah, it was pretty epic,” I say. “Now, remember. This stays between us. And don’t go mentioning it when we’re at my house.”

The three of us just finished the Saturday lunch special at Mr. Poon’s Chinese Restaurant and are walking over to the thrift shop to scout for band outfits.

Matt cracks open a fortune cookie and pulls out the little slip of paper. “Okay, are you ready to hear some ancient Chinese wisdom?” He pops a piece of cookie into his mouth.

“Don’t forget to add ‘in your pants,’” I say.

“Yeah, yeah. Here we go. Constant grinding,” he reads, “can turn an iron rod into a needle . . . in your pants.”

“Whoa!” Sean laughs.

“That’s good advice there, Mattie,” I say. “You do realize that means you’re going to have to find a new hobby, but still.”

Matt makes a wanking gesture.

“I said a new hobby, Matt.”

Sean and I crack up.

“I’m next.” Sean breaks open a cookie and pulls out the slip. “Special times are created when an unconventional person comes —”

“In your pants!” I shout, pointing both my index fingers at him.

Matt socks Sean in the shoulder. “That’s totally gay, dude. But not unexpected.”

Sean flips Matt the bird, then turns to me. “All right, Coop. Your turn. I’m dying to see what’s going on in your pants these days.”

Bits of fortune cookie spray out of Matt’s mouth.

I give Sean a do-I-even-have-to-respond-to-that look.

I snap open a cookie, pull out the fortune, and read it to myself. Uh-oh. Gonna have to do a little editing here. “Yup. Here we go. You possess the key to unlimited satisfaction . . . in your pants.” I nod. “Guess that about sums it up.”

“I’m so sure.” Matt rips the fortune from my fingers. I try to grab it back but he dodges me and reads it. “Uh-huh. Like I thought. A member of your family will soon do something that makes you very happy . . . in your pants.”

Sean and Matt bust up.

Matt rolls up the fortune and flicks it at me. “Sick. But also, not surprising.”

“I think you misread that, dawg,” I say. “It must have said ‘a member of Matt’s family.’ Because I’ve got that date with your mamma tonight.”

Matt grins. “That’s totally weird, cause I’ve got a date with yours. And your sister. They want to show me something called ‘The Cincinnati Sandwich.’ I don’t know, have you ever heard of that?”

“No, I haven’t, Matt. But I’ll be sure to ask your mom tonight. Although she might be too polite to talk with her mouth full.”

“Oh, yeah?” Matt grabs me in a headlock and drills a killer noogie into my scalp.

“Ow. Jesus.”

“What are you doing tonight?” he says, laughing and boring his knuckles into my skull.

“Nothing.” I laugh through the pain. “Unless your mom really wants to.”

Matt leans on me and we fall on someone’s front lawn.

My hand finds the waistband of Matt’s boxers and I give a hefty yank. There’s a ripping sound I didn’t expect.

“Goddamn it!” Matt cries, releasing me, scrambling to his feet and working his underwear from his crack. “A wedgie? How old are you?”

I get up and brush myself off. “Rock beats scissors. Wedgie beats noogie. It’s the rules of the jungle, dawg.”

“Are you two finished?” Sean asks. “It’s like I’m babysitting my five-year-old nephews.”

Me and Matt share a look.

A silent agreement.

And then we lunge for Sean. Who bolts.

We chase him for five blocks, all the way up to the Salvation Army.

“Truce,” Sean calls as he grabs the door handle, like we’re playing tag and he’s touching base.

“Truce?” I laugh, sucking wind, sweat trickling down my cheek. “Now who’s the five-year-old?”

Sean gestures through the window. “I’m just saying. There’s old people in there. We don’t want to give any of them heart attacks.”