Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(49)

Sean leaps up to a high shelf and snags a big black sombrero with silver trim. He places it on his head — even though it’s two sizes too big — and beams. Then he does a little two-step and stomps his foot loudly on the floor. “You can call me El Mariachi.” His head swivels around before he’s off again, attacking another rack. “There’s got to be a poncho around here somewhere. Maybe some toy guns and a holster.”

I rub my face. Everything’s become completely unglued.

“Ah-ha!” Sean yanks off the hat, pulls a red-and-orange poncho over his head, replaces the sombrero, then walks over to the mirror at the end of the aisle to take himself in. “Ohhhh yeah. Totally mysterious. Totally cool. How hot are the babes gonna get when they see me singing onstage looking all Antonio Banderas-sexy? Tianna will be kicking herself for cutting this primero pescado loose.”

I haven’t had the heart to tell Sean he’s no longer going to be our lead singer. He’s been getting so into it lately, full of the idea that he’s going to bag all the hottest babes. I figure I’ll let Dad drop the bomb. So it’s coming from someone outside the band.

“Okay,” I say, suddenly feeling bad for Sean. “What if we’re all mariachis? That could work.”

“No way,” Sean protests. “I’m El Mariachi. There can be only one.”

“And I’m The Doctor,” Matt announces, smoothing his hands down his lab coat.

Oh, God. I run my hand through my hair. Breathe deep. “All right. I think we might want to reconsider the whole costume thing. Maybe it’s not the direction we want to go.”

“Screw that. I love my outfit.” Sean puts his hands on his hips, gives a little Elvis lip snarl at his reflection. “Joo want some of dees, chica?” he says.

I glance at Matt.

We share an incredulous look.

And then . . .

The three of us collapse in hysterics.

The Doctor, Coop Daddy, and El Mariachi.

“Look at us,” I sputter, gesturing at the mirror. “Do we not look completely ridic?”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “But in a weird way, also totally brilliant.”

“Joo can’t say we will not capture dee full attention of dee audience. No?” Sean does another bullfighter dance, stomping his foot for emphasis. “Si! ?Donde está el ba?o?”

Seeing the jaunty expressions on my friends’ faces, it hits me that this is exactly what we need. Something that helps us have fun while we’re playing. Something that helps us relax onstage.

And even though it’s not exactly how I pictured it — not even close to how I pictured it, actually — these personas will definitely make us stand out from the crowd, and hopefully give us the confidence to put on a really kick-ass show.





WE ENTER THE BASEMENT wearing our new duds. Dad is hunched over the coffee table, half-moon glasses perched on his nose, stringing several light sockets along a wire. He’s dressed in his skull shirt and bandanna and is sporting what looks like the beginnings of a goatee and sideburns.

“What do you think?” I say, lifting the collar on my fur coat and adjusting the purple Stetson I found jammed at the bottom of a box filled with ladies’ hats.

Dad peers up from his work. He slowly removes his glasses and puts down the needle-nose pliers. “Have you guys been smoking the Mary Jane? I thought you said you were going out to get some band outfits?”

“We did.”

“Those aren’t band outfits. Jesus Christ, Coop, you look like castoffs from a Mexican soap opera!”

“What are you talking about?” Sean tilts back his sombrero. “We look good. We got clothes that express our individual personalities.”

“Enlighten me.” Dad sits back on the sofa and gestures at Sean. “What exactly are you expressing here with this costume of yours?”

“It’s not a costume. It’s a persona! I’m El Mariachi. And I’m expressing my love of all things southwestern.”

“And I’m The Doctor,” Matt says, with a hint of uncertainty. “Handing out . . . prescriptions to rock.”

Dad levels his gaze at me. “And you are?”

“Coop Daddy. The badass pimp what wears a coat made of chimps.”

“Right.” Dad slaps his thighs and stands. “So this is all a big joke now, is it?”

“No,” Sean mutters. “It’s better than what you’re wearing.”

“Excuse me?” Dad gets right up in Sean’s grill. “These happen to be classic rock-and-roll togs. Ripped jeans. A flaming skull shirt. And a Little Steven head adornment. Bold but not overstated. You guys are just a hodgepodge of . . .” He blinks and sniffs the air. “What the hell is that stink?”

Matt glances over at me. “It’s Coop’s coat of many ferrets.”

“Chimps,” I correct, starting to roast in my faux fur.

“I told you it smelled like a petting zoo,” Sean says.

Dad rubs his cheek. The movement of his calloused hand on his stubble makes a scratching sound. “All right. No. This is my fault. When you told me the idea, I thought it could work. But of course. You guys are rock-and-roll rookies. I have to keep reminding myself of that. We’ll just go back to the store and exchange all of . . . this.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand.