Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(50)

I glance over at my buds. They look like wilting sunflowers.

I take a step forward, spinning the giant fake ruby ring on my finger. “Listen, Dad. I know it seems sort of . . . random.”

“Sort of random?” He snorts.

“But we put a lot of thought into these personas,” I continue. “We worked hard putting them together and —”

“No, no, no. It’s too disjointed. We need to mesh,” he says, interlacing his fingers. “There’s no meshing going on here. I’m sorry.” He laughs. “We’ll do costumes, but we’ll do them right.”

“No,” I say, feeling my jaw set. “We’re keeping these, Dad.”

Sean steps up beside me. “We like what we came up with. It’s interesting. And confusing. Just like our band name.”

“Yeah, I was gonna get to that eventually,” Dad says. “Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare is kind of a mouthful, don’t you think? How would you feel about shortening it to something simpler. Like, The Dare?”

“We’re not changing our name.” I glance over at the guys. “And we’re not changing our personas. It’s our band, Dad. It has to reflect who we are.”

He studies Matt and Sean. “Is that how you two feel?”

They nod their heads tentatively.

“All right.” Dad throws his hands in the air. “I don’t get it, but what do I know? I’m just the guy whose band was asked to play Spring Fling. Whatever. Maybe I’m out of touch. We’ll keep the costumes. For now. Let’s see how they look while you’re playing.”


We run through the first few songs that Dad has chosen for our final set list. “The perfect mix of timeless classic-rock tunes and audience pleasers,” he insists.

At first, the music is cautious and timid and sloppy, but then, in the middle of “Back in Black,” something happens. It’s like the three of us finally settle into our personas and just let loose. The energy builds and builds until you can feel it filling the basement. It’s weird, because we don’t sound a whole lot better. It just feels a whole lot better. And that makes all the difference.

When we finish, the sweat is pouring off of my forehead, pitter-pattering on my snare drum.

“Okay,” Dad says, sitting on the couch, nodding his head slowly. “I’m sensing something here. A shift.” He stands and starts pacing around. “This is pretty good. You guys have kicked it up a notch in the attitude department. If it’s the costumes doing that, then they’ve got my vote. Sure, people might say, ‘What the hell?’ But, so what? We keep them on edge, right? They’ll be all, ‘What’s going on here?’ ‘What’s it all mean?’ And we’ll be like, ‘Fuck you! What’s a goddamn Jackson Pollock painting mean?’”

Dad’s fingers start wiggling like they do when he’s excited. “The audience’ll think we’re crazy. Capable of anything. And just when their heads are ready to explode from the confusion of it all . . . BAM! We blast them with our flash pots.” He gestures emphatically at the light socket contraption on the coffee table. “It’s attention grabber after attention grabber after attention grabber. Of course, we still have to do something about the singing.”

“What?” Sean looks around, bewildered. “Wasn’t I loud enough?”

“You were plenty loud, Sanchez,” Dad says, flinging his arm around Sean. Leaning in confidentially. “But it’s not making up for the fact that you sound like Yoko Ono on helium. I’m sorry, but we need a new singer.”

“But . . .” Sean blinks like he’s been hit over the head with a two-by-four. “What about all the hot babes?”

“Trust me,” Dad says. “You’ll get way more girls if you keep your mouth shut.”

“But I thought —”

“Uh-uh.” Dad holds his hand up like a traffic cop. “I compromised on the costumes and the band name. This, we can’t afford to waver on. End of story. You’re going to have to start asking at school. Hang around outside the chorus room. Put an add in the school newspaper. It’s top priority right now. I don’t care how you do it but we have to find someone who can carry a tune.”

“Hello?” A girl’s voice coming down the steps. At first I think it’s Valerie, but it doesn’t sound like her.

A second later, Helen appears from around the stairwell, wearing a zipped-up pink hoodie and tight jeans, looking adorable and slightly uncertain. It’s amazing how much more attractive Helen is when she’s out of the shadow of school. “Hi. Your mom let me in. We said four o’clock, right?”

Oh, crap. I completely forgot I invited her over to work on the project during our last detention. In a moment of weakness — when she was gazing at me and giving me that cute little half smile — the unwanted words just flopped from my lips, like they seem to be doing with disconcerting regularity lately.

“Cool outfits,” she says, tucking her hands in her back pockets.

Sean straightens up a bit. “Thanks.”

“Hi, Helen.” Matt gives a small wave.

“Sorry,” I say. “Rehearsal’s running late. We can reschedule if you want.” I’d like to get her out of here before she fully comprehends that it’s my dad who’s wearing the do-rag and burning-skull shirt.