Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(51)

“That’s okay. I can wait.” Helen leans against the wall. “Is it all right if I watch?”

“It’s not only all right,” Dad says, shooting me a where-have-you-been-hiding-this-hottie look as he steps up to her. “We absolutely insist.” He holds out his hand. “Walter Redmond.”

Great. Just great.

“Helen Harriwick,” she says, shaking his hand. If she thinks he looks weird, she has a damn good poker face.

“Let me ask you something, Missy,” Dad says, circling her. “You look like the type of girl who can belt out a tune. Am I right, or am I right?”





“DAD!” I CHOKE OUT, my stomach free-falling. I try desperately to think of a way to signal him that this is the school pariah I was telling him about. I clear my throat, make an X with my drumsticks, hum “Hairy Mary.”

But he stares me down, oblivious. “Coop, let me handle this.”

“But —”

He cuts me off with an I-will-strangle-you glare, then turns back to Helen, all smiles. “Well? How about it? Can you sing?”

Helen takes a step backward, a worried look in her eyes. “Uh, yeah . . . I guess . . . a little . . . why?”

“I knew it!” Dad throws his hands in the air in a hosanna way. “Ask and ye shall receive. Like manna from the gods.”

Helen frowns, confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t —”

“Our band here is suffering a lead vocal crisis.” Dad laughs. “And we were just discussing the problem when you descended to us from the heavens.”

Helen points up at the ceiling. “I just came down from upstairs.”

“Listen to that voice.” Dad gestures to us. “Can you hear it?” He waggles a finger at Helen. “I bet you sound like a cross between Stevie Nicks and Janis Joplin when you sing.”

Helen’s eyes dart around, looking like a trapped bird.

“Leave her alone, Dad,” I say, a stabbing pain piercing my temples. “You’re scaring her.” Goddamn it. What the hell is he doing? If Helen joins the band, it will completely obliterate any and all rock-and-roll awesomeness that this whole thing was going to bestow upon me. I glance at Sean and Matt for support, but they don’t seem nearly as supremely freaked out as me.

“I’m the manager of this dog and pony show, fella. So let me manage.” Dad grins at Helen, placing a hand over his heart. “Would you do an old man a favor?” He stretches his arm out in our direction. “Would you join us for one song?”

“Oh, no.” Helen takes another step backward. “I’d rather not.”

“Please,” Dad begs. “Just to satisfy my curiosity. A single song. What could it hurt?”

“I’ve never . . . sung in a band before. I probably don’t know any of the songs you play.”

“Of course you do.” Dad gently guides Helen over to the microphone. “A Beatles song. Everyone knows the Beatles.” He grabs a songbook and flips through it. “Here. We’ll do ‘Revolution.’” He folds the book back and places it on a music stand. “It’s easy. You know the tune?”

Helen nods. “Yes, but —”

“Don’t be shy.” Dad makes a fist. “Just put some fight behind it. Think about something that really pisses you off. And sing from that place. Okay?” He pats her on the back.

Helen swallows hard and nods. “Sure. All right. But just one.” She pulls the mic from the stand, and unwinds the cable.

Dad snaps his fingers. “Coop. Count us in. And guys? Balls to the wall.”

Helen looks so fragile standing there, holding the microphone, staring down at the songbook and mouthing the words.

I grip my drumsticks tight in my hands, feeling like I just swallowed a fistful of broken glass. If she’s any good, Dad will try to convince us to have her in the band. Which cannot happen. So why is there a whispering voice inside my head that wants her to do well?

Oh, man, this is totally screwed.

I take a deep breath, click my sticks together. “One, two, three, four.”

I come down hard on my snare, launching Matt into the opening blast of guitar. We do three bars and then Helen leaps in with a perfectly-pitched knock-you-on-your-ass rock-and-roll scream.

It’s so intense I nearly fall off my drum stool. Matt, Sean, and me look at each other like, “Where the hell did that come from?”

Then she starts singing the lyrics. And she’s not only good, she’s totally freakin’ amazing. Her voice is beautiful and powerful and . . . Holy crap. I can’t believe my ears.

Or my eyes. Because she’s strutting around like she just got off tour with The Rolling Stones. Talk about attitude. Jesus Christ. This is not a woman you would want to cross. I don’t even recognize her.

Helen saunters over to Matt, leaning in and singing to him that everything is going to be all right, all right, all right. And I get the strangest pang of jealousy in my chest. Wanting her desperately to come over and sing that to me.

Dad stands in the corner, his arms crossed. With the biggest shit-eating grin on his face I’ve ever seen. He’s hearing exactly what I’m hearing. Our band suddenly sounds exponentially better. For no other reason than that Helen’s voice is so damn good. It’s like adding Wayne Gretzky to your beer league hockey team. Doesn’t matter that the rest of you are tripping over your skates. Wayne’s going backhand top shelf every time.