Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(55)

Helen looks at me funny. “What?”

“What what?” I say, feeling like I might fall off my chair.

“All the color just drained from your face.”

“Did it?” My voice squeaks. I clear my throat. “Did it?” I repeat in a lower register. “I guess . . . I haven’t been sleeping very well lately.” Sure, go ahead. Shovel the lies on. Who cares that you’ve been sleeping like a near-dead dog on NyQuil? What’s it matter now? “I mean . . . It’s everything, really. The band, and this project, and my dad being out of work. I guess it’s all catching up with me.” I rub my eyes. “Would you mind if I just copied down the URL and took these notes at home? I think I need to get some rest.”

Of course, what I really need to do is to sort this whole mess out. And get my priorities straight. Oh, God, I sound like Mr. Tard every time I get sent down to his office.

But in this particular case it applies. I need to get clear. And stay focused on the goal: Hitting a home run with the babes this year. Preferably with Prudence. Or Gina. Or Kelly. Or Bronte. Or all four of them at once.

Everything else is just fogging the issue. I have to get back on course. Remove Helen from the situation. When that’s done, everything else will fall into place.

I can’t let anything distract me from that one simple fact.





I LIE IN BED TRYING DESPERATELY not to think about Helen, but doing a piss-poor job of it.

My brain is no longer under my control. No matter how hard I attempt to imagine Prudence dancing around in see-through underwear, Gina and Kelly hot-oil wrestling, or stumbling upon Bronte’s secret Internet porn site — all my mind wants to do is picture Helen.

And not even naked.

Just smiling. And laughing. And singing in our band.

What the hell’s that about?

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Stay clear. Stay focused. Once she’s accepted to Our Lady of Mercy and decides to go, she won’t even be eligible to sing in the band. And that’s the best of all possible scenarios.

Is that really true?

Yes, of course it’s true. Jeez. Why wouldn’t it be true?

But isn’t there a flicker of — No! There’s no flicker of anything! Just shut the hell up!

I’m busy wrestling with my stupid brain, trying to smother my rogue thoughts with the pillow of logic, when my cell phone rings. I reach over and grab it from the nightstand. It’s Sean.

“’Sup?” I say.

“Turn on your computer,” Sean tells me, his tone urgent. “Go to the iTunes store. Right now.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

I groan as I swing my feet off the bed and slog over to my desk. Wake my laptop from its slumber and wait for the wireless to connect.

“You want to give me a clue here, dude?” I ask.

“Are you on iTunes yet?” he says.

“Working on it. Hold on.” I click on the iTunes icon and watch it bounce. “This better not be you wanting me to hear the latest Michael Bublé ‘masterpiece’ again.”

“Look at the banner. What do you see?”

“Lady Gaga’s got a new album out. I’m absolutely stoked.”

“Wait for it to change.”

I wait. The banner shifts. And I can’t say I’m not surprised.

“50 Cent’s doing a Christmas album? That’s a little bizarre, dude, but is it worth making a phone call for?”

Sean sighs loudly. “It’s coming up next.”

“Why don’t you just tell —”

The banner turns again, and what I see makes me jerk back.

“Uh-oh,” I say. “It can’t be.” I laugh nervously. “Do you think it could be the same —”

“Yes,” Sean answers. “It’s Understain. The Canadian band no one’s ever heard of before. Go ahead. Listen to their first single. ‘Grind the Rump Roast.’”

“Wow. That’s crazy.” My pulse quickens. My temples throb. “I must have listened to a thousand different bands. What are the odds?”

“You said they were unsigned.”

“They were. Two months ago. At least according to their MySpace page. Maybe they don’t update it. How the hell should I know?”

“What are we supposed to do now? I heard Mr. Tard suspended those three seniors — the ones who handed in that fake demo — for a month.” Sean’s tone is getting more and more panicky. “Someone in the music department’s going to figure out we jacked our songs. We have to confess. Maybe they’ll let us off easier if we do.”

“No way,” I say. “You never confess. To anything. Ever. Look, there are hundreds of thousands of bands on iTunes. And millions of songs. What are the chances they’ll see this particular one?”

“It’s called ‘Grind the Rump Roast’ for Christ’s sake. Someone’s bound to spot it.”

“All right. Take a pill. Let me think.” I stand and start to pace. Breathe deep. Run my hand through my hair. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got it. Here’s what we’re going to do.”





“LEAVE THE TALKING TO ME,” I say, as Matt, Sean, and me head toward Mr. Grossman’s office before the first bell. “But while we’re in there, you guys scout out his shelves. See if you can spot the demo. Just in case he decides to be difficult and we have to sneak in later and steal it.”