Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(60)

We cap off the evening by doing rock-paper-scissors for the three different teeth whiteners. I get the brush-on, Matt gets the strips, and Sean gets the mouth trays. We decide to leave these on overnight as well. Because, why not? Your teeth can’t ever be too white.

It’s three thirty in the morning by the time we stumble into my room in boxers and turbans.

Matt’s passed out and snoring before I even get the light off.

“Dis bedda wak,” Sean lisps through his mouth trays. “I feewl awl sdiggy.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, settling into bed. “Tomorrow, you won’t even recognize yourself.”





ALL NIGHT LONG I HAVE DREAMS of being asked to model for the cover of GQ and Esquire. My agent can’t handle the mounting requests and has to hire another assistant just to screen the calls.

As I walk down the street, swimsuit models attempt to tear the fur coat from my bronzed bod. Several babes in wet T-shirts yank at my purple Stetson to try and run their fingers through my emerald locks.

They’re all shouting, “Cooper!” “Cooper Redmond!” “Cooper James Redmond!”

The yelling is so loud it actually jolts me from sleep.

“Cooperrrr! Bathroom! Now!” That’s not the voice of any swimsuit model. It’s Mom. And she sounds pissed.

I turn my head on the pillow. Squint at the digital clock on the bedside table, trying to focus my groggy eyes. 10:35. Jesus. What’s going on? It’s the weekend.

At least . . . I think it is.

Ew, my mouth tastes funny. What the hell are all these white marks on my pillowcase? I must have drooled like a basset hound last night.

“Don’t make me have to come into your room!” Mom hollers.

Ugh.

I drag myself out of bed, still half-zonked and punch-drunk. Step over a couple of lumps on the floor and stumble out into the hallway wearing my sagging boxer briefs. Something slides off my head. A towel? Did I take a shower last night? Hard to think. I’m running on reserve power right now. All the switches have yet to be flicked on in my brain.

I wipe the sleep-crud from the corners of my eyes as I trudge into the bathroom. “What?” I groan.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Mom says, gesturing angrily at our fluorescent-lit surroundings. “What are these brown streaks all over the walls? And the floor? And on the counter? And my brand-new white towels?”

Whoa. She’s right. There are rust-colored smears all over the place. “How should I know?” I say. “Maybe Angela had the goose-gravy splatters last night.”

“Angela stayed over at her frien — Oh. My. God.” Mom’s staring at me with these big wide holy-crap eyes. “What have you done to yourself?”

“Nothing.” I scratch my head to try and wake up a bit more. My hair feels weird. Thick. And gluey.

“Your skin. Cooper, it’s orange!” she says. “And your hair. Is green! And your teeth! Good Lord!”

It hits me like a rogue wave.

My rock-and-roll image.

I turn to look at myself in the mirror. For a split second I’m confused. Who the hell is that?

“Oh, crap,” I say, lurching back.

“What’s going on?” Sean grumbles as he staggers into the bathroom, his eyes half-shut, plaid boxers pulled up near to his belly button. Sean’s hair and forehead are fluorescent pink and his body is a bright pumpkin color.

Matt steps up behind Sean with a Day-Glo purple mop, a carroty complexion, and a blinding white grill. “We heard someone yelling,” he rasps.

Mom has been stunned into silence.

Sean’s eyes shoot open when he catches sight of me. He starts laughing. “Whoa, dude.”

Matt starts cracking up, too. “The Oompa-Loompa look does not work for you.”

“Go ahead. Yuk it up, Troll dolls,” I say, pointing at the mirror.

Sean and Matt both glance at themselves and instantly reel backward.

“Jesus!” Sean shouts. “That’s not fiery red.”

Matt slowly approaches the mirror, staring at his alien reflection. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Walter!” Mom yells.

I hear Dad trot up the steps. “What is it?” he says, appearing in the bathroom door. He looks almost as ridiculous as us. A half-unbuttoned black satin shirt, a full goatee, angular sideburns, too-tight jeans, his red do-rag, and a forearm full of bangles. His “rock-and-roll” transformation complete.

“Say hello to your son and his friends.” Mom gestures at us.

Dad flinches. “Yikes.” He starts to laugh. “That’s . . . an interesting look, fellas.”

“It was an accident,” I say, attempting to psychically will the images in the mirror to change. “We were trying to represent.”

“Represent what?” Dad asks. “The Muppets?”

“This is what you’ve wrought, Walter,” Mom says, her face going crimson. “Encouraging them to be rebellious. To rock and roll. Look at yourself. What kind of example are you setting?”

My stomach seizes. I pray this isn’t going to degenerate into a fight. Not with Sean and Matt here.

“Hey, yo.” Dad holds up both his hands, the bangles on his wrist clinking. “Don’t trip out on me now.”