Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(64)

And her beautiful face.

Christ, she’s gorgeous. Why the hell doesn’t anyone else see this?

It’s hard to catch my breath. My heart’s like a crazed windup toy in my chest. I want to kiss her so bad. I try to lean in, but it’s like I’ve got a bungee cord attached to the back of my head that keeps me restrained.

Suddenly, Helen’s eyes open. She knows what I’m thinking. She has to. I’m sure of it.

“What?” she asks.

“I want . . .” I say, trying again to lean forward. “I want . . .”

“You want what?” Her eyes give me nothing by way of a clue.

“I want”— I blink hard —“to dance with you.”

The hell? Are you kidding? Dance? Here? In my bedroom? I don’t even know how to dance! That’s not what I want at all.

“Seriously?” Helen looks at me suspiciously. But also with a slight smile.

No, no, no! Kiss you! Kiss you! Goddamn it. Why don’t my thoughts and mouth sync up anymore?

“Um . . . yeah,” I say, encouraged by the glint of hopefulness on her face. “You seem to like to dance. At least, when you’re singing.” I swallow, my mouth drying up. “And . . . you like this song. So . . .”

Helen’s smile grows.

And then, everything shifts. And dancing is exactly what I want to do right now.

I get to my feet and hold out my hand before I lose my nerve.

She laughs, but reaches up and takes my hand. “Sure. Okay.”

My palms start to sweat. I wipe them on my jeans before putting my arms around her waist. She places her hands on my shoulders. And we sway gently in time to the music.

At first, it feels awkward. I can barely hear the music over the pounding in my ears. But Helen moves in closer and puts her head on my shoulder. She’s humming the words softly against my cheek. My face right by her neck. She smells nice. Like sweet tea.

And that’s when the world fades away into the background and everything feels perfect. There’s only me, and Helen, and the music cocooning us in my room.

Her body feels good close to mine. The warmth of her through her shirt. If someone told me at the beginning of the school year that I’d be dancing like this with Helen Harriwick, I would have said they were out of their nut.

But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now.

I hope the song never ends. The way I feel right now. My head buzzing. My skin tingling. It’s like playing the perfect fill on the drums and scoring the winning street hockey goal in overtime and catching your chair right before you tip it back too far, all wrapped up in one and multiplied by ten.

Helen lifts her head from my shoulder and looks at me.

Right into my eyes.

I don’t wait. I lean in slowly. Move my hands to her face. And kiss her.

She kisses me back.

Her lips taste like sun-warmed strawberries.

Holy crap. I’m kissing a girl.

And it’s better than I ever imagined.





DESPITE ALL MY HOPES and prayers, Monday arrives on schedule. I’ve got that roller-coaster-just-cresting-a-twelve-story-drop feeling in my gut as I lie in bed, angsting over Helen and how I’m supposed to avoid her all day at school — and the rest of the year, for that matter — without hurting her feelings. Of course, it’s not like we said we were going out or anything. All we did was dance a little. And kiss. But still.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s going to be a mess. And to top it all off, the guilt over the Our Lady of Mercy situation is eating me up inside. I kept waking up all night — my body drenched in sweat — nightmares of Helen slowly opening the acceptance letter. The look of confusion, anger, and horror on her face as she reads it. The slow dawning as to who was responsible.

Damn it. If only I could fig a way to get the application canceled. Of course, that would mean she wouldn’t be leaving the school. And I’d have to come up with another way to get her out of the band. Or maybe convince her to wear a Kabuki mask or something onstage so nobody recognizes her.

But I just can’t have that application on my conscience.

My brain clicks into problem-solver mode. Working out all the options. The various possibilities.

And then an idea.

One that might just work.

I spiral the plan out in my head. I’ll have to stay home from school today. I need quiet. And privacy. And access to the Internet.


I pull the I’ve-got-a-killer-headache routine. Blow-dryer to the forehead for the back-of-the-hand fever test. Thermometer placed on a lightbulb while Mom ducks out of the room. Sure, I overdo it a little, let my mind wander and leave it on the bulb a bit too long. Scald my tongue when I stick it back in my mouth. But it’s worth it. And Mom — who’s already late for work — barely bats an eye when she sees my hundred-and-ten degree temperature. She just glances at it and shakes it down.

“Drink lots of fluids,” she says as she leaves my room. “And no TV.”

Once Mom heads out to her babysitting gig and Dad leaves for his morning shift at the machine shop, I’ve got free reign over the house.

First things first. I grab a Drumstick ice cream cone out of the freezer. I don’t know why ice cream tastes so much better in the morning, but it does. When I leave home and have my own place, it’s going to be Drumsticks for breakfast all the time.