Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(67)

Matt and Sean flank me as we stand there waiting for the accusation.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“About what?” I say, jumping in before Matt and Sean crumble and confess.

Mr. Grossman peers over his glasses. “About your demo tape. About a band called”— he looks down at his notes —“Understain. And how the two might possibly be related.”

“Are you a fan of theirs, Mr. Grossman?” I ask.

Matt and Sean turn their heads to look at me. I give each of them a little let-me-handle-this kick to the feet, which I hope they interpret correctly.

“Not my particular cup of Earl Grey, no.” Mr. Grossman stretches his lips thin. “Let’s dispense with the subterfuge, shall we?”

“Okay. Sure. Whatever that means.”

Mr. Grossman unlaces his index fingers and starts tapping them together. “Do either of you two ever speak? Or is Mr. Redmond here your official representative?”

“Sometimes,” Sean says.

“But . . . yes,” Matt adds.

“All right, then.” Mr. Grossman picks up a remote control off his desk. He points the remote at a CD player on his shelf like he’s planned this whole confrontation out, including his timing. “Let’s take a listen, yes?”

“Grind the Rump Roast” starts playing over the speakers, and I’m still impressed with how I got it to sound like it was recorded live at some crappy studio.

“Grind it, grind it, grind it. Grab the handle and you wind it,” the singer screams. “When your meat is fully ground. Still you hear that mooing sound.”

“Mm-hmm,” Mr. Grossman says, like he’s made his point. He lets it play for a few seconds more, then shuts it off. Then he hits another button, and Understain’s much clearer, brand-new version of the song begins to play. “And so we discover, this is not your original song.”

“No,” I say. “It’s an Understain song.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Okay.” I look at Matt and Sean like, “Are you getting this guy?”

Mr. Grossman clears his throat. “Then why did you try to pass it off as an original?”

“Who tried to pass it off as an original?”

“You did.”

“No,” I say. “We covered that song. ‘Burnin’ For You,’ ‘Revolution,’ and ‘Grind the Rump Roast.’”

He tilts his head, his eyes full of disbelief. “Then where, pray tell, is your original song?”

“After that. At the end. ‘I’m Sorry You’re An Idiot.’”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Grossman’s eyes burn into me.

I swear I hear Matt and Sean gasp. But I just couldn’t help myself. It was too sweet of an opportunity.

I gesture at the CD player. “‘I’m Sorry You’re An Idiot.’ That’s our original song. It’s on there. Right after the three cover songs.”

Mr. Grossman raises the remote and clicks the skip button. Again and again and again. But nothing plays.

“What? Are you twisting me? Where is it?” I move to the CD player and hit the fast forward button. I look back at Sean and Matt. “Oh, man. The studio dude must have screwed us.”

“Are you serious?” Matt says with the appropriate amount of irritation.

Sean huffs. “That jerk!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grossman,” I say. “We should have listened to the CD before we handed it in to you.”

“Indeed.” He grabs a paper from his desk. “The submission form specifically states that ‘each band shall submit a demonstration CD with two cover songs and one original.’ Why then would you submit three covers?”

“Two covers? No.” I reach over and snatch the paper from Mr. Grossman’s hand. “Oh, man. You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I wrote the rules.”

“This is totally my fault. I misread it. I thought it said three covers.” I give him back the page. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Grossman. Is there anyway you’d let us hand in our original song tomorrow?”

“Well,” he grumbles, shuffling papers on his desk. “This is . . . something that needs . . . I’m going to have to consult with the other judges. We admitted you on the basis that this last song was an original.”

“We completely understand,” I say. “Don’t we?”

“Of course . . . Absolutely . . . For sure,” Matt and Sean mumble.

I tap Mr. Grossman’s desk. “You should definitely have a listen to our actual original song before you green-light us. It’s the only fair thing to do. But I’m sure after you do you’ll have no question you made the right call.”

Mr. Grossman’s eyes drift across the three of us. He so doesn’t want to believe this, but what’s he going to do? “Fine, then. First thing tomorrow. Or I’ll have no choice but to disqualify you.”





“ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT, STOP, STOP.” Dad whirls his arms in the air like he’s being attacked by killer wasps. He’s grown a full flipped-out-Jim-Morrison beard, and his rock-and-roll clothes haven’t been washed since he’s taken up permanent residence in the basement. “How is it that Missy here keeps sounding better and better, while the rest of you clotloafs just get worse and worse? I don’t understand. Explain this to me.”