Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(68)

Rehearsal is not going well.

In fact, it’s been a hellacious last few weeks.

I’d thought things were really looking up when we played our new demo for Mr. Grossman. Sure, I had to do a little tap dancing to convince him that Sean was going through a late puberty, and that his voice had started to change, which was why we had to recruit a new female vocalist, but once he heard “I’m Sorry You’re An Idiot”— one of Dad’s old tunes that we altered the lyrics to — we were in with a grin.

Now, though, we’re just seven days away from the Battle of the Bands and everything seems like it’s going to hell in a hammock.

Dad’s rubbing his temples. “I had such hope. I can’t believe this.” He’s pacing around and mumbling to himself. “I wonder. Could I play backstage? So no one sees me. Would we be able to get away with that?”

Sean, Matt, Helen, and Valerie are looking everywhere else but at Dad. I’m aware that they’re embarrassed for me, but it’s beyond that now as far as I’m concerned. I don’t even know what to think anymore. Sure, I’m sorry he’s out of work and all, but I’m pretty sure the band isn’t such a good distraction for him anymore.

“Dad, listen,” I say. “Let’s just —”

He stops. Holds up his index finger. “Coop. No. I’ve sacrificed too much for this. I’m going to make this work. Just let me think.” He drums his fingers on his forehead.

“Mr. Redmond,” Valerie says from her perch on the couch. “Maybe they just need to take a br —” But Dad cuts her off with his traffic-cop hand.

We stew in awkward silence for a solid minute.

“Okay.” Dad breathes deep. “I’ve got it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier. We have pyrotechnics. So we distract the audience and judges with our mighty blasts of sparks and plumes of flames. They won’t even care how horrible we sound. They’ll be so blown away by the visuals.” Dad claps his hands together. “It’s time for a test run.”

Dad moves over to his “workshop” in the corner of the basement and grabs a plank of wood with five tin cans nailed to it. He’s punched holes in the cans and rigged them with empty screw-in lightbulb fixtures.

“What are those?” Helen asks.

“Just hold your clown, Vocals.” Dad places the board on the rug in front of my bass drum and snakes the wire and light switch off to the side. “I was going to surprise you wanks with this stuff the night of, but we need to make sure everything works prior to, since we’re now relying on it to save your sorry asses.” Dad plugs in the electrical cord and mans the light switch. “All right. Let’s do something big. Rock my socks off with ‘London Calling.’ And try to match your chickee’s passion this time, fellas.”

I take off my fur coat — it’s making me sweat like a pig — then count us into the song.

Helen, of course, looks and sounds brill.

Matt, Sean, and me? Not so much. It’s like we’ve lost all our confidence or something. And our rock personas are doing nothing to help us. The music sounds thin and insubstantial.

I watch Dad out of the corner of my eye. He’s got this wild-man look on his face as he crouches down with his finger twitching over the light switch.

My foot works the bass drum and I pound away on my toms, but no matter how much I try to put behind my playing, the whole thing feels sluggish.

And then, without warning, Dad leaps in the air and flicks the light switch, causing —

Nothing.

No pop. No flash. No sparks. No plumes of flames.

We continue playing as Dad toggles the trigger switch back and forth in rapid succession.

“What the . . .” He grumbles. “Come on! Goddamn it!”

Helen’s eyes catch mine. I shrug and continue to keep the beat.

“Stop!” Dad hollers. “Cut! Enough! Something’s wrong.”

The music comes to a messy halt as each of us stops playing at different times.

Dad flips the switch a few more times. “I don’t understand this. I got the build off the Internet.”

“Off the Internet?” Valerie says. “Oh, well then it has to work.”

“Hey, Groupie,” Dad says. “Zip it. Guitars. How ’bout making yourself useful? Check to see if all the cans on that board are still connected.”

Matt gives Dad a dubious stare. “I don’t think so. What if they go off while I’m looking at them?”

“I’m going to unplug it, boobus.” Dad reaches down, yanks the cord from the wall, and waves the plug in the air. “There. Happy?”

“No,” Matt says. “It could be smoldering in there. Ready to blow at any second.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ. You’re such a girl. Keyboards, take a look, would you?”

“Uh-uh,” Sean says. “I like my face too much.”

“Okay, fine.” Dad slams the trigger box down on the coffee table and makes his way over to the flash pots. “I have to do everything for this band.”

Dad shoves past Helen and nearly reaches the board of cans when —

WHOOSH!

A blinding flare fills the basement, like a thousand camera flashes going off all at once.