Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(7)

“Sure. Okay,” she says. “What time?”

“How about . . . five o’clock?” I say.

Helen writes it all down in her day planner. “All right. See you there.” She turns and heads off, back to wherever she sits during lunch. The girls’ bathroom, probably.

“What are you doing?” Sean asks. “I thought you were going to tell her —”

“She’s been crying, dude. Not all of us are heartless bastards like you.” But even as I say this, I’m trying to think of a million reasons why I can’t be at Golf Town today at five o’clock.

“Hey, don’t take your frustrations out on me.” Sean points at me with his half-eaten lardwich. “I’m not the one who said he wouldn’t work with her.”

“Want to trade?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

“Only because it’s nice to see you squirm for a change. But if she was my partner, I’d deal with it.”

“If she was your partner, it wouldn’t mean anything. You’re already a plebe. People like to see the greats fall. They don’t try to topple the homeless.”

“I’m not homeless.”

“No, but you’re clueless.”

“Guys,” Matt interrupts. “Enough already.”

“Hey, I’ve got a thought,” Valerie says as she cuts her brownie into quarters. She’s already polished off her pie and her cinnamon bun.

Oh, great. This should be good.

“If it’s so important to Coop”— she pushes the brownie pieces into the center of the table for everyone to share —“why don’t you work with Helen, Matt? And Coop can work with Se —”

“No,” Sean blurts. “That’s a bad idea.”

I scowl at Sean. “Hey. The lady was speaking.”

Sean looks at Matt. “Please, Matt. Don’t do it,” he begs.

“Stay out of it,” I say. “This doesn’t affect you.”

“Does too. Because you’ll make me do all the work. Matt’s at least fair.”

I smile at Valerie. “Go on. You were saying?”

“I mean, we know it’s not a big deal, right?” Val looks over at Matt. “But if it means that much to your friend, pourquoi pas?”

Matt’s expression is priceless. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to cry or text the pope. “I . . . um . . .”

It’s a stellar plan, really. Matt’s already got a wife. If all the other girls in the school think he’s diseased, it shouldn’t matter one pube to him.

“Yeah . . . um . . .” Matt stammers. “Yeah. No. It’s, um . . . Yeah. Okay. Let’s switch. It’s a great idea, Val. I’ll take Helen.”

“See,” Valerie says, taking a bite of brownie. “Le problème a résolu.”

I toast the brilliant lady with my own piece of brownie. Maybe Matt being so whipped isn’t such a bad thing after all.





“I’M TERRIBLY SORRY,” Mrs. Turris says when me, Matt, and Sean stop by her classroom after lunch. “But Fate has made up Her mind. And I am not one to mess with Her. Unless Fate intervenes, the partnerships must remain as they are.”

“This is Fate right here,” I insist. “Intervening. Matt is desperate to work with Helen. What could be more fateful than that?”

Mrs. Turris smiles. “Fate is beyond our control. By choosing to change partners, you’re trying to take back that control. I’m afraid I just can’t let it happen. My decision is final. The partnerships will stand.”

“Great,” I say, when we’re back in the hall. “Short of a miracle, I’m completely screwed.”

“Well, we can’t say we didn’t try.” Sean’s got a bounce to his step and a big grin on his face.

“You shouldn’t look so happy,” I say. “This is going to have a trickle-down effect, just so you know. I was all ready to help you navigate the bases, Sean. But my bad luck is your bad luck.”

Sean just shrugs. We walk in silence for a bit, dodging kids hurrying in the opposite direction.

“I really do think things will calm down after a few days,” Matt offers.

“Crush the Corn Dog!” Dean the Machine shouts as he shoulder checks me into the wall. My cheek slams hard into a bulletin board, a red thumbtack barely missing my eye. Dean high-tens one of his wrestling buddies as they jog off down the hall to whoops and hollers.

“You okay?” Matt asks.

“I’m going to ask you to stop saying that you think the Hot Dog Helen thing will calm down, okay?” As I push myself away from the corkboard, a purple sheet of paper flutters right in front of my face. Some lame artist has drawn a guitar, a bass, keyboards, and a drum kit in badly skewed perspective. Above the instruments, inside a bullet-hole border, are the words:

BATTLE OF THE BANDS

DECEMBER 16th

DEMO TAPES TO MR. GROSSMAN BY SEPT.15TH

Please Include two cover songs and one original song.

ONLY FOUR BANDS WILL QUALIFY.

I stare at the poster for a moment. Then something inside me clicks.

Here is my miracle. Win the Battle of the Bands and the Hot Dog Helen taint will be obliterated by my rock-and-roll awesomeness. And who gets to tag more bases than a rock god? No one.