Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(70)

“No,” Dad blurts. “It’s not that big a deal. You guys get upstairs and start filling pots with water. We can contain this.”

I tear up the steps, out the front door, and around the house.

The hose is coiled in a messy pile by the spigot. The spray nozzle still attached. I twist the valve and the hose comes to life. A small stream of water shoots out of where the nozzle connects to the hose.

The opened basement window is only a few feet away. I scoop up the whole whack of hose, chuck it inside, then charge back into the house.

Where I slam right into Sean, who’s standing in the entryway like a statue.

“The hell?” I say.

“We can’t find the pots.” Sean looks panicked. Like he might start crying any second.

“In the kitchen!” I bark. “In the corner cabinet! Go! Move!”

I can hear everyone rummaging around in the kitchen cupboards, but I head straight down to the basement. Dad’s got a hold of my fur coat and is beating my flaming drums with the pelt. He looks like a wild man who’s just killed a small bear and wants to make sure it’s good and dead.

“I’ve almost got the drums out.” Dad coughs. “We’re good.”

I look over in the corner, where the couch is being consumed by fire. The flames climbing the drapes like fiery snakes. “Dad! It’s spreading!”

I yank the neck of my T-shirt over my nose and mouth, squinting to see through the gray smoke. My eyes sting as I follow the hissing sound of the hose, and I shuffle my feet on the floor so I don’t trip over anything.

I reach down and grab the nozzle, spin around, and stride toward the other side of the basement, spraying the hell out of everything as I go.

“Watch it with that!” Dad hollers. “I’m not on fire. Hit the drapes.”

The stream of water is forceful at first, able to knock the soda cans right off the bar, but it quickly slows to a trickle as I make my way across the room.

Until I’m standing right in front of the burning couch and drapes and there’s no water coming out of the hose at all.

“It stopped!” I shout.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dad continues to whip my drum kit with the smoldering fur.

“There’s no water. We must have run out!” I shake the nozzle hard.

“The hose doesn’t run out of water, you idiot. It’s probably kinked. Untangle it. Before the whole house goes up.”

I whip around and shake the garden hose. It feels heavy and snagged-up behind me. Even though I’ve still got my shirt over my mouth and nose, my throat is raw from the smoke.

An ear-piercing POP! comes from the drum kit. I drop to the ground like there’s gunfire.

“Goddamn it!” Dad hollers, smacking at the drums even harder.

The basement door opens. I can see the shadowy figures of Matt and Sean trudging down the steps, hear the water sloshing in giant pots.

Sean coughs. “Holy crap, it’s like an oven down here!”

“Get those pots over to the couch, stat!” Dad calls out.

Matt hurls his water on the flames with a splash and sizzle. Sean swings his pot but the momentum pulls him off course and the water comes crashing down all over Dad.

“Christ on the crapper, Keyboards!” Dad shouts.

Sean cringes. “Sorry.”

Matt and Sean bolt back upstairs to get refills.

I trace the hose back several paces. It’s all knotted up in a big rubbery ball. No time to get the whole thing untied. Just need to get the water flowing again.

Another thunderous SNAP! and flash.

“Jesus!” Dad ducks down. “What are these cheap-ass drums made out of?”

I hurriedly snake the nozzle through some loops, give the hose a few more shakes, and the water hisses inside, surging back up to the nozzle.

I whip around, get down on one knee, and shoot the stream at the couch and drapes. Steaming gray smoke billows up from the inferno.

The door to the basement opens again. It’s Valerie and Helen hefting the pots this time.

“Give me some of that water over here.” Dad gestures to them.

Helen goes right for the drums and hurls the water directly onto the smoldering kit.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Dad says.

I keep my spray focused on the drapes and couch but the fire is spreading too fast. We’re fighting a losing battle. My house is going to burn down, for sure.

And just as I’m wishing I’d defied Dad and called 911, I hear sirens in the distance. They get louder and louder as they approach.

Dad’s head snaps up, listening. “No. No, no, no! Who called the goddamn fire department?”





THE SIX OF US SIT ON THE CURB outside the house as the firemen finish putting out our basement.

Dad glances over at the line of onlookers from our neighborhood. “I bet it was that busybody Mrs. Croucher,” he grumbles. “She can’t keep her nose out of anything. Ten more minutes and we would have had the thing out ourselves.”

“What are we going to tell Mom?” I ask, my eyes still stinging.

“Well, obviously we’re going to have to say it was your fault,” Dad replies.

“What? Why?”

My friends all look over at Dad like he’s truly lost his mind.