Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(71)

“I’m already in the doghouse,” he says. “She finds out I nearly burned down the house, I’m done. You’re gonna have to take the bullet on this one. I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “And I won’t be able to take it easy on you, either. Otherwise she might get suspicious. So, don’t be surprised if I have to ground you for a while. A month or two, maybe. This is a pretty major infraction.”

“But —”

“Oh, Christ, there’s her car.” Dad hides his face behind his hand.

Mom’s Volvo pulls over to the curb across the street because her regular parking spot is being taken up by a fire truck. She and Angela dash out of the car and over to us.

“What’s going on?” Mom says frantically.

Dad leaps to his feet. I follow, a little slower.

“Oh. Hey,” Dad says. “There you guys are.” He tucks his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels. “How was the mall?”

Mom stares at Dad. “Walter, what’s with the fire trucks?”

Dad looks over his shoulder. “Oh, them?” He waves this off. “Nothing. Everything’s fine. Just a tiny little itsy-bitsy fire. It’s all under control. But it’s a good thing we caught it right away and called the fire department. Otherwise it might have spread.”

“What happened?” Angela asks. “Did anything in my room get damaged?”

“No, no. It was all contained in the basement. Your room is fine. The house is fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Goodness.” Mom wrings her hands. “Well, I’m glad you’re all safe.” She grabs Dad and me in a hug. “Did they say what caused it?”

“They did not,” Dad says. “But we know. Don’t we, Coop?”

Oh, crap. Here it comes. I should just narc him out. It’d serve him right. For being such a nutcase. For burning my drums. For embarrassing the hell out of me.

I look over at him. I can’t do it. I don’t want Mom to kick him out. I just wish he’d go back to being my mildly-freaky dad rather than this bizarro whackadoodle.

“Did you start smoking again?” Mom asks Dad, her lips tight. “Is that it? Because if you did —”

“It wasn’t that, Mom,” I say. I look over at Sean, Matt, Helen, and Val. Standing off to the side. Each of them looking concerned for what I’m about to do. “It was —”

“My flash pots,” Dad interrupts. He gives me a weary little thank-you smile. “Sorry, son. I can’t let you do it. This is my mess. I’ve got to face the music.” He looks back at Mom. “I was showing the kids what I’d been working on for their rock show. You know, sparks shooting in the air and such. It didn’t go exactly how I’d planned.”

“In the house, you did this?” Mom’s jaw is twitching. “In our house? The one we scrimped and saved for.”

“I know, I know.” Dad looks like he’s eighty years old. “It was colossally stupid.”

“You think?” Mom says.

“Look, I’m an idiot,” Dad goes on. “I’ve been an idiot. You were right. This whole band thing . . . I got carried away. I just . . . I don’t . . . It made me feel alive again. Like I was part of something exciting. I thought maybe we could spin it into something bigger. And that people wouldn’t look at me like I was, you know, a loser.”

Mom’s face softens. “You’re not a loser, Walter.”

“Yeah, well, the jury’s still out on that one,” Dad says. “Anyway, I’m sorry.” He looks at me and my friends. “To all of you guys. Christ, I don’t know how you put up with me. You deserve a medal, that’s for sure.”

“Are you kidding, Mr. Redmond?” Matt says. “We wouldn’t sound half as good as we do without your help.”

“Yeah, we were totally sucko before you came on board,” Sean adds. “Now we might not totally embarrass ourselves at the Battle of the Bands.”

Dad smiles sheepishly. “That’s nice of you to say, boys.” He drapes an arm around my mom’s shoulders. “But I think my days of band managing are over.”


Once all the firemen and fire trucks have left, my family and friends take a tour of the damage.

And it’s bad. Real bad.

“Ooooh myyy God.” Sean is absolutely goggle-eyed.

“Eh. It’s not so terrible,” Dad announces. Like if he says it out loud it’ll be true.

But the wreckage is way worse than I had even imagined. It’s like an ash-filled swamp down here. There are giant blooming black stains on the ceiling. Brown scorch marks all over the walls. The couch and coffee table and bar are demolished.

And forget about my drums. All of our instruments are waterlogged and trashed.

Mom’s mouth makes a perfect stunned O as she sloshes across the carpet.

“I’m gonna take care of everything.” Dad gestures at the mess. “Don’t you worry. By the time I’m through you won’t even recognize this place.”

“I don’t recognize it now,” Mom says.

Dad laughs nervously. “That’s funny. Seriously, though. It looks worse than it is. And band? We’re going to salvage as much of this as we can. Whatever we can’t, I’m going to find a way to replace. Don’t sweat it.”