Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(74)

Just then, something greasy, gray, and limp hits Helen’s forearm and clings there. Muffled laughter flutters from somewhere in the center of the room.

Mrs. Turris is too busy scribbling notes on her legal pad to notice.

Helen looks down at the thing on her arm, lying there like a deflated jellyfish. She pinches the edge and peels it off, leaving an oily stain on her skin.

The laughter spreads as the entire class turns to see Helen holding up a very large unfurled condom. Her face contorts into a look of horror as she flings the condom onto the floor and angrily wipes the goo off her arm.

The slurs come fast and furious: “Doggie bag!”, “Wiener wrap!”, “Pigs in a blanket!”

I glance over at my diorama and see that one of the condoms is missing from the display.

Mrs. Turris finally looks up from her desk. “All right! One more outburst and I’m handing out detentions.”

A hot anger roils inside me. The movie plays in my head where I flick on the lights and save Helen from this torment.

But I can’t move. I just keep spewing more statistics, my voice thin and reedy. “Fifty to sixty percent of sexually active teenagers use condoms. Twenty to thirty percent use the pill. And upwards of ten percent will not use any method at all.”

Someone’s cell phone starts playing “Who Let the Dogs Out?”

And then . . .

Several people at the back of the room launch raw hot dogs in the air.

And they rain down all over Helen.

The color drains from her already pale face.

Dive in front of her, goddamn it! Smack them away with your papers! Do something for Christ’s sake!

But it’s too late.

Helen’s papers fall from her hand. I think she might be crying but I can’t tell because she runs from the room.

Mrs. Turris bolts up from her chair. “How dare you!” she shrieks. “Principal Tard will hear about this!”

And I just sit there on the stool. My pulse thrumming in my temples. My jaw clenching so tight my teeth ache. Feeling like a complete and utter tool.





I RACE UP HELEN’S DRIVEWAY, drop my bike, and bound up the steps to her front door. I left school so fast after the final bell that I forgot my coat and now I’m freezing. My nose and cheeks are stinging from the cold.

My mouth is all chalky as I reach for the doorbell. I have no idea what I’m going to say. Or if it’ll seem weird that I’m coming over like this. Maybe she wants to be left alone.

I glance over at my bike. Think about leaving.

But then I remember how I stood there and did nothing while Prudence and her goons threw hot dogs at Helen, and instead I press the doorbell, which makes its familiar tinny BING-BONG.

I tuck my hands in my pants pockets to keep warm. It’s a while before I hear any movement inside the house.

The door opens and there’s Helen, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, a tissue in her hand.

“Hi.” I feel my body tense, trying not to shiver. From the cold or from nervousness, I’m not sure. “Are you . . . okay?”

She shrugs.

“Mrs. Turris went ballistic after you left. I thought her head was going to explode. She marched the entire class down to Mr. Tard’s office. It was nuts. But nobody was narcing anyone out.”

“Typical,” Helen says.

“Anyway, she said we could finish our presentation for her after school. Anytime we want before winter break.”

“Fine. Okay.”

I shift my weight. Feel my throat get thick. “Can I . . . come in?”

She looks over her shoulder. “My mom’s sleeping,” she says, her voice hoarse.

“Look. Helen. I just . . .” Just what? Feel like an ass because I didn’t stand up for her? How could I have? I’d never live it down. And things are bad enough as it is without me compounding the problem. Still, I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. “I just . . . wanted to make sure you were all right.”

She smiles. Her face softening. She glances over her shoulder again. Then looks back at me. “Come on in. But be quiet until we get upstairs.”

I step inside her house. We walk past the living room. I peek in to see Mrs. Harriwick asleep on the couch and hear her heavy sleep breath rising and falling.

“What’s she think about all of this?” I whisper as we head up the stairs.

“She doesn’t know.”

“Seriously?”

Helen leads the way into her bedroom and closes the door halfway. “I just told her I had a really bad stomachache.”

We sit on the plush light-blue carpet. The whole room’s all pale yellow and powder blue. Neat and clean like the rest of the house. My mom would faint if my room were ever this tidy.

“So . . . I don’t get it,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell your mom what happened?”

“She doesn’t know about any of it.” Helen bites the corner of her lower lip. “She’s got enough to deal with. She hasn’t been able to work for more than a year. I don’t need to bother her with my stupid stuff.”

“Don’t you think she’d want to know?”

“I tried telling her once. When it all first started. But it was the worst time for her.” Helen’s gaze drops to her leg, where she picks at a thread on her jeans. “Her boyfriend had just broken up with her, and then she started having these dizzy spells. It was like she just couldn’t hear what I was saying. I haven’t brought it up since.” Helen clears her throat. “I don’t know. It’s weird. Sometimes I feel like she’s making the whole thing up. Because she feels bad for herself. I know she isn’t. I’ve been with her at the doctor’s. It’s just . . . a big coincidence, right? The timing of it all. And you want to know something even worse? I get mad at her. How mean is that? She can’t help that she’s sick. But I get angry sometimes when she goes on about it. And then I hate myself for getting so upset. Horrible, right?”