Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(79)

It’s a short walk to the gym doors, but the ground is slick and we have to be extra careful as we lug all of the equipment inside. Thankfully, it takes less time to get all the stuff out of the cars than it did to pack everything in them.

The gym is crazed with activity. Teachers and students setting up refreshment tables, stringing crepe paper streamers, hanging posters, filling balloons. The other bands are unpacking their instruments. Someone has a stereo blasting Radiohead over the loudspeaker.

Standing there, taking this in, I’m suddenly feeling all shaky inside.

“You need help setting up?” Dad asks as he carries the last few things into the gym.

“No,” I say, acting way more caszh than I feel. I glance back over my shoulder at the pile of equipment sitting on the gym floor. “We got it. Thanks.” I look up at the caged-in clock on the wall and see it’s just after six. “The show doesn’t start for another couple of hours. You guys should go to the diner and grab a dessert or something.”

“All right, then. We’ll leave you to it.” Dad claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t forget. Bring the attitude. And have fun.”

“We will,” I say.

He gives me a thumbs-up and then proceeds to do his “big junk walk” across the gym and out the door. At any other time, I’d be hiding my face with embarrassment. But right now, it just makes me smile.

Each of the four bands have been designated a wall in the gym. The band names written on butcher paper and taped to the floor of our respective “stages.” Cheeba Pet is by the bank of windows. Mj?llnir is opposite them in front of the foldaway bleachers. The Wicked is setting up at the far end of the gym under one of the basketball hoops. Which leaves the area under the opposing hoop for us.

“How should we do this?” Sean asks, standing amidst the heap of equipment with this bewildered where-do-we-even-start look.

“We’ll set up the drums at the back,” I say, gesturing at the spot directly under the basketball hoop. “Then we’ll do your keyboards on my left. Helen’s mic in front, of course. And the PA and guitar on my right.”


It takes around an hour to get everything up and running. The drums put together, the keyboard stands fully assembled, the PA wired up, all four of the microphones connected, the cables taped down to the floor.

“May I have your attention?” Mr. Grossman says, standing in front of the judges’ table. “Would all band members please join me over here.”

The bands all leave their respective stages and congregate around Mr. Grossman. When Matt, Sean, Helen, and me approach, it’s the first time any of the other group members seem to notice that Helen is part of our band.

Prudence, Bronte, Gina, and Kelly are the ones most visibly distressed. Glaring at us, then turning to each other and whispering. Justin Sneep and his baked boys don’t even bat a puffy red eye. And Andy Bennett appears to find the whole thing hilarious.

“Well, well, well,” Andy says. “Look who’s been adopted from the kennel.”

This gets a big laugh from his band members.

I feel my face flush. A rising sense of uneasiness. Like maybe it was a bad idea to go through with this after all. But I force the feeling down and look over at Helen. Standing there. Being strong. And I want to be strong for her.

“Does she howl?” Andy says. “I mean . . . sing?”

More laughter. Prudence and her pals joining in.

I ignore them, like Helen’s doing. Keep myself calm. And wait for Mr. Grossman to tell us why he called us over.

Finally, he clears his throat. “I’ve written the numerals one through four on sheets of paper and placed them in this receptacle.” Mr. Grossman indicates a small red cereal bowl on the table. “The number you pick will determine the order in which your band will do their sound check, as well as the order in which you will perform. Please choose a representative to pick a number for your party. We’ll do it alphabetically by group name. That means Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare will draw first.”

I tap Matt’s elbow. “Go pick number four,” I say.

Matt rolls his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He approaches Mr. Grossman, reaches his hand into the bowl, grabs a small square of paper, and unfolds it.

Matt shrugs. “Got it.”

I give him the thumbs-up.

“Why’d you want us to play last?” Sean asks me.

“Last band is always the headliner. And the one everyone remembers.”

Once all the numbers are chosen, the performance order is set: Cheeba Pet, Mj?llnir, The Wicked, Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare.

We listen to Cheeba Pet as they run through their ten-minute sound check. Playing a few bars of a tune by The Doors, the opening of a Bob Marley song, and then a couple of minutes of some kind of thrash-metal jam. It’s a bizarre mix of stuff, but they sound amazing. So much for all the other bands being tragic.

Mj?llnir does their sound check next, performing something completely unrecognizable as music. It’s a whole lot of hiss and distortion with Ernie Plingus screaming over it. If that’s the best they’ve got, then at least I know we won’t come in last.

Matt picks up his bikini-girl guitar and starts tuning it up. “Jesus, I’m getting nervous. Is anyone else getting nervous? All of a sudden, I can’t remember the chords to any of our songs.”