Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(8)

“Guys, look at this.”

Matt and Sean glance at the poster.

“Cool,” Sean says. “They’re doing a Battle of the Bands. I wonder who’ll be playing?”

“We will,” I say.

The guys look at me like I just told them we’re going to try out for the football team.

“Our band.” I smile. “Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare. Remember?”

“Uh. Yeah,” Matt says. “I know we came up with the name. But I’m also aware that we suck. Which means it’s not going to be much of a battle.”

“We’ve already done a million gigs on Rock Band,” I say. “How much harder could it be?”

Sean backs away. “Are you nuts? Don’t you remember when we tried to play in your basement last year? Your neighbor’s dog started to howl in agony. And someone threw a brick through the window.”

“We’ll practice,” I say. “We’ll get better. All the best musicians were self-taught. Hendrix, Dylan, Van Halen, Eric Clapton, Jack White. We’ve got three months. It’s a beautiful thing. Think of all the hot babes we’ll get.”

“Yeah.” Matt rolls his eyes. “I’m sure Valerie will love that.”

“Okay, so Sean and I will take your share of the groupies. But you can still ogle, can’t you? When they take off their tops and toss their panties at us. Or did Valerie take your eyes along with your chestnuts?”

“Anyway,” Matt says. “Even if we could cobble something together by December, it says we need a demo tape by this Friday. So, right there we’re done.”

“I’ll figure something out,” I say. “Trust me. Just say you’ll do it. Think about it, dawgs. If we win this thing, we could become the most popular kids in the school.”

And “Corn Dog Coop” will die a quick and painless death.





LOWER ROCKVILLE’S PUBLIC transportation system is a sackful of suckage. The number 66 bus, in particular, is a piece of crap on four wheels. The seats are cracked and wonky, the air stinks of asparagus-pee, and the windows are all carved up with things like “John Haz Sex With Gotes” and “Ubducted and Anully Probbed.” If my English teacher, Mr. Metzendorf, ever rode this bus he’d go insane with all the spelling mistakes. I’m sitting at the back trying to avoid eye contact with the few wackos who are actually riding this rolling turd. We’re heading down Douglas Street and it’s 5:19 by my cell phone, which means I’m very late meeting Helen.

I hope that I haven’t missed her, because this might be my only chance — away from school and all the prying eyes — to let her know that we won’t be working together. And if she has another breakdown, at least there won’t be any Lower Rockville High witnesses.

Just for a precaution — in case someone happens to see us together — I’m wearing my father’s grease-stained, blue coveralls, a MACHINISTS DO IT WITH LUBE baseball cap pulled down low, and a pair of someone’s scratched-up old glasses I found in the junk drawer. The coveralls are a little long in the legs and sleeves, and the glasses make the world seem a little fuzzy, but I don’t care. Nobody’s going to recognize me. I’m just a dude coming home from work.

The bus pulls over to the curb across the street from the lonely strip mall. Apparently this isn’t a real popular stop because I’m the only one who gets off. I misjudge the last step — stupid glasses — and stumble to the sidewalk.

The bus takes off, puking black smoke and filling my nostrils with the harsh stink of diesel. I look both ways and time the traffic before jogging across the four-lane road.

When I get to the other side, I peer over the top of my eyewear. And there she is, standing with her back to me, her hair down and out of her ponytail, wearing a zipped-up ski vest over a black long-sleeve sweater, a backpack slung over her shoulders. She’s looking in the window of a school uniform shop, probably longing for a different life that includes private schools.

The chances of anyone I know being within ten miles of this place are pretty slim but still, I scope the surrounding area before I make my approach.

The coast is clear, so I stroll up to Helen. “’Sup?” I say.

She turns but obviously doesn’t recognize me. Sweet.

“It’s Coop.”

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “I didn’t . . . your clothes . . .”

I look down at my outfit and laugh. “Oh, yeah. I help my dad out at his shop after school. That’s why I was late. Sorry about that.” No need to mention that my dad only works mornings now that his hours have been cut in half. Or the fact that I’ve never even been to his shop. I figure the less she knows about me, the easier it will be to get away with stuff.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“Yeah. I don’t wear them at school ’cause they make me look like a royal dorkus. So, how do you want to do this?”

“Did you want to get your present first?”

“Present?”

“For your father.”

Damn it. “Oh, yeah. Let’s get that over with. It shouldn’t take long.”

I turn and make my way toward Golf Town, grab for the door handle, and come up with a fistful of air. Real smooth. Okay, maybe the glasses were a poor choice.