Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(85)

Matt joins in on guitar, and the music fills out a bit, thank God.

Still, we sound horrible. I don’t know if it’s nerves or what, but we are serving up a giant bowl of weak sauce.

I look around desperately for Helen. It’s been more than five minutes since I left her. She should be here by now. Her voice is the only thing that can right this thing.

Maybe she’s having second thoughts about performing. Or maybe she really doesn’t forgive me, and this is her revenge. To humiliate me in public.

I think about how I left her. How she didn’t say “I love you” back. Maybe she was shaking with barely controlled rage the whole time I was pouring my heart out.

We play the intro several times over, but still there’s no sign of her.

We’re only thirty seconds into our set and already the crowd looks lifeless and bored. No dancing. No swaying. No head bobbing or hand clapping. Nothing.

“Hola!” Sean shouts into his mic in an attempt to liven things up. “Buenas noches!”

“Pendejo!” a girl calls out over the music.

Now I don’t know a lot of Spanish. But I do know that’s not the response Sean was looking for, God love him.

Matt — who obviously knows even less Spanish than I do — steps up to his microphone to join in with the enthusiastic stage banter. “How’s everybody doing tonight?” he asks the audience, having difficulty playing and talking at the same time.

“Great!” I hear Dad shout from way in the back.

“I see this crowd could use some medicine,” Matt says. “Well, The Doctor has made his diagnosis, people. Looks like I’m going to have prescribe a heavy duty injection . . . of rock!”

Matt shoots his right fist into the air triumphantly.

“You suck!” some dude shouts through cupped hands. Which gets a huge laugh from the crowd.

Matt’s arm goes limp. His body deflating. He lowers his head and goes back to playing his guitar.

And that’s when the boos start, loud and clear and forceful, nearly drowning out the music.

We’re dying. If Helen doesn’t get out here soon, there’ll be no reviving this fading patient.

I can’t believe she would do this. Leave me to hang out to dry in front of the entire school. I mean, if she didn’t want to seek revenge against Prudence, why would she want to do it to me? Unless . . . I hurt her way more than Prudence ever did.

I clench my eyes shut and realize it’s true. I deserve this. And probably a whole lot more.

Still. We’re up here. And we’re playing. So we better get this song moving.

Which means, we’ve only got one choice.

Sean’s going to have to sing.

I open my eyes and lean in toward my mic. I take a deep breath and am about to tell Sean to take it away when . . .

The jeers suddenly subside. And everyone is quiet. Our terrible music — like a skipping CD — the only thing filling the gym once again.

I’m thinking maybe some of the parents and teachers stepped in. To hush everyone up. But then the crowd parts and I see that it’s something else entirely.

It’s Helen.

She’s come into the gym and is walking over to us, looking so far beyond smokin’ that it nearly makes me drop my drumsticks.

She’s wearing a skintight red leather bodysuit unzipped to the belly button. It hugs every curve perfectly. Not a chance she’s got anything on underneath. Her hair is styled and flowing around her face. Her full lips glistening with crimson gloss.

She makes Prudence and her gang look like a bunch of hairy wood trolls.

Jesus Christ. I think I might faint.

Sean and Matt glance back at me. Their mouths are hanging open but miraculously they’re still keeping the beat.

There’s some loud barking coming from several guys standing by Prudence, but Helen completely ignores them and saunters over to her microphone with all the attitude Dad was trying to get us to display. She lifts the mic from the stand, raises it to her beautiful lips, and starts belting out the lyrics.

I’ve never heard Helen sing with so much power, fire, and emotion. She’s always been amazing. But this is beyond belief. And while I know that it’s because I screwed up and pissed her off, I can’t help feeling really proud of her.

Matt, Sean, and I somehow plug into her energy and raise the level of our play from plain miserable to passably unexceptional. Which is all Helen really needs to soar.

The crowd is completely hushed as she carries us through the rest of the song. Completely astounded by Helen’s awesomeness.

We end the tune with a flourish, Helen spinning the microphone around and around, then throwing it high in the air, and catching it right on time with the last note.

There is a moment of stunned silence as the crash of my cymbals dies down.

Helen is actually smiling. Matt and Sean are standing up tall and proud. I sit up high on my drum stool.

And then . . .

Someone yells out, “You can’t polish a dog turd!”

An explosion of laughter ensues. Followed closely by a tidal wave of boos and hisses and insults. Louder than ever. Someone hurls a cup of soda at Helen. It barely misses her and explodes on the gym floor.

There’s panic in her eyes. Her neck and cheeks glowing red. The confidence and high spirits she had moments ago . . .

Gone.

Poof.