Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(9)

I force a laugh. “Guess I need a stronger prescription.”

On the second try I manage to grasp the handle and hold the door open for Helen. Not ’cause I’m a gentleman — though I can be, if it means the chance to inspect a hot girl’s boondocks — but because I don’t want Helen blocking my escape route if by some odd chance I see someone from school in the store.

The place smells like old man. Everything is green and white and brown. There are three dudes — bald, balder, and comb-over — huddled around the cash register. They’re all wearing lime-green Golf Town polos with name tags. They pay us absolutely no attention. Which is perfect, ’cause I’m not going to be buying anything anyway.

“What were you thinking of getting for him?” Helen asks.

“I have a few ideas.” I’ve golfed a couple of times with Matt and his grandpa, and even though I totally suck, I’m pretty familiar with all the crap you can outfit yourself with, so I plan to make this a pretty convincing charade. I stroll over to the glove rack and spin it like I’m actually looking for something specific.

I wonder if my dad really would like golf? Maybe I ought to suggest it sometime. I feel sort of bad for him. Coming home every day at noon with nothing to do but thumb through the classifieds looking for extra work. Might be good to get him out of the house once in a while.

I take a step toward a hat display and my foot catches on something. There’s a clattering sound as I do a face-plant into the carpet. My glasses go flying, which makes it easier to see that I’ve just felled a row of putters.

Helen hurries over to me.

“Are you all right?” she asks, crouching down.

“Yeah. Sure.” I get to my knees, rubbing my stinging palms. “Stupid golf clubs.”

Helen retrieves my glasses and hands them to me. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” I fold them and stick them in my pocket. That’s enough of those. I hoist myself to my feet. The comb-over guy is frowning at me.

“Just look at what you’ve done.” He starts collecting up the putters, all put out and annoyed, like I did it on purpose.

“Not injured,” I say, brushing myself off. “Thanks for asking.” The dude’s name tag says JULES, which is totally fitting. He’s wearing this heavy-duty knock-you-across-the-nose cologne that coats my sinuses with wet grass and low tide.

Jules lines the putters back up against the Peg-Board and crosses his arms. “Is there anything in particular you were looking for?”

“You mean before I nearly broke my neck?”

Jules says nothing, just raises his eyebrows.

“He’s looking for a birthday present for his father,” Helen interjects.

“Was there something specific your father was interested in?” Jules asks me, his voice laced with some major attitude, like he can smell my disinterest in everything golf above the stink of his perfume.

“I’m not exactly sure.”

“Could we narrow it down a little, maybe?”

Could we tea-bag your semi-bald head, maybe? Fine. He wants to play with me. I’ll play. “Yeah, okay,” I answer. “Do you have, like, a portable ball washer?”

“As a matter of fact we do,” Jules says, so smug and pleased with himself. “We have an automatic washer that you can attach to a golf cart. But it’s fairly expensive. Maybe out of your price range?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve got a few Benjamins burning a hole in my pocket.” I pat the breast pocket of my coveralls. “Besides, my dad could sure use one of those washers. His balls are always so dirty. I don’t know how he does it, but every time he golfs, his balls get caked in mud.”

I glance over at Helen, her eyes horrified, her mouth a perfect O. The look on her face is priceless — and almost as funny as how clueless Jules seems to be.

Jules nods. “That’s what happens when you play on grass and dirt.”

“I guess so.” I shake my head. “Still, I don’t think I’ve ever seen balls quite this soiled. Do your balls get that filthy?”

“Depends on how muddy the course is. Follow me. I’ll show you the washer.” Jules marches across the store.

Helen and me trail behind. Her brow is tightly knitted. “What are you doing?” she whispers angrily.

“Shopping,” I say, waggling my eyebrows. “Come on, this should be fun.”

“Cooper, knock it off.”

But I pick up my pace, leaving Helen behind and joining Jules in aisle three.

“Here we are.” Jules gestures at a fancy red ball washer like a game show host toward a fabulous prize. “It’s forty-nine ninety-nine.”

“Forty-nine ninety-nine?” I call over to Helen, who’s hovering a few feet away. “That’s not too bad, right?” I turn back to Jules. “It’d be totally worth it. My dad is always making my mom wash his balls in the kitchen sink. It’s pretty gross.”

Helen stares at the floor, her face all scrunched up, like this is causing her actual physical pain.

But Jules is oblivious. “Yes, well, this washer ought to —”

“Oh, wait. I know. The other night, my dad was saying that his driver was old and useless. Something about the, um . . . shaft being too flexible?”