Beat the Band (15 page)

Helen regards me suspiciously. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe whatever you want. Honestly. I don’t care if you have special needs or not.”

“I
don’t
have special needs, Coop.”

Ka-
ching
! Another one bites the dust.

“Well, good,” I say. “I’m glad. But if you did, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I mean, John Lennon was dyslexic for Christ’s sake. Albert Einstein. Orlando Bloom.”

The only reason I know all this is because in seventh grade, when I was failing all of my classes, my mother was convinced I had a learning challenge. She did all this research and would rattle off the names of every famous person who ever overcame any kind of educational disability. Apparently, it never crossed her mind that I was just lazy and rarely handed in my assignments. All it took was her threatening to send me to a special school for me to pick up the slack and maintain a healthy D average.

“Anyway,” I say. “If I had to guess, I would have pegged you as one of those kids who skipped a grade.”

Helen’s face softens a little, which is good. “No. I never skipped.”

No grades skipped. Check.

“I was supposed to repeat third,” I offer up. “But Ms. Wade passed me anyway because she was afraid she’d end up having to teach me again.” I laugh. “What about you? Ever have to do a grade over again?”

Helen stares me down. “Okay, now I get it.”

My heart rockets into my throat. “Get what?”

“You don’t want to work. So, you’re trying to distract me. With all the questions and the chatting. Nice try.”

“No,” I say, able to breathe again. “This
is
working. We’re following Mrs. Turris’s advice. We’re establishing our relationship.”

“In other words, procrastinating. Come on. Let’s just get this done with so we can go home.” She looks down at the condom article and runs her finger along the page. “Okay, so, even though they test the condoms, they’re still not a hundred percent reliable.”

Damn. This is going to be even harder than I thought. I have to weave the questions in smoother, so it’s not so obvious. Otherwise, there’s no way I’m going to be able to get all the answers by the November deadline — and all the rock-and-roll glory in the world won’t be enough to save my demolished reputation.

“WE’VE GOT TO BRING ALL THIS CRAP
down into the basement,” Dad says, opening the back of the station wagon. The entire car is crammed full of boxes and guitar cases and amplifiers and stereo equipment. “I drove over to your grandmother’s and picked up all my old music stuff.”

“Cool,” I say, feeling a rush of excitement as Matt, Sean, and me run over to the car. It’s Friday night and I’ve convinced the guys to sleep over so we can have an extra long practice tonight and then pick it up again tomorrow morning.

Mom stands in the doorway, wearing her pink cowgirl apron. “Well, that explains where you were all afternoon.” She holds the door open as Dad lugs his Fender amplifier up to the house. “Guess that means no job hunting, huh?”

“Parenting’s a job, hon. I’m helping the Coopster out.” Dad steps up onto the stoop. “I’ll get back on it tomorrow. I promise.” He gives her a kiss on the cheek as he enters the house.

“Whoa, look at all this stuff!” Sean shouts, pulling an opened box of record albums from the car. “It’s like he robbed a retro store.”

“Take a gander at these speakers.” Matt laughs as he wrestles a giant walnut-encased speaker tower from the backseat. “Holy crap, it weighs a ton.” He staggers under the weight of it as he lifts the behemoth from the car.

I grab Dad’s ancient turntable — the thick dust on the plastic lid flying up and tickling my nose — and follow the guys into the house.

We’re like a colony of ants, carrying Dad’s stuff in single file down to the basement, then returning to the station wagon to load up again.

Sean stumbles up the steps of the stoop and nearly drops the Roland synthesizer.

“Whoa!” Dad calls out. “Careful with that there.”

On our third trip from the car — Dad grabbing the guitar cases, Matt taking a box of videotapes, Sean snatching up a bag of cords and effects boxes, and me hefting the other speaker tower — Angela’s pristine Toyota pulls up to the curb. She steps out and strides over to Mom, who’s still manning the door.

“What’s going on?” Angela asks.

“Your father’s helping the boys out with their band,” Mom says.

“I hope he’s got a miracle in one of those boxes,” Angela says with a snort. “Because that’s what it’s going to take for them sound any good.”

“I’m surprised you wouldn’t want the miracle for yourself,” I manage to wheeze, barely able to keep my grip on the ridiculously heavy speaker. “So that you could —”

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you, Coop.” Angela tails me to the basement door. “Unless you want me to let it slip at school just how bad you guys suck.”

“I love you, sis,” I say, laboring down the stairs, peeking around the speaker to see where each next step is. Looks like I’m going to have to curtail my natural instinct to rank on Angela for the next few months. I don’t like it, but it’s all for a good cause.

It takes us an hour to get everything out of the car and set up down in the basement. It almost looks like an antique recording studio that you might see in a museum somewhere. With the old stereo and guitars and amplifiers and 4-track recorder.

We have a quick dinner of microwaved Swedish meatballs and fettuccine before Dad, Matt, Sean, and me reconvene in the basement.

“All right.” Dad paces around feverishly. He runs his hand through his hair. “First things first. All these albums. All these concert tapes. You need to study them. They are a master class in how to rock out with your jock out. The Who. KISS. Talking Heads. The Rolling Stones. Jimi Hendrix. These guys knew how to put on a show. Not like these candy asses today. I mean, we’re talking crazy outfits, blowing up their instruments, running around like men possessed by demons, lighting their guitars on fire, spewing blood from their mouths. You name it. Each and every one of them knew how to put on the flash. And if anyone’s going to sit up and take notice of you fellas,” Dad points at us, “that’s what
you’ve
got to do.
Capisce
?”

Matt waves his hands in the air. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying you want us to play our instruments
and
do other stuff on top of that? There’s no way.”

Dad gives Matt a stern look. “I don’t like that attitude, Guitars. There’s always a way. This past week we’ve learned a few songs. And that’s good. But it’s not going to mean squat if you’re as boring as a narcoleptic whore. That’s why we’re going to start on this now. Today.” Dad claps his hands and rubs them together. “Okay. So now I think we should start with a rock-and-roll staple. The big junk stroll. Who wants to go first?”

Nobody moves.

“All right, Keyboards. You’re up.” Dad motions with his hand. “Walk to the far wall and back.”

“Why?” Sean asks.

“Just do it. There’ll be time for questions later.” Dad takes a seat and presses his palms together. “Go on. Just walk.”

Sean shrugs and starts walking.

Dad studies him for a second, then slaps his knee and cracks up. “That’s hilarious. What do you got hanging between your legs? A couple of raisins and a twist tie?”

Sean stops, a confused expression on his face. “What? You told me to walk.”

“Yeah, walk. Not mince.” Dad stands and mimics Sean’s walk, his legs pressed together, his feet shuffling across the floor. “Are you in a rock band or a baroque quartet?”

“I don’t know,” Sean says.

“Yeah, well, that’s your first problem. Look, you’ve got to stroll onstage like you’re king of the world.” He straightens up, his shoulders back, and starts strutting around the room with his legs slightly bowed. “Like you’re straddling something elephantine. See the difference?” Dad takes his seat again. “All right. Give’er another try.”

Sean looks at me for some help but I’ve got nothing for him. He takes a deep breath, widens his stance, and starts walking like he’s astride a bull.

Dad laughs. “That’s a bit better, except now you look like you just spent the summer on Brokeback Mountain.”

Matt and me bust up.

Dad whips around and points his finger at us. “Hey, chuckleheads, keep it down.” He turns back to Sean. “Just rein it in a little, pal. You’re doing great.”

Sean pulls his legs in a bit and strides back and forth. He still looks like an idiot but Dad’s not laughing anymore. And Sean seems to be enjoying his new swagger.

“Perfecto,” Dad says. “You saunter onstage like that, my friend, and you won’t have to play note one before the ladies start screaming their lungs out.” He turns to Matt and me. “All right, peanut gallery. Who’s next?”

“THAT’S THE KIND OF THING WE NEED,”
I say, pointing to the television screen. Sean, Matt, and me are watching a KISS concert in my bedroom. Well, actually, Sean and me are watching. Matt’s been unconscious ever since he sprawled out on his sleeping bag with the excuse that he was “just going to rest his eyes for a minute.”

It’s one of the concert videos Dad brought back from Grandma’s. The band members are all decked out in costumes and makeup. There are huge towers of smoke billowing up at both ends of the stage. A ton of confetti floats down on the audience, and bright colored lights flash all over the place.

“We can’t afford those kinds of effects,” Sean says.

“Not the effects,” I say. “Although, that would be nice. I’m talking about the outfits. We should come up with something cool that we could all wear onstage.”

Sean looks dubious. “I don’t know. Maybe if we were really kick-ass musicians we could pull something like that off. But what if we don’t get much better? Aren’t costumes just going to draw even more attention to us?”

“We
want
to stand out, Sean-o. Everyone else is going to be lame and boring. We want people to remember Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare long after we leave the stage.”

“Like, with makeup and everything?” He grimaces. “People will laugh.”

“Maybe not makeup. Unless we come up with something really dope. Like skull faces or something. Let’s ask Matt what he thinks.” I move over to our sleeping friend, who’s lying on his back with his mouth hanging open. “Matt,” I whisper. “What do you think about dressing up like skeletons for the Battle of the Bands?”

Matt just snores.

I glance over at Sean. “Do you think that was a yes or a no?”

Sean laughs. “I’m gonna say that was a definite no.”

“Look at him,” I say. “He’s like an old woman.”

“Your dad
did
work him over pretty good tonight. Making him do all those skip-kicks and air splits again and again.”

“Yeah, or it could have been the three hour ‘I miss you,’ ‘I miss you, too’ chitty-chat with the wife. I don’t know what’s going on with him anymore. He’s gone all soft on us.” I lift the lid on the minicooler under my desk and grab a can of Mountain Dew. “How are we supposed to have band meetings if he’s going to be falling asleep on the job all the time? I mean, we have important things to discuss here.”

“We could wake him up,” Sean says.

“Good idea.” I crouch down and open the soda can right by Matt’s ear. It makes a
pop
and
fizz,
spraying a fine mist onto his cheek. Matt gives a quick snorting grunt but doesn’t stir. “Looks like we’ve got a heavy sleeper on our hands.”

“Just give him a shake.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I take a sip of the Mountain Dew and then put the can on my dresser. “I think we should try something a bit more . . . invigorating.” I yank one of my stinky socks off my feet and waft it in front of Matt’s nose. “Oh, Matt. Mattington. It’s time to wake up and smell the sockee.” I lower the nasty sock and let it brush his lips.

Sean cracks up. “You’re a sick bastard.”

“Here, watch this.” I pick up one of my sneakers, shove the old sock inside it, and tap Matt on the shoulder. “Hey, buddy. Wake up. Valerie’s on the phone.”

Matt’s eyes flicker open. He sits up, all groggy. “Huh. What? Valerie?”