Beat the Band (20 page)

“Shouldn’t we wait?” I ask. “Or leave a note or something?”

“Right. That’s just what I need.” Dad glances in the rearview mirror. “They’ll make me pay for all that stupid foam and cardboard. Probably jack up the price so they make a tidy profit. Your mom’ll have my prunes.”

“But isn’t that, like, a hit and run or something?”

“Who did we hit? Dracula?” Dad makes a face. “He’s already dead.” He looks in the mirror again. “You think that geezer got our license plate?”

“No way. His glasses were thicker than Grandma’s.”

“Good. Then we have no witnesses. We’re in the clear. But you don’t mention this to anyone, you understand? Not even your buds.”

“Sure, Dad,” I say. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
Sean howls. “That’s awesome!”

Matt’s eyes are wide. “Did you total your car?”

“Nah, it’s fine,” I say. “It just took a little while to pull out all the hay and pumpkin pulp from the grill when we got to the hardware store.”

“Oh, man.” Sean beams. “I wish I could have been there.”

“Yeah, it was pretty epic,” I say. “Now, remember. This stays between us. And don’t go mentioning it when we’re at my house.”

The three of us just finished the Saturday lunch special at Mr. Poon’s Chinese Restaurant and are walking over to the thrift shop to scout for band outfits.

Matt cracks open a fortune cookie and pulls out the little slip of paper. “Okay, are you ready to hear some ancient Chinese wisdom?” He pops a piece of cookie into his mouth.

“Don’t forget to add ‘in your pants,’” I say.

“Yeah, yeah. Here we go.
Constant grinding,
” he reads, “
can turn an iron rod into a needle
. . . in your pants.”

“Whoa!” Sean laughs.

“That’s good advice there, Mattie,” I say. “You do realize that means you’re going to have to find a new hobby, but still.”

Matt makes a wanking gesture.

“I said a
new
hobby, Matt.”

Sean and I crack up.

“I’m next.” Sean breaks open a cookie and pulls out the slip.
“Special times are created when an unconventional person comes —”

“In your pants!” I shout, pointing both my index fingers at him.

Matt socks Sean in the shoulder. “That’s totally gay, dude. But not unexpected.”

Sean flips Matt the bird, then turns to me. “All right, Coop. Your turn. I’m dying to see what’s going on in your pants these days.”

Bits of fortune cookie spray out of Matt’s mouth.

I give Sean a do-I-even-have-to-respond-to-that look.

I snap open a cookie, pull out the fortune, and read it to myself. Uh-oh. Gonna have to do a little editing here. “Yup. Here we go.
You possess the key to unlimited satisfaction
. . . in your pants.” I nod. “Guess that about sums it up.”

“I’m so sure.” Matt rips the fortune from my fingers. I try to grab it back but he dodges me and reads it. “Uh-huh. Like I thought.
A member of your family will soon do something that makes you very happy
. . . in your pants.”

Sean and Matt bust up.

Matt rolls up the fortune and flicks it at me. “Sick. But also, not surprising.”

“I think you misread that, dawg,” I say. “It must have said ‘a member of
Matt’s
family.’ Because I’ve got that date with your mamma tonight.”

Matt grins. “That’s totally weird, cause I’ve got a date with yours.
And
your sister. They want to show me something called ‘The Cincinnati Sandwich.’ I don’t know, have you ever heard of that?”

“No, I haven’t, Matt. But I’ll be sure to ask your mom tonight. Although she might be too polite to talk with her mouth full.”

“Oh, yeah?” Matt grabs me in a headlock and drills a killer noogie into my scalp.

“Ow. Jesus.”

“
What
are you doing tonight?” he says, laughing and boring his knuckles into my skull.

“Nothing.” I laugh through the pain. “Unless your mom really wants to.”

Matt leans on me and we fall on someone’s front lawn.

My hand finds the waistband of Matt’s boxers and I give a hefty yank. There’s a ripping sound I didn’t expect.

“Goddamn it!” Matt cries, releasing me, scrambling to his feet and working his underwear from his crack. “A wedgie? How old are you?”

I get up and brush myself off. “Rock beats scissors. Wedgie beats noogie. It’s the rules of the jungle, dawg.”

“Are you two finished?” Sean asks. “It’s like I’m babysitting my five-year-old nephews.”

Me and Matt share a look.

A silent agreement.

And then we lunge for Sean. Who bolts.

We chase him for five blocks, all the way up to the Salvation Army.

“Truce,” Sean calls as he grabs the door handle, like we’re playing tag and he’s touching base.

“Truce?” I laugh, sucking wind, sweat trickling down my cheek. “Now who’s the five-year-old?”

Sean gestures through the window. “I’m just saying. There’s old people in there. We don’t want to give any of them heart attacks.”

“All right, truce,” Matt says. “For now.”

Sean pulls open the door and we enter.

It smells like a mix between a urine-hosed back alley and mothballs in here.

But it’s the perfect place to find some awesome retro gear for our band attire.

We cruise the clothing aisles searching for hidden treasure.

“Now just think about the image we want to portray.” I pick up a plaid sports jacket on a hanger. “Right here. Maybe we should go old school and wear something like this with a Gatsby hat.”

“Yeah. All you’d need is a colostomy bag and you’d be set.” Matt laughs.

“It’s called uncool-cool, douche wipe.”

“I still don’t understand,” Sean says, unenthusiastically flipping through the clothes on the rack, “why we have to wear costumes. What are we trying to prove?”

“We’re trying to entertain,” I say. “That’s why they call it show business. You’re putting on a show. And don’t think of it as a costume. Think of it more as a persona.”

Matt grabs a long white lab coat from the rack and laughs. “Okay. Here’s mine.”

“A lab coat?” Sean asks dubiously.

“That’s right.” Matt threads his arms into the sleeves and bobs his head. “Oh, yeah. That’s what I’m talking about.”

I glare at him. “You look like a doink.”

“No way. I’m uncool-cool, man.” He smiles big, playing air guitar and doing a skip-kick. “You can call me The Doctor.”

“Dr. Doink.” Sean laughs. “That could be your stage name. Like The Edge or Sting.”

“Okay. Hold on a second,” I say. “I like the idea of stage names, but we’re not all going to wear lab coats.”

“Who said anything about
you
guys wearing them?” Matt struts off toward the mirror. “I’ve gotta see how I look in this.”

Sean shakes his head. “I’m not going on stage dressed as a doctor.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t. But at least Matt’s getting into the spirit. We have to think about what’s gonna make us stand out.”

Sean glances despondently at the clothes on the rack. “I still think costumes — I mean
personas
— are a bad idea.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” I say. “It’ll totally work. But only if we present something cohesive. And really sell it. If you’re all shy about it, then yeah, you’ll look like a dumbass. But if you’re like ‘Yeah, that’s right, I’m The Doctor,’ or whatever we decide to be, everyone’ll have fun with it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do. Think about the Beatles when they all wore black turtlenecks. Or suits and ties. Or on the cover of
Sergeant Pepper
.” I pull a faux-fur coat from the rack. “Here. Try this on.”

He recoils. “No way.”

“Come on. We can be pimp daddies. We’ll get some big rings, sunglasses. Maybe some hats. It’ll be sweet.”

Matt comes back grinning, his hair disheveled, the collar of the lab coat upturned, and a stethoscope around his neck. “Hey, look what I found.” He waggles the stethoscope. “Isn’t this cool. You know what? I think I can actually pull this off. I’m gonna do it. I’m going to be The Doctor. And it’s perfect, because Valerie wants to be a doctor, so it’ll be like a dedication to her. I think with a little gel I can get my hair to —”

“Sure, Matt. That’s a thought,” I say, though I’ll never let it happen. “We’ll keep it on the back burner. Sean and I were thinking maybe we should be pimp daddies.”

“That was
your
idea,” Sean says.

Matt shrugs. “You guys can be whatever you want. But I’m The Doctor.”

I scowl at him. “We can’t be different things. We don’t have to dress exactly alike but we have to pick a theme.”

“Why?” Matt asks.

“Because otherwise we’ll look like a bunch of numbwads.” I hold the fur coat out to Sean. “Come on. Try this on.” I stare at him and grit my teeth. “It’s better than being doctors.”

Sean sighs. “This is so stupid.” He stands there as I drape the coat over his shoulders.

“Look at you,” I say. “You’re pimped out, dude.”

“No.” Sean shrugs the coat off. “It smells like a wet hamster cage. I can’t do it.”

I pick the fur off the floor, shake it out, and slip it on. Hold my arms out to the sides, admiring myself. “Come on. You have to admit I look dope. Think about it. We could dye our hair green. Maybe get some ink on our skin. A few dozen gold chains. Look out, Snoop Dogg, there’s a new pimp in town. Coop Daddy.”

“No. No, no, no.” Sean shakes his head. “The Doctor and Coop Daddy? It sounds like a bad seventies sitcom. I can’t be a part of this.”

“Matt’s not going to be The Doctor,” I say. “We’re
all
gonna be pimp daddies.”

Matt crosses his arms. “I’m going to be The Doctor or I’m not going to play.”

“The whole thing is just so stu —” Sean’s eyes suddenly light on something across the store. His face brightens as he makes a beeline for the hat section. “Okay, well,” he calls over his shoulder, “if Matt gets to be The Doctor, then I’m having my own persona.”

Sean leaps up to a high shelf and snags a big black sombrero with silver trim. He places it on his head — even though it’s two sizes too big — and beams. Then he does a little two-step and stomps his foot loudly on the floor. “You can call me
El Mariachi
.” His head swivels around before he’s off again, attacking another rack. “There’s got to be a poncho around here somewhere. Maybe some toy guns and a holster.”

I rub my face. Everything’s become completely unglued.

“Ah-ha!” Sean yanks off the hat, pulls a red-and-orange poncho over his head, replaces the sombrero, then walks over to the mirror at the end of the aisle to take himself in. “Ohhhh yeah. Totally mysterious. Totally cool. How hot are the babes gonna get when they see me singing onstage looking all Antonio Banderas-sexy? Tianna will be kicking herself for cutting this
primero pescado
loose.”

I haven’t had the heart to tell Sean he’s no longer going to be our lead singer. He’s been getting so into it lately, full of the idea that he’s going to bag all the hottest babes. I figure I’ll let Dad drop the bomb. So it’s coming from someone outside the band.

“Okay,” I say, suddenly feeling bad for Sean. “What if we’re all mariachis? That could work.”

“No way,” Sean protests. “I’m
El Mariachi
. There can be only one.”

“And I’m The Doctor,” Matt announces, smoothing his hands down his lab coat.

Oh, God. I run my hand through my hair. Breathe deep. “All right. I think we might want to reconsider the whole costume thing. Maybe it’s not the direction we want to go.”

“Screw that. I love my outfit.” Sean puts his hands on his hips, gives a little Elvis lip snarl at his reflection. “Joo want some of dees, chica?” he says.

I glance at Matt.

We share an incredulous look.

And then . . .

The three of us collapse in hysterics.

The Doctor, Coop Daddy, and
El Mariachi
.

“Look at us,” I sputter, gesturing at the mirror. “Do we not look completely ridic?”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “But in a weird way, also totally brilliant.”

“Joo can’t say we will not capture dee full attention of dee audience. No?” Sean does another bullfighter dance, stomping his foot for emphasis.
“Si! ¿Donde está el baño?”

Seeing the jaunty expressions on my friends’ faces, it hits me that this is
exactly
what we need. Something that helps us have fun while we’re playing. Something that helps us relax onstage.

And even though it’s not exactly how I pictured it — not even
close
to how I pictured it, actually — these personas will definitely make us stand out from the crowd, and hopefully give us the confidence to put on a really kick-ass show.