Beat the Band (21 page)

WE ENTER THE BASEMENT
wearing our new duds. Dad is hunched over the coffee table, half-moon glasses perched on his nose, stringing several light sockets along a wire. He’s dressed in his skull shirt and bandanna and is sporting what looks like the beginnings of a goatee and sideburns.

“What do you think?” I say, lifting the collar on my fur coat and adjusting the purple Stetson I found jammed at the bottom of a box filled with ladies’ hats.

Dad peers up from his work. He slowly removes his glasses and puts down the needle-nose pliers. “Have you guys been smoking the Mary Jane? I thought you said you were going out to get some band outfits?”

“We did.”

“Those aren’t band outfits. Jesus Christ, Coop, you look like castoffs from a Mexican soap opera!”

“What are you talking about?” Sean tilts back his sombrero. “We look good. We got clothes that express our individual personalities.”

“Enlighten me.” Dad sits back on the sofa and gestures at Sean. “What exactly are you
expressing
here with this costume of yours?”

“It’s not a costume. It’s a
persona
! I’m
El Mariachi.
And I’m expressing my love of all things southwestern.”

“And I’m The Doctor,” Matt says, with a hint of uncertainty. “Handing out . . . prescriptions to rock.”

Dad levels his gaze at me. “And you are?”

“Coop Daddy. The badass pimp what wears a coat made of chimps.”

“Right.” Dad slaps his thighs and stands. “So this is all a big joke now, is it?”

“No,” Sean mutters. “It’s better than what you’re wearing.”

“Excuse me?” Dad gets right up in Sean’s grill. “These happen to be classic rock-and-roll togs. Ripped jeans. A flaming skull shirt. And a Little Steven head adornment. Bold but not overstated. You guys are just a hodgepodge of . . .” He blinks and sniffs the air. “What the hell is that stink?”

Matt glances over at me. “It’s Coop’s coat of many ferrets.”

“Chimps,” I correct, starting to roast in my faux fur.

“I told you it smelled like a petting zoo,” Sean says.

Dad rubs his cheek. The movement of his calloused hand on his stubble makes a scratching sound. “All right. No. This is my fault. When you told me the idea, I thought it could work. But of course. You guys are rock-and-roll rookies. I have to keep reminding myself of that. We’ll just go back to the store and exchange all of . . . this.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand.

I glance over at my buds. They look like wilting sunflowers.

I take a step forward, spinning the giant fake ruby ring on my finger. “Listen, Dad. I know it seems sort of . . . random.”

“
Sort
of random?” He snorts.

“But we put a lot of thought into these personas,” I continue. “We worked hard putting them together and —”

“No, no, no. It’s too disjointed. We need to mesh,” he says, interlacing his fingers. “There’s no meshing going on here. I’m sorry.” He laughs. “We’ll do costumes, but we’ll do them right.”

“No,” I say, feeling my jaw set. “We’re keeping these, Dad.”

Sean steps up beside me. “We like what we came up with. It’s interesting. And confusing. Just like our band name.”

“Yeah, I was gonna get to that eventually,” Dad says. “Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare is kind of a mouthful, don’t you think? How would you feel about shortening it to something simpler. Like, The Dare?”

“We’re not changing our name.” I glance over at the guys. “And we’re not changing our personas. It’s
our
band, Dad. It has to reflect who we are.”

He studies Matt and Sean. “Is that how you two feel?”

They nod their heads tentatively.

“All right.” Dad throws his hands in the air. “I don’t get it, but what do I know? I’m just the guy whose band was asked to play Spring Fling. Whatever. Maybe I’m out of touch. We’ll keep the costumes. For now. Let’s see how they look while you’re playing.”

We run through the first few songs that Dad has chosen for our final set list. “The perfect mix of timeless classic-rock tunes and audience pleasers,” he insists.

At first, the music is cautious and timid and sloppy, but then, in the middle of “Back in Black,” something happens. It’s like the three of us finally settle into our personas and just let loose. The energy builds and builds until you can feel it filling the basement. It’s weird, because we don’t sound a whole lot better. It just
feels
a whole lot better. And that makes all the difference.

When we finish, the sweat is pouring off of my forehead,
pitter-pattering
on my snare drum.

“Okay,” Dad says, sitting on the couch, nodding his head slowly. “I’m sensing something here. A shift.” He stands and starts pacing around. “This is pretty good. You guys have kicked it up a notch in the attitude department. If it’s the costumes doing that, then they’ve got my vote. Sure, people might say, ‘What the hell?’ But, so what? We keep them on edge, right? They’ll be all, ‘What’s going on here?’ ‘What’s it all mean?’ And we’ll be like, ‘Fuck you! What’s a goddamn Jackson Pollock painting mean?’”

Dad’s fingers start wiggling like they do when he’s excited. “The audience’ll think we’re crazy. Capable of anything. And just when their heads are ready to explode from the confusion of it all . . . BAM! We blast them with our flash pots.” He gestures emphatically at the light socket contraption on the coffee table. “It’s attention grabber after attention grabber after attention grabber. Of course, we still have to do something about the singing.”

“What?” Sean looks around, bewildered. “Wasn’t I loud enough?”

“You were plenty loud, Sanchez,” Dad says, flinging his arm around Sean. Leaning in confidentially. “But it’s not making up for the fact that you sound like Yoko Ono on helium. I’m sorry, but we need a new singer.”

“But . . .” Sean blinks like he’s been hit over the head with a two-by-four. “What about all the hot babes?”

“Trust me,” Dad says. “You’ll get way more girls if you keep your mouth shut.”

“But I thought —”

“Uh-uh.” Dad holds his hand up like a traffic cop. “I compromised on the costumes and the band name. This, we can’t afford to waver on. End of story. You’re going to have to start asking at school. Hang around outside the chorus room. Put an add in the school newspaper. It’s top priority right now. I don’t care how you do it but we
have
to find someone who can carry a tune.”

“Hello?” A girl’s voice coming down the steps. At first I think it’s Valerie, but it doesn’t sound like her.

A second later, Helen appears from around the stairwell, wearing a zipped-up pink hoodie and tight jeans, looking adorable and slightly uncertain. It’s amazing how much more attractive Helen is when she’s out of the shadow of school. “Hi. Your mom let me in. We said four o’clock, right?”

Oh, crap. I completely forgot I invited her over to work on the project during our last detention. In a moment of weakness — when she was gazing at me and giving me that cute little half smile — the unwanted words just flopped from my lips, like they seem to be doing with disconcerting regularity lately.

“Cool outfits,” she says, tucking her hands in her back pockets.

Sean straightens up a bit. “Thanks.”

“Hi, Helen.” Matt gives a small wave.

“Sorry,” I say. “Rehearsal’s running late. We can reschedule if you want.” I’d like to get her out of here before she fully comprehends that it’s my dad who’s wearing the do-rag and burning-skull shirt.

“That’s okay. I can wait.” Helen leans against the wall. “Is it all right if I watch?”

“It’s not only all right,” Dad says, shooting me a where-have-you-been-hiding-this-hottie look as he steps up to her. “We absolutely insist.” He holds out his hand. “Walter Redmond.”

Great. Just great.

“Helen Harriwick,” she says, shaking his hand. If she thinks he looks weird, she has a damn good poker face.

“Let me ask you something, Missy,” Dad says, circling her. “You look like the type of girl who can belt out a tune. Am I right, or am I right?”

“DAD!” I CHOKE OUT
, my stomach free-falling. I try desperately to think of a way to signal him that this is the school pariah I was telling him about. I clear my throat, make an X with my drumsticks, hum “Hairy Mary.”

But he stares me down, oblivious. “Coop, let me handle this.”

“But —”

He cuts me off with an I-will-strangle-you glare, then turns back to Helen, all smiles. “Well? How about it? Can you sing?”

Helen takes a step backward, a worried look in her eyes. “Uh, yeah . . . I guess . . . a little . . . why?”

“I knew it!” Dad throws his hands in the air in a hosanna way. “Ask and ye shall receive. Like manna from the gods.”

Helen frowns, confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t —”

“Our band here is suffering a lead vocal crisis.” Dad laughs. “And we were
just
discussing the problem when you descended to us from the heavens.”

Helen points up at the ceiling. “I just came down from upstairs.”

“Listen to that voice.” Dad gestures to us. “Can you hear it?” He waggles a finger at Helen. “I bet you sound like a cross between Stevie Nicks and Janis Joplin when you sing.”

Helen’s eyes dart around, looking like a trapped bird.

“Leave her alone, Dad,” I say, a stabbing pain piercing my temples. “You’re scaring her.” Goddamn it. What the
hell
is he doing? If Helen joins the band, it will completely obliterate any and all rock-and-roll awesomeness that this whole thing was going to bestow upon me. I glance at Sean and Matt for support, but they don’t seem nearly as supremely freaked out as me.

“I’m the manager of this dog and pony show, fella. So let me manage.” Dad grins at Helen, placing a hand over his heart. “Would you do an old man a favor?” He stretches his arm out in our direction. “Would you join us for one song?”

“Oh, no.” Helen takes another step backward. “I’d rather not.”

“Please,” Dad begs. “Just to satisfy my curiosity. A single song. What could it hurt?”

“I’ve never . . . sung in a band before. I probably don’t know any of the songs you play.”

“Of course you do.” Dad gently guides Helen over to the microphone. “A Beatles song. Everyone knows the Beatles.” He grabs a songbook and flips through it. “Here. We’ll do ‘Revolution.’” He folds the book back and places it on a music stand. “It’s easy. You know the tune?”

Helen nods. “Yes, but —”

“Don’t be shy.” Dad makes a fist. “Just put some fight behind it. Think about something that really pisses you off. And sing from that place. Okay?” He pats her on the back.

Helen swallows hard and nods. “Sure. All right. But just one.” She pulls the mic from the stand, and unwinds the cable.

Dad snaps his fingers. “Coop. Count us in. And guys? Balls to the wall.”

Helen looks so fragile standing there, holding the microphone, staring down at the songbook and mouthing the words.

I grip my drumsticks tight in my hands, feeling like I just swallowed a fistful of broken glass. If she’s any good, Dad will try to convince us to have her in the band. Which
cannot
happen. So why is there a whispering voice inside my head that wants her to do well?

Oh, man, this is totally screwed.

I take a deep breath, click my sticks together. “One, two, three, four.”

I come down hard on my snare, launching Matt into the opening blast of guitar. We do three bars and then Helen leaps in with a perfectly-pitched knock-you-on-your-ass rock-and-roll scream.

It’s so intense I nearly fall off my drum stool. Matt, Sean, and me look at each other like, “Where the hell did that come from?”

Then she starts singing the lyrics. And she’s not only good, she’s totally freakin’ amazing. Her voice is beautiful and powerful and . . . Holy crap. I can’t believe my ears.

Or my eyes. Because she’s strutting around like she just got off tour with The Rolling Stones. Talk about attitude. Jesus Christ. This is not a woman you would want to cross. I don’t even recognize her.

Helen saunters over to Matt, leaning in and singing to him that everything is going to be all right, all right, all right. And I get the strangest pang of jealousy in my chest. Wanting her desperately to come over and sing that to me.

Dad stands in the corner, his arms crossed. With the biggest shit-eating grin on his face I’ve ever seen. He’s hearing exactly what I’m hearing. Our band suddenly sounds exponentially better. For no other reason than that Helen’s voice is so damn good. It’s like adding Wayne Gretzky to your beer league hockey team. Doesn’t matter that the rest of you are tripping over your skates. Wayne’s going backhand top shelf every time.

Helen spins the microphone around in fast circles on its cord, catching it in her hand just as the music ends.

I’m in a haze of confusion as the last crash of the cymbals dies out. If this were an alternate universe — one where Helen wasn’t roundly despised by everyone at school — I’d be jumping for joy. She sounds great. She looks great. She’s exactly what our “alternate-reality” band needs.

But since this is the
real
world we’re talking about — where this band is supposed to
save
me from her corrosive reputation — I’m feeling like I want to scream.