Beat the Band (25 page)

“What should we start with first?” Sean says, separating the grooming products from the contraceptives and tossing them on my bed. “Hair dye? Teeth whitening? Spray tan?”

“We’re not doing it here.” I collect up the various boxes, bottles, and tubes and chuck them all back into the bag. “We need access to water and towels.”

The three of us retreat to the bathroom. I lock the door behind us so we won’t be interrupted.

“Dude,” Matt says. “Isn’t it going to seem weird, all of us in the bathroom at the same time?”

“Relax, dawg.” I clap him on the shoulder. “If anyone comes to the door, I’ll just tell them we’re giving you a bikini wax.”

Sean cracks up. Matt just glowers.

“Everyone’s asleep,” I assure him. “No one’ll even know we were in here. I promise.” I take the hair dyes out and line them up on the counter. “Each of us has to choose a color. Since this is my brill idea, I get to pick first. And I want . . . green.” I snatch up the green hair dye. “Because it’s Pimp Daddylicious.”

“What color do you want?” Sean asks Matt.

“I don’t care.” Matt shrugs. “Purple, I guess.”

“Muy bueno.”
Sean grins. “
Rojo es el color del fuego!
And
El Mariachi
has a fiery passion like no other.” He does his bullfighter prance, complete with concluding foot stomp.

Matt stares at him. “Please tell me you’re not going to do that on stage.”

“Si!”
Sean waggles his eyebrow. “If dee mood strikes
El Mariachi
.” He laughs. “I knew my sixth-grade Spanish class would come in handy.”

We shuck down to our boxers and wash our hair before attacking the packages of hair dye.

“Shouldn’t we read the instructions first?” Sean asks, examining the miniature manual.

“Instructions are for pussies.” I snatch the little booklet from his hand and toss it in the trash. “Obviously, we just slather all this crap on our heads and let it sit overnight. What could be simpler?”

I dive in first, squeezing the tubes of goop into my palm and scrubbing it all onto my scalp. Once Matt and Sean see how easy it is, they follow suit. We wrap the white bathroom towels around our heads and move on to the tanning products.

“I wasn’t sure which brand to buy so I got three different kinds,” I say.

“Which do you think will look most natural?” Matt finally seems to be getting into the spirit of things. He reads the label on each bottle. “BronzedGod? Tan-tastic? Or Natural spRays?”

Sean studies the containers. “I’m doing all of them. Us Latin lovers need to be tall, dark, and handsome.”

“We got the dark part covered.” I rustle through the bag. “But I don’t think we purchased any handsome lotion or Miracle-Gro.”

“I don’t need any lotions or potions.” Sean places his hand on his chest. “I happen to have been told, on more than one occasion, that I am unconventionally good-looking.”

“By who, dude?” I laugh. “Your mom? That just means you’re butt ugly.”

“And,”
he adds, “as far as my height goes, I’m sure you didn’t notice, but I had a growth spurt this summer.”

“Eww,” Matt says. “I hope you cleaned it up.”

“Screw you, yankcheese.” Sean grabs one of bottles. “All right. Who’s gonna spray me down?”

“That’s what she said,” I cough through my fist.

Matt laughs and takes the spray bottle from Sean. “I’ll do it. Close your eyes.”

We take turns basting each other with the various tanning sprays. Spinning around to make sure we get an even coat. By the time we’re finished with all three products, a thick brown fog clouds the bathroom.

We cap off the evening by doing rock-paper-scissors for the three different teeth whiteners. I get the brush-on, Matt gets the strips, and Sean gets the mouth trays. We decide to leave these on overnight as well. Because, why not? Your teeth can’t ever be too white.

It’s three thirty in the morning by the time we stumble into my room in boxers and turbans.

Matt’s passed out and snoring before I even get the light off.

“Dis bedda wak,” Sean lisps through his mouth trays. “I feewl awl sdiggy.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, settling into bed. “Tomorrow, you won’t even recognize yourself.”

ALL NIGHT LONG I HAVE DREAMS
of being asked to model for the cover of
GQ
and
Esquire
. My agent can’t handle the mounting requests and has to hire another assistant just to screen the calls.

As I walk down the street, swimsuit models attempt to tear the fur coat from my bronzed bod. Several babes in wet T-shirts yank at my purple Stetson to try and run their fingers through my emerald locks.

They’re all shouting, “Cooper!” “Cooper Redmond!” “Cooper James Redmond!”

The yelling is so loud it actually jolts me from sleep.

“Cooperrrr! Bathroom!
Now!
” That’s not the voice of any swimsuit model. It’s Mom. And she sounds pissed.

I turn my head on the pillow. Squint at the digital clock on the bedside table, trying to focus my groggy eyes. 10:35. Jesus. What’s going on? It’s the weekend.

At least . . . I think it is.

Ew, my mouth tastes funny. What the hell are all these white marks on my pillowcase? I must have drooled like a basset hound last night.

“Don’t make me have to come into your room!” Mom hollers.

Ugh.

I drag myself out of bed, still half-zonked and punch-drunk. Step over a couple of lumps on the floor and stumble out into the hallway wearing my sagging boxer briefs. Something slides off my head. A towel? Did I take a shower last night? Hard to think. I’m running on reserve power right now. All the switches have yet to be flicked on in my brain.

I wipe the sleep-crud from the corners of my eyes as I trudge into the bathroom. “What?” I groan.

“That’s what
I’d
like to know,” Mom says, gesturing angrily at our fluorescent-lit surroundings. “
What
are these brown streaks all over the walls? And the floor? And on the counter? And my brand-new white towels?”

Whoa. She’s right. There are rust-colored smears all over the place. “How should I know?” I say. “Maybe Angela had the goose-gravy splatters last night.”

“Angela stayed over at her frien — Oh. My. God.” Mom’s staring at me with these big wide holy-crap eyes. “What have you done to yourself?”

“Nothing.” I scratch my head to try and wake up a bit more. My hair feels weird. Thick. And gluey.

“Your skin. Cooper, it’s orange!” she says. “And your hair. Is green! And your teeth! Good Lord!”

It hits me like a rogue wave.

My rock-and-roll image.

I turn to look at myself in the mirror. For a split second I’m confused. Who the hell is that?

“Oh, crap,” I say, lurching back.

“What’s going on?” Sean grumbles as he staggers into the bathroom, his eyes half-shut, plaid boxers pulled up near to his belly button. Sean’s hair and forehead are fluorescent pink and his body is a bright pumpkin color.

Matt steps up behind Sean with a Day-Glo purple mop, a carroty complexion, and a blinding white grill. “We heard someone yelling,” he rasps.

Mom has been stunned into silence.

Sean’s eyes shoot open when he catches sight of me. He starts laughing. “Whoa, dude.”

Matt starts cracking up, too. “The Oompa-Loompa look does not work for you.”

“Go ahead. Yuk it up, Troll dolls,” I say, pointing at the mirror.

Sean and Matt both glance at themselves and instantly reel backward.

“Jesus!” Sean shouts. “That’s not fiery red.”

Matt slowly approaches the mirror, staring at his alien reflection. “You have
got
to be kidding me.”

“Walter!” Mom yells.

I hear Dad trot up the steps. “What is it?” he says, appearing in the bathroom door. He looks almost as ridiculous as us. A half-unbuttoned black satin shirt, a full goatee, angular sideburns, too-tight jeans, his red do-rag, and a forearm full of bangles. His “rock-and-roll” transformation complete.

“Say hello to your son and his friends.” Mom gestures at us.

Dad flinches. “Yikes.” He starts to laugh. “That’s . . . an interesting look, fellas.”

“It was an accident,” I say, attempting to psychically will the images in the mirror to change. “We were trying to represent.”

“Represent what?” Dad asks. “The Muppets?”

“This is what you’ve wrought, Walter,” Mom says, her face going crimson. “Encouraging them to be rebellious. To rock and roll. Look at yourself. What kind of example are you setting?”

My stomach seizes. I pray this isn’t going to degenerate into a fight. Not with Sean and Matt here.

“Hey, yo.” Dad holds up both his hands, the bangles on his wrist clinking. “Don’t trip out on me now.”

“These walls are permanently stained.” Mom wipes at the streaks on the wallpaper. “My towels. My counters. They’re ruined.” She rubs her thumb on a patch of green on the countertop, then studies me. “And our beautiful boy looks like some kind of freak!”

“We’ll clean it all up,” I say, trying to cut her off before she works up a full head of steam. Mom rarely gets mad, but when she does it’s colossal.

“I’ve put up with this long enough, Walter. I’ve had it. This tomfoolery has to stop. I can’t be the only adult in the house. You need to contribute. Start looking for another job. . . .”

Dad knits his brow. “But the band —”

“Hogwash. You’re just using that as an excuse not to grow up. The boys can do the band on their own.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Dad shakes his head. “Let’s not go crazy, now.”

“It’s over, Walter!” Mom glowers at him. “Understand?” With that, she marches out of the bathroom.

Sean and Matt look as embarrassed as I feel.

“Don’t worry about her,” Dad says. “I’ll smooth things out. It’s cool. Meanwhile, you guys make this”— he sweeps his hand at the bathroom and at us —“better. Somehow.”

Dad turns and leaves. As he heads down the stairs I hear him sputter, “‘Trying to represent.’ Jesus Christ.” He wheezes with laughter. “Bunch of chuckleheads.”

WE TAKE TURNS SHOWERING.
And then we take turns showering again. Each time using more soap and hotter water. But still we look like the sort of freakish characters you’d see on a Saturday morning children’s program.
Welcome to Creepy Street
or something.

“Hey, Coop,” Matt says, rolling up his sleeping bag. “I forgot to thank you.”

“For what?” I stare at my orange hand. Flipping it over and over in disbelief.

“You know. For how kick ass we look.”

Matt and Sean break up in hysterics. Their glowing white teeth beam from between their stained lips. I’m glad they can see the humor in the situation. Though I can see their laughter turning to tears on a dime.

“It’s too bad Halloween’s over,” Sean says, sifting through the remains of last night’s junk food. “We could totally go as survivors of a nuclear meltdown.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I sit on my bed. The mattress springs squeak under my weight. “Have your laughs now. But you’ll see. This is all going to tone down by Monday and then we’ll see who’s thanking who.”

Matt and Sean share a look, then crack up laughing.

“Are you kidding?” Matt says. “Pale orange is still orange.”

Sean points to his cotton-candy lid. “And what the hell is this going to lighten to? Certainly not red. I might have to do a buzz cut before I go back to school. And buzz cuts are definitely
not
mariachi-like.”

I sweep this out of the air with my Martian hand. “That’s why we did this early. So we can tweak things. Your hair color’s the easiest thing of all. We’ll just buy a darker shade.”

“And maybe this time we’ll read the instructions.” Sean grabs a candy bar and waves it in the air. “Anyone want a Butterfinger?”

“That’s what she said,” I call out before I can stop myself.

Matt and Sean look at me, deadpan.

“What? It was too good to pass up. You have to admit.”

Matt stuffs his sleeping bag inside his duffel and stands. “All right. I’m out of here.”

“What are you talking about?” I hop off the bed. “We have a rehearsal. Helen’s coming over this afternoon. We need to practice.”