Beat the Band (27 page)

At first, it feels awkward. I can barely hear the music over the pounding in my ears. But Helen moves in closer and puts her head on my shoulder. She’s humming the words softly against my cheek. My face right by her neck. She smells nice. Like sweet tea.

And that’s when the world fades away into the background and everything feels perfect. There’s only me, and Helen, and the music cocooning us in my room.

Her body feels good close to mine. The warmth of her through her shirt. If someone told me at the beginning of the school year that I’d be dancing like this with Helen Harriwick, I would have said they were out of their nut.

But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now.

I hope the song never ends. The way I feel right now. My head buzzing. My skin tingling. It’s like playing the perfect fill on the drums and scoring the winning street hockey goal in overtime and catching your chair right before you tip it back too far, all wrapped up in one and multiplied by ten.

Helen lifts her head from my shoulder and looks at me.

Right into my eyes.

I don’t wait. I lean in slowly. Move my hands to her face. And kiss her.

She kisses me back.

Her lips taste like sun-warmed strawberries.

Holy crap. I’m kissing a girl.

And it’s better than I ever imagined.

DESPITE ALL MY HOPES
and prayers, Monday arrives on schedule. I’ve got that roller-coaster-just-cresting-a-twelve-story-drop feeling in my gut as I lie in bed, angsting over Helen and how I’m supposed to avoid her all day at school — and the rest of the year, for that matter — without hurting her feelings. Of course, it’s not like we said we were going out or anything. All we did was dance a little. And kiss. But still.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s going to be a mess. And to top it all off, the guilt over the Our Lady of Mercy situation is eating me up inside. I kept waking up all night — my body drenched in sweat — nightmares of Helen slowly opening the acceptance letter. The look of confusion, anger, and horror on her face as she reads it. The slow dawning as to who was responsible.

Damn it. If only I could fig a way to get the application canceled. Of course, that would mean she wouldn’t be leaving the school. And I’d have to come up with another way to get her out of the band. Or maybe convince her to wear a Kabuki mask or something onstage so nobody recognizes her.

But I just can’t have that application on my conscience.

My brain clicks into problem-solver mode. Working out all the options. The various possibilities.

And then an idea.

One that might just work.

I spiral the plan out in my head. I’ll have to stay home from school today. I need quiet. And privacy. And access to the Internet.

I pull the I’ve-got-a-killer-headache routine. Blow-dryer to the forehead for the back-of-the-hand fever test. Thermometer placed on a lightbulb while Mom ducks out of the room. Sure, I overdo it a little, let my mind wander and leave it on the bulb a bit too long. Scald my tongue when I stick it back in my mouth. But it’s worth it. And Mom — who’s already late for work — barely bats an eye when she sees my hundred-and-ten degree temperature. She just glances at it and shakes it down.

“Drink lots of fluids,” she says as she leaves my room. “And no TV.”

Once Mom heads out to her babysitting gig and Dad leaves for his morning shift at the machine shop, I’ve got free reign over the house.

First things first. I grab a Drumstick ice cream cone out of the freezer. I don’t know why ice cream tastes so much better in the morning, but it does. When I leave home and have my own place, it’s going to be Drumsticks for breakfast all the time.

Next, I google the Our Lady of Mercy Catholic School in Lower Rockville. Find their contact number, dial it on my cell, and drape a washcloth over the mouthpiece to help disguise my voice.

“Our Lady of Mercy,” a cheery female secretary answers.

“Yes. Good morning,” I say, in a low, gravelly tone. “This is Mr. Harriwick. Helen Harriwick’s father.”

“Is she a student here?”

“No. Not yet. But we’ve recently applied.”

“Oh, well, all applications are currently being reviewed, sir. The responses will be sent in the mail over the next few weeks.”

“Yes. I understand that. But the thing is, I wanted to
withdraw
our application.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. I don’t have access to the forms.”

Damn it. All right. I need another approach. “Well, then. Can you give a note to the person who
does
have access? Telling them to throw away the form?”

“Your daughter is under no obligation to come to the school, sir,” the secretary says. “If you receive an acceptance letter, you can simply discard it.”

“Yes, but I don’t
want
to receive a letter from your school. Of any kind.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand. Just don’t send us a letter. Accepting or rejecting us. We don’t like to waste paper, you see. My wife cries every time we receive any kind of junk mail. We’re trying to decrease our ecological footprints . . . feetprint . . . I mean . . . Look, we don’t want you killing any trees for us.”

“Uh . . . okay. Let me see what I can do. What was the last name again?” the secretary asks.

“Harriwick.”

“Can you spell that?”

“Of course I can spell it. It’s my last name. What kind of question is that?”

“Right. Well.
Would
you spell it for me, then? So I can look it up.”

“Oh. Yes. Fine. It’s H-A-R . . .” Crap. You’d think I’d know this. But actually, I’ve only seen it the one time on the application. And I didn’t even write that. I sound it out in my head.
Har-ah-wick. Har-oh-wick. Har-eh-wick.
If I get it wrong, they’ll know I’m not her dad for sure. And that’ll raise suspicion. Which could —

“Sir?” the secretary says.

“Yes?”

“The name? H-A-R . . .”

“Actually,” I say. “Now that I think about it. Let’s just leave it alone. Better to keep all our options open, right? I’ll deal with the wife’s tears. But, um . . . you said that the letters will be sent out in the next few weeks?”

“Over these next few weeks. Yes. Although, to be honest, I believe some have already been mailed. If you’d like —”

“Shit.”

“Excuse me?”

Uh-oh. Did I say that out loud? “Um. Nothing. I just . . . stepped on the cat. Thanks for your help. Good-bye.”

I click off my cell phone and start pacing around the room. Okay, think. Her application was sent in close to the deadline. So, it won’t be one of the first they look at. Still, who knows how many people apply in the middle of the school year. Probably not a lot. Therefore, it’s possible the letter — rejection or acceptance — is already on its way. Which means I’ve only got one choice.

I kill a couple of hours on Xbox, wandering around Renaissance Italy searching for religious treasures and assassinating conspirators who try to get in my way. Just to give whoever delivers Helen’s mail time to start their rounds. If I’m lucky — not something I can exactly count on these days — the letter will be waiting in Helen’s mailbox ready for me to pluck out and tear up. If it doesn’t arrive today, I’ll just have to check back every day until it does.

As I coast up to Helen’s house on my bike, I survey the neighborhood. Nobody’s around, so I wheel my bike up the drive. Lay it down quietly on the ground. Then I walk super-quiet up onto the porch, holding my breath, praying Mrs. Harriwick is sequestered in the back of the house.

The black metal mailbox is secured to the right of the front door, above the doorbell. A little gold eagle sits on top of the latch. I reach over and raise the cover. It squeaks a little as I lift it.

It’s stuffed with mail. I have to wiggle the mass of papers out of the cramped box, careful not to let the mailbox cover slam back down. There are several Christmas catalogs here, a few letters from the bank, a bunch from the medical center, a Visa bill, a couple of Christmas cards, something from the phone company, but absolutely nothing from Our Lady of Mercy.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps inside the house, coming toward the front door.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

I try to slip the mail discretely back into the box, but there’s way too much. It won’t all fit in. The dead bolt snicks, sending my pulse soaring. I jam the letters and catalogs in, folding and crumpling them up, getting everything in just as the doorknob starts to turn.

I leap back and lift my hand like I was about to knock as the front door swings open.

“Oh. Hello, Cooper,” Mrs. Harriwick says from behind the screen. “What are
you
doing here?”

Think. Fast. “Hi there . . . um . . . Is Helen home?” My voice cracks a bit.

“No. She’s at school. Isn’t that where you should be?”

“School?” I force a laugh. “Why’s she at school?”

Mrs. Harriwick raises her eyebrows. “Because it’s Monday?”

“What?”
I say, feigning panic. “No. Are you sure?”

“Yes. Positive.” She cracks open the screen door and checks the crammed mailbox.

“Oh, my God. I thought it was Sunday.” I slap my forehead. “Okay, please do not tell Helen I was here. This is seriously embarrassing.”

“Sure. No problem. You were never here.” Mrs. Harriwick reaches into the mailbox and tries to tug the mangled letters out, but they are really stuck in there. “My goodness. We must have a new”— she pulls and pulls, rattling the metal box —“mailperson.” Finally, it all comes free in a crumpled-up wad of paper. “Now, that’s just wrong.”

“Yeah, our mail guy does that to us all the time. Okay, so.” I start backing down the steps. “I better get moving. I am going to be in
so
much trouble at school. See ya!”

I grab my bike, leap on it, and pedal away like crazy.

“FOCUS ON THE BREATH
as you bring air deep into your lungs.” A twelfth-grade girl who calls herself Willow and smells like a garlic factory walks around the classroom while four whackadoodles and me — all of us having given up our lunch to join Meditation Club — sit cross-legged on the gritty linoleum floor. “Quiet the mind. If a thought drifts in, let it just as easily drift out.”

It’s been a challenging few weeks to say the least.

No matter how stealth I’ve tried to be, Prudence won’t give up any information about her big plans for Helen. Every time I attempt to extract even the tiniest hint from her, she laughs and says, “You’re just going to have to be patient, Coopee. But don’t worry, it’s going to be supreme.”

Which has only made me more worried.

On top of that, my efforts to intercept the Our Lady of Mercy letter have turned up nothing. I’ve ditched Study Hall every day to check on Helen’s mail but the only thing I’ve discovered is that someone in the Harriwick house is seriously into catalog shopping. They get at least three or four a day from places hawking everything from tulip bulbs to pain-relieving copper bracelets.

At least I’ve got it worked out now how to avoid Helen at school and still keep everything chill with her in the afternoons. Health is the only subject we have together, and since Mrs. Turris isn’t having us work on our projects during class anymore, that hasn’t been an ish. I just come to class smack on time and leave right when the bell rings because — as I’ve explained to Helen —“I’ve got Bio right after and I’m on Mr. Forebutt’s shit list for being late so often.”

The hallways posed some difficulty at first, but I’ve memorized Helen’s schedule and make sure I’m nowhere near her classes or locker in between periods.

The biggest challenge has been lunch. Now that she’s in the band and we’re “sort of” going out, Helen wants to eat with us all the time. Which would be great if she wasn’t Helen. But she is. And so, other plans have had to be made.

Honestly, for the first few days I thought I was totally screwed. I had to come up with all sorts of excuses to get out of lunch. I was “nauseous.” I had “lunch detention.” I needed to “retake an English exam.”

Finally, I came up with the solution. Matt and Val went to Chess Club three times a week. Why not join some clubs myself? To broaden my horizons. Or better yet, “because I’m being forced to by Mr. Tard for disciplinary reasons.” Clubs no one else in their right mind — including Helen — would ever want to join.