Beat the Band (28 page)

And so, Monday and Wednesday is Meditation Club, Tuesday it’s Astronomy Club, and Friday is Youth Alive! Club, which, to be honest, is still a mystery to me, as the nine geeks and myself just sort of sit around and talk about the news, or what’s bothering us, or what we’re “excited” about.

“Cooper, did you hear that?” Willow calls out.

“Hear what?” I say.

“Mr. Grossman wants to see you. Immediately.”

“Oh.” I shake my head. “Wow. I guess I was really deep into the meditation.”

It’s the “immediately” part that sends a chill down my spine. “Immediately” rarely means something good.

As I trek through the empty halls toward the music wing, I convince myself that this is not a big deal; that Mr. Grossman is the type of guy who likes to do everything “immediately.”

It’s not until I see Matt and Sean approaching the chorus room from the other direction that I realize they have been summoned “immediately” as well. Which can only mean we are royally screwed.

“What do you think he wants?” Sean asks as we enter the darkened chorus room and head toward the offices in back.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I lie. “Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he couldn’t make a copy. Maybe he wants the demo back.”

“Or maybe he’s heard about Understain,” Matt adds.

We approach the office door, which looms like a giant oak tombstone.

“Admit to nothing.” I grab the doorknob, push it open, and we step into Mr. Grossman’s office.

“Mr. Redmond,” he says, sitting at the desk with his fingers interlaced. “Mr. Gratton. Mr. Hance. Welcome.”

Matt and Sean flank me as we stand there waiting for the accusation.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“About what?” I say, jumping in before Matt and Sean crumble and confess.

Mr. Grossman peers over his glasses. “About your demo tape. About a band called”— he looks down at his notes —“Understain. And how the two might possibly be related.”

“Are you a fan of theirs, Mr. Grossman?” I ask.

Matt and Sean turn their heads to look at me. I give each of them a little let-me-handle-this kick to the feet, which I hope they interpret correctly.

“Not my particular cup of Earl Grey, no.” Mr. Grossman stretches his lips thin. “Let’s dispense with the subterfuge, shall we?”

“Okay. Sure. Whatever that means.”

Mr. Grossman unlaces his index fingers and starts tapping them together. “Do either of you two ever speak? Or is Mr. Redmond here your official representative?”

“Sometimes,” Sean says.

“But . . . yes,” Matt adds.

“All right, then.” Mr. Grossman picks up a remote control off his desk. He points the remote at a CD player on his shelf like he’s planned this whole confrontation out, including his timing. “Let’s take a listen, yes?”

“Grind the Rump Roast” starts playing over the speakers, and I’m still impressed with how I got it to sound like it was recorded live at some crappy studio.

“Grind it, grind it, grind it. Grab the handle and you wind it,”
the singer screams.
“When your meat is fully ground. Still you hear that mooing sound.”

“Mm-hmm,” Mr. Grossman says, like he’s made his point. He lets it play for a few seconds more, then shuts it off. Then he hits another button, and Understain’s much clearer, brand-new version of the song begins to play. “And so we discover, this is
not
your original song.”

“No,” I say. “It’s an Understain song.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Okay.” I look at Matt and Sean like, “Are you getting this guy?”

Mr. Grossman clears his throat. “Then why did you try to pass it off as an original?”

“Who tried to pass it off as an original?”

“
You
did.”

“No,” I say. “We
covered
that song. ‘Burnin’ For You,’ ‘Revolution,’ and ‘Grind the Rump Roast.’”

He tilts his head, his eyes full of disbelief. “Then where, pray tell, is your original song?”

“After that. At the end. ‘I’m Sorry You’re An Idiot.’”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Grossman’s eyes burn into me.

I swear I hear Matt and Sean gasp. But I just couldn’t help myself. It was too sweet of an opportunity.

I gesture at the CD player. “‘I’m Sorry You’re An Idiot.’ That’s our original song. It’s on there. Right after the three cover songs.”

Mr. Grossman raises the remote and clicks the skip button. Again and again and again. But nothing plays.

“What? Are you twisting me? Where is it?” I move to the CD player and hit the fast forward button. I look back at Sean and Matt. “Oh, man. The studio dude must have screwed us.”

“Are you serious?” Matt says with the appropriate amount of irritation.

Sean huffs. “That jerk!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grossman,” I say. “We should have listened to the CD before we handed it in to you.”

“Indeed.” He grabs a paper from his desk. “The submission form specifically states that ‘each band shall submit a demonstration CD with
two
cover songs and one original.’ Why then would you submit
three
covers?”

“Two covers? No.” I reach over and snatch the paper from Mr. Grossman’s hand. “Oh, man. You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I wrote the rules.”

“This is totally my fault. I misread it. I thought it said three covers.” I give him back the page. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Grossman. Is there anyway you’d let us hand in our original song tomorrow?”

“Well,” he grumbles, shuffling papers on his desk. “This is . . . something that needs . . . I’m going to have to consult with the other judges. We admitted you on the basis that this last song was an original.”

“We completely understand,” I say. “Don’t we?”

“Of course . . . Absolutely . . . For sure,” Matt and Sean mumble.

I tap Mr. Grossman’s desk. “You should definitely have a listen to our
actual
original song before you green-light us. It’s the only fair thing to do. But I’m sure after you do you’ll have no question you made the right call.”

Mr. Grossman’s eyes drift across the three of us. He
so
doesn’t want to believe this, but what’s he going to do? “Fine, then.
First
thing tomorrow. Or I’ll have no choice but to disqualify you.”

“ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT, STOP, STOP.”
Dad whirls his arms in the air like he’s being attacked by killer wasps. He’s grown a full flipped-out-Jim-Morrison beard, and his rock-and-roll clothes haven’t been washed since he’s taken up permanent residence in the basement. “How is it that Missy here keeps sounding better and better, while the rest of you clotloafs just get worse and worse? I don’t understand. Explain this to me.”

Rehearsal is not going well.

In fact, it’s been a hellacious last few weeks.

I’d thought things were really looking up when we played our new demo for Mr. Grossman. Sure, I had to do a little tap dancing to convince him that Sean was going through a late puberty, and that his voice had started to change, which was why we had to recruit a new female vocalist, but once he heard “I’m Sorry You’re An Idiot”— one of Dad’s old tunes that we altered the lyrics to — we were in with a grin.

Now, though, we’re just seven days away from the Battle of the Bands and everything seems like it’s going to hell in a hammock.

Dad’s rubbing his temples. “I had such hope. I can’t believe this.” He’s pacing around and mumbling to himself. “I wonder. Could I play backstage? So no one sees me. Would we be able to get away with that?”

Sean, Matt, Helen, and Valerie are looking everywhere else but at Dad. I’m aware that they’re embarrassed for me, but it’s beyond that now as far as I’m concerned. I don’t even know
what
to think anymore. Sure, I’m sorry he’s out of work and all, but I’m pretty sure the band isn’t such a good distraction for him anymore.

“Dad, listen,” I say. “Let’s just —”

He stops. Holds up his index finger. “Coop. No. I’ve sacrificed too much for this. I’m going to make this work. Just let me think.” He drums his fingers on his forehead.

“Mr. Redmond,” Valerie says from her perch on the couch. “Maybe they just need to take a br —” But Dad cuts her off with his traffic-cop hand.

We stew in awkward silence for a solid minute.

“Okay.” Dad breathes deep. “I’ve got it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier. We have pyrotechnics. So we distract the audience and judges with our mighty blasts of sparks and plumes of flames. They won’t even care how horrible we sound. They’ll be so blown away by the visuals.” Dad claps his hands together. “It’s time for a test run.”

Dad moves over to his “workshop” in the corner of the basement and grabs a plank of wood with five tin cans nailed to it. He’s punched holes in the cans and rigged them with empty screw-in lightbulb fixtures.

“What are those?” Helen asks.

“Just hold your clown, Vocals.” Dad places the board on the rug in front of my bass drum and snakes the wire and light switch off to the side. “I was going to surprise you wanks with this stuff the night of, but we need to make sure everything works prior to, since we’re now relying on it to save your sorry asses.” Dad plugs in the electrical cord and mans the light switch. “All right. Let’s do something big. Rock my socks off with ‘London Calling.’ And try to match your chickee’s passion this time, fellas.”

I take off my fur coat — it’s making me sweat like a pig — then count us into the song.

Helen, of course, looks and sounds brill.

Matt, Sean, and me? Not so much. It’s like we’ve lost all our confidence or something. And our rock personas are doing nothing to help us. The music sounds thin and insubstantial.

I watch Dad out of the corner of my eye. He’s got this wild-man look on his face as he crouches down with his finger twitching over the light switch.

My foot works the bass drum and I pound away on my toms, but no matter how much I try to put behind my playing, the whole thing feels sluggish.

And then, without warning, Dad leaps in the air and flicks the light switch, causing —

Nothing.

No pop. No flash. No sparks. No plumes of flames.

We continue playing as Dad toggles the trigger switch back and forth in rapid succession.

“What the . . .” He grumbles. “Come on! Goddamn it!”

Helen’s eyes catch mine. I shrug and continue to keep the beat.

“Stop!” Dad hollers. “Cut! Enough! Something’s wrong.”

The music comes to a messy halt as each of us stops playing at different times.

Dad flips the switch a few more times. “I don’t understand this. I got the build off the Internet.”

“Off the Internet?” Valerie says. “Oh, well then it
has
to work.”

“Hey, Groupie,” Dad says. “Zip it. Guitars. How ’bout making yourself useful? Check to see if all the cans on that board are still connected.”

Matt gives Dad a dubious stare. “I don’t
think
so. What if they go off while I’m looking at them?”

“I’m going to unplug it, boobus.” Dad reaches down, yanks the cord from the wall, and waves the plug in the air. “There. Happy?”

“No,” Matt says. “It could be smoldering in there. Ready to blow at any second.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ. You’re such a girl. Keyboards, take a look, would you?”

“Uh-uh,” Sean says. “I like my face too much.”

“Okay, fine.” Dad slams the trigger box down on the coffee table and makes his way over to the flash pots. “I have to do everything for this band.”

Dad shoves past Helen and nearly reaches the board of cans when —

WHOOSH!

A blinding flare fills the basement, like a thousand camera flashes going off all at once.

“HOLY CRAP!”
Matt shouts.

“Get down!” Sean screams.

I dive off my drum stool and hit the deck, covering my head.

But it’s all unnecessary, because there’s only the one explosion.

The dark smell of burnt firecrackers permeates the air. My eyes are in shock from the flash, but it doesn’t take twenty-twenty to see that the basement is chock with black smoke.

I can’t make out anyone, but I can hear people hacking up their lungs.