Beat the Band (29 page)

“Now, how the hell did that happen?” Dad grouses.

“Is everyone okay?” I call out.

There’s a chorus of rasping “Yeahs” and “Fines” punctuated by coughing and wheezing. I tag the voices in my head. Dad, Helen, Matt, Valerie, Sean.

A second later, the smoke alarm starts to scream. A never-ending, eardrum-piercing shriek.

“Where are the windows?” Valerie calls out. “We have to open them up and get this smoke out.”

There’s the sound of scuffling as we all start running around. I hear someone trip over one of my cymbals, sending it crashing to the ground.

“Shit!” Matt shouts.

There’s a loud “Oof!” as someone else runs into God knows what.

I reach out in front of me, trying to navigate through the dark fog. I’m doing well avoiding running into anything when my hands grab something soft and spongy.

“Hey!” Helen shrieks. “Watch the hands.”

“Oops. Sorry,” I say, though not as sorry as I probably should be. I’m pretty positive that was second base right there. Though I don’t know if it actually counts when it’s an accident.

“Are you
sure
you can’t see?” Helen laughs.

“I’m trying to find the window. I swear. Why? Where did I grab you?”

“Never mind,” she says.

I don’t see why I should waste such a golden opportunity. So, I lower my hands in hopes that I might make it to third while I still have the excuse of sightlessness. My fingers blindly grope around at waist-level in the direction of Helen’s voice. I’m getting nothing but air and so I shift to the right a little.

Bingo. My hand brushes something that’s most definitely a jeans fly, and then I give a nice gentle squeeze.

“Whoa!” Sean hollers. “Who’s palming my junk?”

I yank my hand away and wipe the hell out of it on my pant leg. I’m tempted to cry out but I manage to keep my trap shut. Crap. My first time to third base and it’s Sean’s meats? That is
so
not cool.

“Hello?” Sean says. “Please tell me that was a girl.”

I quickly turn and stumble my way over to the windows. It’ll be a cold day at the earth’s core before I fess up to chalicing Sean’s baggage.

Even with six of us it takes a while to get all the windows open, but we finally do. The alarm still blares, but hopefully the room will clear soon.

“Shut the door, quick,” Dad says as we all tromp up the basement stairs. “I don’t want it smelling up here.”

I sniff the air as he closes the door. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

Dad pulls off his do-rag and blows his nose in it. “All right.” Sweat beads on his forehead. “Let’s open all the windows in the house. We’ll spray some air freshener when it’s all aired out. I don’t want to have to explain this to your mother.”

I move over to Helen. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I think so.” She rubs her eyes. Even with dark smears on her cheeks, she still looks cute. I try hard not to, honestly, but I glance down at her chest anyway. Remembering the feel of her in my hands. Wondering if I’ll ever get a chance to do that again, without the cover of smoke.

“Chop, chop.” Dad claps his hands. “Stop standing around. Let’s get to work. We’ve got to get some cross-ventilation going. Keyboards and Vocals, you take the upstairs bedrooms. Coop, Guitars, and Groupie. Get everything open down here. I’ll see if I can find some fans.”

Sean takes off his sombrero and poncho and throws them on the couch. Matt removes his doctor’s coat and chucks it on the coffee table.

We race around the house flinging open all of the windows. I throw open the front and back doors for good measure.

“Dude,” Matt says, running up to me in the family room. “There’s a hell of a lot of smoke billowing out of the basement windows. I think something might have caught on fire.”

I poke my head out of one of the windows and see the streams of smoke spiraling into the air. My chest tightens.

“Dad!” I shout. “We’ve got a problem!”

ME, MATT, AND DAD RACE
down the stairs.

The heat belts me in the face instantly. The black haze from the flash pots has nearly cleared, but now gray smoke drifts from the flames that lick at my drum kit.

“My drums!” I run over to them, trying to stomp out the fire that’s threatening to consume my rock-and-roll dreams.

Someone grabs my arm and yanks me back. “Don’t be a moron,” Dad yells. “You get burned alive and your mom’ll divorce me for sure. Go outside and snake the garden hose down here. Hurry!”

“Shouldn’t we call the fire department?” Matt asks, all shaky.

“No,” Dad blurts. “It’s not that big a deal. You guys get upstairs and start filling pots with water. We can contain this.”

I tear up the steps, out the front door, and around the house.

The hose is coiled in a messy pile by the spigot. The spray nozzle still attached. I twist the valve and the hose comes to life. A small stream of water shoots out of where the nozzle connects to the hose.

The opened basement window is only a few feet away. I scoop up the whole whack of hose, chuck it inside, then charge back into the house.

Where I slam right into Sean, who’s standing in the entryway like a statue.

“The hell?” I say.

“We can’t find the pots.” Sean looks panicked. Like he might start crying any second.

“In the kitchen!” I bark. “In the corner cabinet! Go! Move!”

I can hear everyone rummaging around in the kitchen cupboards, but I head straight down to the basement. Dad’s got a hold of my fur coat and is beating my flaming drums with the pelt. He looks like a wild man who’s just killed a small bear and wants to make sure it’s good and dead.

“I’ve almost got the drums out.” Dad coughs. “We’re good.”

I look over in the corner, where the couch is being consumed by fire. The flames climbing the drapes like fiery snakes. “Dad! It’s spreading!”

I yank the neck of my T-shirt over my nose and mouth, squinting to see through the gray smoke. My eyes sting as I follow the hissing sound of the hose, and I shuffle my feet on the floor so I don’t trip over anything.

I reach down and grab the nozzle, spin around, and stride toward the other side of the basement, spraying the hell out of everything as I go.

“Watch it with that!” Dad hollers. “
I’m
not on fire. Hit the drapes.”

The stream of water is forceful at first, able to knock the soda cans right off the bar, but it quickly slows to a trickle as I make my way across the room.

Until I’m standing right in front of the burning couch and drapes and there’s no water coming out of the hose at all.

“It stopped!” I shout.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dad continues to whip my drum kit with the smoldering fur.

“There’s no water. We must have run out!” I shake the nozzle hard.

“The hose doesn’t run out of water, you idiot. It’s probably kinked. Untangle it. Before the whole house goes up.”

I whip around and shake the garden hose. It feels heavy and snagged-up behind me. Even though I’ve still got my shirt over my mouth and nose, my throat is raw from the smoke.

An ear-piercing
POP!
comes from the drum kit. I drop to the ground like there’s gunfire.

“Goddamn it!” Dad hollers, smacking at the drums even harder.

The basement door opens. I can see the shadowy figures of Matt and Sean trudging down the steps, hear the water sloshing in giant pots.

Sean coughs. “Holy crap, it’s like an oven down here!”

“Get those pots over to the couch, stat!” Dad calls out.

Matt hurls his water on the flames with a splash and sizzle. Sean swings his pot but the momentum pulls him off course and the water comes crashing down all over Dad.

“Christ on the crapper, Keyboards!” Dad shouts.

Sean cringes. “Sorry.”

Matt and Sean bolt back upstairs to get refills.

I trace the hose back several paces. It’s all knotted up in a big rubbery ball. No time to get the whole thing untied. Just need to get the water flowing again.

Another thunderous
SNAP!
and flash.

“Jesus!” Dad ducks down. “What are these cheap-ass drums made out of?”

I hurriedly snake the nozzle through some loops, give the hose a few more shakes, and the water hisses inside, surging back up to the nozzle.

I whip around, get down on one knee, and shoot the stream at the couch and drapes. Steaming gray smoke billows up from the inferno.

The door to the basement opens again. It’s Valerie and Helen hefting the pots this time.

“Give me some of that water over here.” Dad gestures to them.

Helen goes right for the drums and hurls the water directly onto the smoldering kit.

“Now
that’s
what I’m talking about,” Dad says.

I keep my spray focused on the drapes and couch but the fire is spreading too fast. We’re fighting a losing battle. My house is going to burn down, for sure.

And just as I’m wishing I’d defied Dad and called 911, I hear sirens in the distance. They get louder and louder as they approach.

Dad’s head snaps up, listening. “No. No, no, no! Who called the goddamn fire department?”

THE SIX OF US SIT ON THE CURB
outside the house as the firemen finish putting out our basement.

Dad glances over at the line of onlookers from our neighborhood. “I bet it was that busybody Mrs. Croucher,” he grumbles. “She can’t keep her nose out of anything. Ten more minutes and we would have had the thing out ourselves.”

“What are we going to tell Mom?” I ask, my eyes still stinging.

“Well, obviously we’re going to have to say it was your fault,” Dad replies.

“What? Why?”

My friends all look over at Dad like he’s truly lost his mind.

“I’m already in the doghouse,” he says. “She finds out I nearly burned down the house, I’m done. You’re gonna have to take the bullet on this one. I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “And I won’t be able to take it easy on you, either. Otherwise she might get suspicious. So, don’t be surprised if I have to ground you for a while. A month or two, maybe. This is a pretty major infraction.”

“But —”

“Oh, Christ, there’s her car.” Dad hides his face behind his hand.

Mom’s Volvo pulls over to the curb across the street because her regular parking spot is being taken up by a fire truck. She and Angela dash out of the car and over to us.

“What’s going on?” Mom says frantically.

Dad leaps to his feet. I follow, a little slower.

“Oh.
Hey,
” Dad says. “There you guys are.” He tucks his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels. “How was the mall?”

Mom stares at Dad. “Walter, what’s with the fire trucks?”

Dad looks over his shoulder. “Oh, them?” He waves this off. “Nothing. Everything’s fine. Just a tiny little itsy-bitsy fire. It’s all under control. But it’s a good thing we caught it right away and called the fire department. Otherwise it might have spread.”

“What happened?” Angela asks. “Did anything in my room get damaged?”

“No, no. It was all contained in the basement. Your room is fine. The house is fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Goodness.” Mom wrings her hands. “Well, I’m glad you’re all safe.” She grabs Dad and me in a hug. “Did they say what caused it?”

“They did not,” Dad says. “But we know. Don’t we, Coop?”

Oh, crap. Here it comes. I should just narc him out. It’d serve him right. For being such a nutcase. For burning my drums. For embarrassing the hell out of me.

I look over at him. I can’t do it. I don’t want Mom to kick him out. I just wish he’d go back to being my mildly-freaky dad rather than this bizarro whackadoodle.

“Did you start smoking again?” Mom asks Dad, her lips tight. “Is that it? Because if you did —”

“It wasn’t that, Mom,” I say. I look over at Sean, Matt, Helen, and Val. Standing off to the side. Each of them looking concerned for what I’m about to do. “It was —”

“My flash pots,” Dad interrupts. He gives me a weary little thank-you smile. “Sorry, son. I can’t let you do it. This is my mess. I’ve got to face the music.” He looks back at Mom. “I was showing the kids what I’d been working on for their rock show. You know, sparks shooting in the air and such. It didn’t go exactly how I’d planned.”