Beat the Band (3 page)

“What are you going to do?” Matt asks, sinking his teeth into a chicken strip.

“About what?” I unwrap my soggy burger, peel off the top bun, and start squeezing ketchup pouches, drowning the gray patty. You know you’re hungry when your mouth starts watering over crap like this.

“About having to work with Helen.”

“I don’t know. Drop out of school I guess.”

“Now who’s being cruel?” Sean says.

“I’m not being cruel, nutmeat. I’m being practical.”

“Practical?” Sean smirks. “Right.” He bites into his elephant-foot-trampled grilled cheese, which causes a trickle of oil to pitter-patter on the plastic it was once wrapped in. Even that looks good to me.

I start devouring my hamburger.

“Look at it this way. Helen’s a brainiac,” Matt says. “You’ll get an A for sure.”

“An A in exchange for a semester’s worth of ridicule, torment, finger-pointing, and being called Corn Dog Cooper?” I say through a mouthful of burger. “No thanks. Besides, who knows how long the repercussions could last?”

Matt shrugs. “Maybe it won’t be like that.”

“Put it in your corn hole, Corn Dog!” someone shouts as a storm of buttery niblets rains down on my head, hurled from somewhere in the general direction of the wrestling team. Dean “the Machine” Scragliano and Frank Hurkle turn and roar at each other as they slam their chests together. Everyone in our corner of the lunchroom — except Sean and Matt, who just grimace — cracks up.

I could go over there and try to find out who chucked the corn at me, but really, what am I going to do if I figure out who it is? Offer up my ass to be summarily kicked?

I grab a napkin and brush the kernels from my hair and clothes. I look at Matt accusingly. “You were saying?”

“It’s today’s news, that’s all,” Matt says. “I bet it dies down in a week when something else comes along.”

“That’s not how these things work, and you know it. It’s been almost two years since Helen’s hot dog habits were revealed. And that hasn’t eased one bit.” I look down at my T-shirt, which is now peppered with seed-sized grease stains. “If anything, it’s gotten worse. You were in class. They were like a pack of hungry cheetahs on a downed ibex. And now I’m the ibex’s partner. The rest of my high-school days are cursed.”

“What’s an ibex?” Sean asks.

“Look,” I say. “It’s not my fault about Helen, okay? Maybe the rumors are true. Maybe not. Maybe she saves abandoned kittens and spoon-feeds old people in her spare time. None of it matters, because if I’m seen hanging with Helen, or even
perceived
to be hanging with her, for
any
reason, my rep will be destroyed so fast I might as well find the nearest monkery and sign right up. Forget about tagging any bases; I won’t even be warming the bench. Like it or not, how people see you is everything in this world. And once you’re tainted, you’re tainted for life.” I take a swig of my juice. “You don’t tie yourself to an anchor that’s being thrown overboard. That’s all I’m saying.”

“So you’re not going to do the project with her?” Matt asks.

“Hell no!” I say. “Do I look like an idiot?”

“Then what?” Sean says.

“We can just do our own thing. Split up the material and do two separate lessons. I’ll tell her next time I see her.”

“Yeah, well.” Sean talks with a full mouth of sandwich. “You think you’ve got it bad? Guess who’s in my Math class?”

“Oh, let me take a stab,” I say. “Tianna?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m sorry, but having your ex-girlfriend in one of your classes doesn’t even compare to my sitch.”

“But I’m going to have to see her every day.”

“It’s not even close, Sean. My problem is a million times worse.”

Valerie appears out of nowhere holding a tray loaded down with a salad, a brownie, a cinnamon bun, and lemon meringue pie. As if somehow the roughage balances out the desserts. How she manages to stay looking so skinny eating all the crap she does is amazing. If she were anyone else, I’d think she was yurking it all up, but Matt says her whole family’s like that — her mom, dad, and her little brother, George — so it’s got to be lucky genes, plain and simple.

Val sits down next to Matt. “Hey, guys,” she says. “What are we talking about?” I used to find that French accent of hers so hot, but now all it does is grate on me.

“Nothing,” I say.

To which Matt adds, “Coop got paired with Helen Harriwick for a Health class project.”

“Yeah.” Valerie takes the lid off her salad. “I heard about that.”

“
You
heard about it?” My stomach drops. “What’s it, on YouTube already?”

Valerie shrugs. “Kelly told me at our lockers.”

“Oh, really?” I say. “Did she tell you how she and Gina did a touchdown celebration when it was announced?”

“You should be the one celebrating.” Valerie gestures with her plastic fork. “Helen’s on the honor roll every semester. It’ll probably be the only A you get in your life.”

“That’s hysterious, Val,” I say. “But you can stop talking now, because we’ve already heard everything you’re going to say from your man-clone.”

“What?” She looks confused.

“Don’t listen to him,” Matt says. “He’s just ticked off because he thinks everyone’s going to associate him with Helen for the rest of his life.”

“I don’t
think
. I
know
.”

“Why do you even care about other people’s opinions?” Valerie asks, setting her salad aside untouched and tucking into her pie.

I cock my head. “Why don’t you ask my corn-covered shirt? And while you’re at it, maybe you should ask Helen that question, too. Then get back to me.”

Matt suddenly looks down intently at his tray. “S-T-F-U,” he mutters.

I turn to see Helen’s ponytail-pulled moon face approaching. I’m hoping she’ll just walk on by, but she stops right at the head of our table, her books hugged to her bulky sweatshirt-clad body. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, like she’s been crying all morning. Which she probably has.

“Here’s your chance,” Sean mutters.

Helen starts talking, her lips barely moving. It’s impossible to make out what she’s saying because she’s talking so softly. Meaning I’ll either have to lean in close to hear her, or ask her to repeat herself, both of which will draw more attention to her standing here.

I surreptitiously scan the cafeteria to see if anybody is catching this. Miraculously, everyone seems to be otherwise engaged. Could it be that the winds of luck have shifted since this morning?

“I’m sorry, what?” I say.

“We need to meet to talk about the Health project,” she says a little louder, her eyes cast downward.

I’m tempted to point out that we could have done this during class if she hadn’t ducked out, but I don’t trust Sean not to pipe up about the fact that I passed out soon after.

“Oh, yeah.” I cough. “About that . . .”
Go ahead, Coop, buddy. Kick her while she’s down. Give her the old boot to the belly. Why should you have to suffer too?

I look into her swollen eyes. There’s such sadness there. Aw, Christ. I take a breath. Close my eyes. Shake my head. “Let’s, uh . . . How about . . . after school?”

“In the library?” Her voice is high and thin, like a badly played flute.

Maybe it’s my imagination but she looks . . . What? Relieved? Which makes me feel like a prize jerk. I should just get this over with. Tell her we aren’t going to work together. But I can’t do it. Not here. Not now. “Uh, no. Not the library.” Not here at school. Not at the mall. Nowhere we could possibly be seen by anyone we’ve ever known ever. “How about . . . Golf Town?”

“Golf Town?” She frowns.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s a golf shop. Out on Douglas. Next to a plumbing supply place.” The only reason I know this is because my father brought me to this strip of stores in the middle of nowhere to pick up some part for one of our sinks last year. “I have to buy a birthday present for my dad.” He’s never golfed in his life, but how would she know? “A club or a putter or something. Two birds with one stone, you know?”

“Sure. Okay,” she says. “What time?”

“How about . . . five o’clock?” I say.

Helen writes it all down in her day planner. “All right. See you there.” She turns and heads off, back to wherever she sits during lunch. The girls’ bathroom, probably.

“What are you doing?” Sean asks. “I thought you were going to tell her —”

“She’s been crying, dude. Not all of us are heartless bastards like you.” But even as I say this, I’m trying to think of a million reasons why I can’t be at Golf Town today at five o’clock.

“Hey, don’t take your frustrations out on me.” Sean points at me with his half-eaten lardwich. “I’m not the one who said he wouldn’t work with her.”

“Want to trade?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

“Only because it’s nice to see
you
squirm for a change. But if she was
my
partner, I’d deal with it.”

“If she was
your
partner, it wouldn’t mean anything. You’re already a plebe. People like to see the greats fall. They don’t try to topple the homeless.”

“I’m not homeless.”

“No, but you’re clueless.”

“Guys,” Matt interrupts. “Enough already.”

“Hey, I’ve got a thought,” Valerie says as she cuts her brownie into quarters. She’s already polished off her pie and her cinnamon bun.

Oh, great. This should be good.

“If it’s so important to Coop”— she pushes the brownie pieces into the center of the table for everyone to share —“why don’t
you
work with Helen, Matt? And Coop can work with Se —”

“No,” Sean blurts. “That’s a bad idea.”

I scowl at Sean. “Hey. The lady was speaking.”

Sean looks at Matt. “Please, Matt. Don’t do it,” he begs.

“Stay out of it,” I say. “This doesn’t affect you.”

“Does too. Because you’ll make me do all the work. Matt’s at least fair.”

I smile at Valerie. “Go on. You were saying?”

“I mean,
we
know it’s not a big deal, right?” Val looks over at Matt. “But if it means that much to your friend,
pourquoi pas
?”

Matt’s expression is priceless. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to cry or text the pope. “I . . . um . . .”

It’s a stellar plan, really. Matt’s already got a wife. If all the other girls in the school think he’s diseased, it shouldn’t matter one pube to him.

“Yeah . . . um . . .” Matt stammers. “Yeah. No. It’s, um . . . Yeah. Okay. Let’s switch. It’s a great idea, Val. I’ll take Helen.”

“See,” Valerie says, taking a bite of brownie.
“Le problème a résolu.”

I toast the brilliant lady with my own piece of brownie. Maybe Matt being so whipped isn’t such a bad thing after all.

“I’M TERRIBLY SORRY,”
Mrs. Turris says when me, Matt, and Sean stop by her classroom after lunch. “But Fate has made up Her mind. And I am not one to mess with Her. Unless Fate intervenes, the partnerships must remain as they are.”

“This is Fate right here,” I insist. “Intervening. Matt is desperate to work with Helen. What could be more fateful than that?”

Mrs. Turris smiles. “Fate is beyond our control. By choosing to change partners, you’re trying to take back that control. I’m afraid I just can’t let it happen. My decision is final. The partnerships will stand.”

“Great,” I say, when we’re back in the hall. “Short of a miracle, I’m completely screwed.”

“Well, we can’t say we didn’t try.” Sean’s got a bounce to his step and a big grin on his face.

“You shouldn’t look so happy,” I say. “This is going to have a trickle-down effect, just so you know. I was all ready to help you navigate the bases, Sean. But my bad luck is your bad luck.”

Sean just shrugs. We walk in silence for a bit, dodging kids hurrying in the opposite direction.

“I really do think things will calm down after a few days,” Matt offers.

“Crush the Corn Dog!” Dean the Machine shouts as he shoulder checks me into the wall. My cheek slams hard into a bulletin board, a red thumbtack barely missing my eye. Dean high-tens one of his wrestling buddies as they jog off down the hall to whoops and hollers.

“You okay?” Matt asks.

“I’m going to ask you to stop saying that you think the Hot Dog Helen thing will calm down, okay?” As I push myself away from the corkboard, a purple sheet of paper flutters right in front of my face. Some lame artist has drawn a guitar, a bass, keyboards, and a drum kit in badly skewed perspective. Above the instruments, inside a bullet-hole border, are the words:

BATTLE OF THE BANDS
DECEMBER 16
^th

DEMO TAPES TO MR. GROSSMAN BY SEPT.15
^TH
Please Include two cover songs and one original song.
ONLY FOUR BANDS WILL QUALIFY.

I stare at the poster for a moment. Then something inside me clicks.

Here is my miracle. Win the Battle of the Bands and the Hot Dog Helen taint will be obliterated by my rock-and-roll awesomeness. And who gets to tag more bases than a rock god? No one.