Beat the Band (35 page)

I think I hear a little laugh from Helen but I’m not sure.

I place my hand flat against the door. Feel the cold painted metal on my palm. “And
all
of that was before I realized how amazing you are. Like,
really
. You’re the coolest person I’ve ever met. And you’re a million times more beautiful and smart and talented than those girls could ever hope to be.”

Helen shifts behind the door. “I trusted you.”

“I know, and —”

“I feel cheated, Coop.” I can hear her starting to cry again. “It’s dumb but I felt like . . . we had something special, you know? Something hopeful. And it was all a big lie.”

My heart is breaking all over again. “Helen. Please —”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” she says. “Everything’s turned upside down. I thought . . . I don’t know. I thought you were different from everyone else.”

“No. Listen. I
am
different. I mean . . . I wasn’t . . . but I am now. And everything we had was real. I swear.” I take another trembling breath. There’s a boa constrictor around my rib cage. “I don’t know how else to tell you. I am so,
so
sorry. If I could take it all back. All the bad stuff. I would. Every single bit of it. I just . . . I didn’t know who you were. How brill you are. And I didn’t know that”— I press my cheek up against the door —“that I was going to fall in love with you. By the time I finally figured it all out, it was too late. Everything was already set in motion. I didn’t know how to get out of it. I thought, if I told you what they got me to do, I’d hurt you even more.”

I shake my head. Feel the tears running down my face. “Please.” The word hitches in my throat. “Don’t tell me I’ve ruined us.”

There is silence. I wish I could see her face. Gauge her reaction to all of my words. But the only things I have to go on are the sounds on the other side of the door. And now with her so quiet, I don’t even have that.

Finally, Helen takes a long, deep breath. And lets it out. “You haven’t . . . ruined us,” she says. “It’s just . . . going to take a bit of time. That’s all.”

“Of course,” I say, feeling the heaviness start to lift from my chest. “I completely understand. I’d feel exactly the same way.” Finally I can get enough air into my lungs. “But . . . will you open the door at least?”

“I don’t know. I’m in my band outfit.” I can hear the hesitation in her voice. “I feel . . . kind of stupid.”

“But don’t you still want to play?”

“Oh, Coop. I don’t think I can face everyone. Not now.”

“Helen, no. Come on. Remember what you said. Don’t let the bad guys win here. Don’t let them steal this from you. Once you get up there and start singing, everyone’s going to be totally blown away. And they’ll all fall for you. Just like I did.”

“You really think so?”

“How could they not? You’re the best singer I’ve ever heard. And besides, we’re in this together, remember?”

There’s another long silence. I can sense her weighing my words.

And then . . .

“Okay,” she says. “But I have to fix my makeup. How much time do we have?”

I check my cell phone. The Wicked should be wrapping up their set right about now. “I think we’re on in the next few minutes. How much time do you need?”

“Five minutes, maybe. If Valerie can help me.”

“All right. Do what you have to do.” I pocket my cell. “If the time comes, we’ll just start the intro to the first song and keep playing it until you can get to the stage.”

“Okay,” she says shakily.

I start to go, but at the door I turn back. “Helen?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said, you know. About . . . I really do love you.”

She’s quiet for a while, and my heart starts beating faster. But then I hear her. “I know. I believe you. See you out there.”

THE WICKED ARE WRAPPING UP
their final song as Matt, Sean, and I enter the gym. Each one of the girls is dressed in a painted-on, pastel-colored racing-style jumpsuit: Prudence in pink, Kelly in baby blue, Gina in green, and Bronte in yellow. And even though I’m beyond pissed at them, they still look unbelievably hot. Which is why they’ve always gotten away with everything they’ve gotten away with, I guess — until now.

The gym is chock with students, parents, and teachers, all dancing and swaying and clapping to the music. Kelly does a pick drag up her guitar and Gina does a drum fill and then hits her crash cymbals to end the tune. The audience breaks into wild whoops and catcalls and applause.

The three of us make our way through the crowd toward our equipment.

I clap Matt on the shoulder as we get to our stage. “You gonna be okay?”

“Me? Sure.” He puts on his doctor’s coat and stethoscope, lifts his guitar, and slips the strap over his head. “How about you?”

“I feel pretty damn good, actually.” I slip into my smoke-drenched fur coat, dangle the chains around my neck, slide on my “ruby” ring, and don my purple Stetson. “The school is finally going to see how incredible Helen is. Let’s make this great for her.”

“Okay,” Sean says, flipping his keyboard and amp switches.
“Levantemos la azotea!”
He grabs his poncho and sombrero and completes his
El Mariachi
transformation.

“Right.” I point at Sean with a drumstick. “What he said.”

“Our final band of the evening,” Mr. Grossman announces over the gym’s PA, “is Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare. Please make your way to the north end of the gym.”

The mass of people turn around and herd their way toward us. There are so many bodies out there, it’s like the entire town showed up. Which is surprising, considering the weather outside.

Seeing everyone’s faces in the gym makes every muscle in my body tighten, the saliva in my mouth drying up. I pray this goes well. That I didn’t just convince Helen to come out here to be slaughtered. That people really do see how incredibly talented she is.

All of a sudden this means so much more than it did before.

I try to shake the tension out of my arms. Flex my fingers. I tilt my head to one side, then the other, stretching out the muscles in my shoulders.

I look over to the doors, hoping that Helen will step through them any second now.

As soon as everyone has gathered around, Mr. Grossman points to us from the judges’ table, giving us the go ahead.

“Okay,” I say, filling my lungs to capacity and slowly letting the air out. “Here we go, boys.” I sit up tall on the drum stool and clack my sticks together, counting us in, “One, two, three, four . . .”

Sean starts in with the keyboard intro to Journey’s “Separate Ways (Worlds Apart).” Obviously, another one of his keys has died on him, because there’s a very noticeable silent pause each time he comes around to that note. He glances over at me, a look of distress in his eyes, but all I can do is shrug and start in with the drum beat.

Matt joins in on guitar, and the music fills out a bit, thank God.

Still, we sound horrible. I don’t know if it’s nerves or what, but we are serving up a giant bowl of weak sauce.

I look around desperately for Helen. It’s been more than five minutes since I left her. She should be here by now. Her voice is the only thing that can right this thing.

Maybe she’s having second thoughts about performing. Or maybe she really doesn’t forgive me, and this is her revenge. To humiliate me in public.

I think about how I left her. How she didn’t say “I love you” back. Maybe she was shaking with barely controlled rage the whole time I was pouring my heart out.

We play the intro several times over, but still there’s no sign of her.

We’re only thirty seconds into our set and already the crowd looks lifeless and bored. No dancing. No swaying. No head bobbing or hand clapping. Nothing.

“Hola!”
Sean shouts into his mic in an attempt to liven things up.
“Buenas noches!”

“Pendejo!”
a girl calls out over the music.

Now I don’t know a lot of Spanish. But I do know that’s not the response Sean was looking for, God love him.

Matt — who obviously knows even less Spanish than I do — steps up to his microphone to join in with the enthusiastic stage banter. “How’s everybody doing tonight?” he asks the audience, having difficulty playing and talking at the same time.

“Great!” I hear Dad shout from way in the back.

“I see this crowd could use some medicine,” Matt says. “Well, The Doctor has made his diagnosis, people. Looks like I’m going to have prescribe a heavy duty injection . . . of
rock
!”

Matt shoots his right fist into the air triumphantly.

“You suck!” some dude shouts through cupped hands. Which gets a huge laugh from the crowd.

Matt’s arm goes limp. His body deflating. He lowers his head and goes back to playing his guitar.

And that’s when the boos start, loud and clear and forceful, nearly drowning out the music.

We’re dying. If Helen doesn’t get out here soon, there’ll be no reviving this fading patient.

I can’t believe she would do this. Leave me to hang out to dry in front of the entire school. I mean, if she didn’t want to seek revenge against Prudence, why would she want to do it to me? Unless . . . I hurt her way more than Prudence ever did.

I clench my eyes shut and realize it’s true. I deserve this. And probably a whole lot more.

Still. We’re up here. And we’re playing. So we better get this song moving.

Which means, we’ve only got one choice.

Sean’s going to have to sing.

I open my eyes and lean in toward my mic. I take a deep breath and am about to tell Sean to take it away when . . .

The jeers suddenly subside. And everyone is quiet. Our terrible music — like a skipping CD — the only thing filling the gym once again.

I’m thinking maybe some of the parents and teachers stepped in. To hush everyone up. But then the crowd parts and I see that it’s something else entirely.

It’s Helen.

She’s come into the gym and is walking over to us, looking so far beyond smokin’ that it nearly makes me drop my drumsticks.

She’s wearing a skintight red leather bodysuit unzipped to the belly button. It hugs every curve perfectly. Not a chance she’s got anything on underneath. Her hair is styled and flowing around her face. Her full lips glistening with crimson gloss.

She makes Prudence and her gang look like a bunch of hairy wood trolls.

Jesus Christ. I think I might faint.

Sean and Matt glance back at me. Their mouths are hanging open but miraculously they’re still keeping the beat.

There’s some loud barking coming from several guys standing by Prudence, but Helen completely ignores them and saunters over to her microphone with all the attitude Dad was trying to get us to display. She lifts the mic from the stand, raises it to her beautiful lips, and starts belting out the lyrics.

I’ve never heard Helen sing with so much power, fire, and emotion. She’s always been amazing. But this is beyond belief. And while I know that it’s because I screwed up and pissed her off, I can’t help feeling really proud of her.

Matt, Sean, and I somehow plug into her energy and raise the level of our play from plain miserable to passably unexceptional. Which is all Helen really needs to soar.

The crowd is completely hushed as she carries us through the rest of the song. Completely astounded by Helen’s awesomeness.

We end the tune with a flourish, Helen spinning the microphone around and around, then throwing it high in the air, and catching it right on time with the last note.

There is a moment of stunned silence as the crash of my cymbals dies down.

Helen is actually smiling. Matt and Sean are standing up tall and proud. I sit up high on my drum stool.

And then . . .

Someone yells out, “You can’t polish a dog turd!”

An explosion of laughter ensues. Followed closely by a tidal wave of boos and hisses and insults. Louder than ever. Someone hurls a cup of soda at Helen. It barely misses her and explodes on the gym floor.

There’s panic in her eyes. Her neck and cheeks glowing red. The confidence and high spirits she had moments ago . . .

Gone.

Poof.

And just like that, all the dreams of rock-and-roll glory — for me and for Helen — die at our feet.