Beat the Band (4 page)

“Guys, look at this.”

Matt and Sean glance at the poster.

“Cool,” Sean says. “They’re doing a Battle of the Bands. I wonder who’ll be playing?”

“We will,” I say.

The guys look at me like I just told them we’re going to try out for the football team.

“Our band.” I smile. “Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare. Remember?”

“Uh. Yeah,” Matt says. “I know we came up with the name. But I’m also aware that we suck. Which means it’s not going to be much of a battle.”

“We’ve already done a million gigs on Rock Band,” I say. “How much harder could it be?”

Sean backs away. “Are you nuts? Don’t you remember when we tried to play in your basement last year? Your neighbor’s dog started to howl in agony. And someone threw a brick through the window.”

“We’ll practice,” I say. “We’ll get better. All the best musicians were self-taught. Hendrix, Dylan, Van Halen, Eric Clapton, Jack White. We’ve got three months. It’s a beautiful thing. Think of all the hot babes we’ll get.”

“Yeah.” Matt rolls his eyes. “I’m sure Valerie will love that.”

“Okay, so Sean and I will take your share of the groupies. But you can still ogle, can’t you? When they take off their tops and toss their panties at us. Or did Valerie take your eyes along with your chestnuts?”

“Anyway,”
Matt says. “Even if we could cobble something together by December, it says we need a demo tape by this Friday. So, right there we’re done.”

“I’ll figure something out,” I say. “Trust me. Just say you’ll do it. Think about it, dawgs. If we win this thing, we could become the most popular kids in the school.”

And “Corn Dog Coop” will die a quick and painless death.

LOWER ROCKVILLE’S PUBLIC
transportation system is a sackful of suckage. The number 66 bus, in particular, is a piece of crap on four wheels. The seats are cracked and wonky, the air stinks of asparagus-pee, and the windows are all carved up with things like “John Haz Sex With Gotes” and “Ubducted and Anully Probbed.” If my English teacher, Mr. Metzendorf, ever rode this bus he’d go insane with all the spelling mistakes. I’m sitting at the back trying to avoid eye contact with the few wackos who are actually riding this rolling turd. We’re heading down Douglas Street and it’s 5:19 by my cell phone, which means I’m very late meeting Helen.

I hope that I haven’t missed her, because this might be my only chance — away from school and all the prying eyes — to let her know that we won’t be working together. And if she has another breakdown, at least there won’t be any Lower Rockville High witnesses.

Just for a precaution — in case someone happens to see us together — I’m wearing my father’s grease-stained, blue coveralls, a
MACHINISTS DO IT WITH LUBE
baseball cap pulled down low, and a pair of someone’s scratched-up old glasses I found in the junk drawer. The coveralls are a little long in the legs and sleeves, and the glasses make the world seem a little fuzzy, but I don’t care. Nobody’s going to recognize me. I’m just a dude coming home from work.

The bus pulls over to the curb across the street from the lonely strip mall. Apparently this isn’t a real popular stop because I’m the only one who gets off. I misjudge the last step — stupid glasses — and stumble to the sidewalk.

The bus takes off, puking black smoke and filling my nostrils with the harsh stink of diesel. I look both ways and time the traffic before jogging across the four-lane road.

When I get to the other side, I peer over the top of my eyewear. And there she is, standing with her back to me, her hair down and out of her ponytail, wearing a zipped-up ski vest over a black long-sleeve sweater, a backpack slung over her shoulders. She’s looking in the window of a school uniform shop, probably longing for a different life that includes private schools.

The chances of anyone I know being within ten miles of this place are pretty slim but still, I scope the surrounding area before I make my approach.

The coast is clear, so I stroll up to Helen. “’Sup?” I say.

She turns but obviously doesn’t recognize me. Sweet.

“It’s Coop.”

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “I didn’t . . . your clothes . . .”

I look down at my outfit and laugh. “Oh, yeah. I help my dad out at his shop after school. That’s why I was late. Sorry about that.” No need to mention that my dad only works mornings now that his hours have been cut in half. Or the fact that I’ve never even
been
to his shop. I figure the less she knows about me, the easier it will be to get away with stuff.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“Yeah. I don’t wear them at school ’cause they make me look like a royal dorkus. So, how do you want to do this?”

“Did you want to get your present first?”

“Present?”

“For your father.”

Damn it. “Oh, yeah. Let’s get that over with. It shouldn’t take long.”

I turn and make my way toward Golf Town, grab for the door handle, and come up with a fistful of air. Real smooth. Okay, maybe the glasses were a poor choice.

I force a laugh. “Guess I need a stronger prescription.”

On the second try I manage to grasp the handle and hold the door open for Helen. Not ’cause I’m a gentleman — though I can be, if it means the chance to inspect a hot girl’s boondocks — but because I don’t want Helen blocking my escape route if by some odd chance I see someone from school in the store.

The place smells like old man. Everything is green and white and brown. There are three dudes — bald, balder, and comb-over — huddled around the cash register. They’re all wearing lime-green Golf Town polos with name tags. They pay us absolutely no attention. Which is perfect, ’cause I’m not going to be buying anything anyway.

“What were you thinking of getting for him?” Helen asks.

“I have a few ideas.” I’ve golfed a couple of times with Matt and his grandpa, and even though I totally suck, I’m pretty familiar with all the crap you can outfit yourself with, so I plan to make this a pretty convincing charade. I stroll over to the glove rack and spin it like I’m actually looking for something specific.

I wonder if my dad really would like golf? Maybe I ought to suggest it sometime. I feel sort of bad for him. Coming home every day at noon with nothing to do but thumb through the classifieds looking for extra work. Might be good to get him out of the house once in a while.

I take a step toward a hat display and my foot catches on something. There’s a clattering sound as I do a face-plant into the carpet. My glasses go flying, which makes it easier to see that I’ve just felled a row of putters.

Helen hurries over to me.

“Are you all right?” she asks, crouching down.

“Yeah. Sure.” I get to my knees, rubbing my stinging palms. “Stupid golf clubs.”

Helen retrieves my glasses and hands them to me. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” I fold them and stick them in my pocket. That’s enough of those. I hoist myself to my feet. The comb-over guy is frowning at me.

“Just look at what you’ve done.” He starts collecting up the putters, all put out and annoyed, like I did it on purpose.

“Not injured,” I say, brushing myself off. “Thanks for asking.” The dude’s name tag says
JULES
, which is totally fitting. He’s wearing this heavy-duty knock-you-across-the-nose cologne that coats my sinuses with wet grass and low tide.

Jules lines the putters back up against the Peg-Board and crosses his arms. “Is there anything in particular you were looking for?”

“You mean before I nearly broke my neck?”

Jules says nothing, just raises his eyebrows.

“He’s looking for a birthday present for his father,” Helen interjects.

“Was there something
specific
your father was interested in?” Jules asks me, his voice laced with some major attitude, like he can smell my disinterest in everything golf above the stink of his perfume.

“I’m not exactly sure.”

“Could we narrow it down a little, maybe?”

Could we tea-bag your semi-bald head, maybe? Fine. He wants to play with me. I’ll play. “Yeah, okay,” I answer. “Do you have, like, a portable ball washer?”

“As a matter of fact we do,” Jules says, so smug and pleased with himself. “We have an automatic washer that you can attach to a golf cart. But it’s fairly expensive. Maybe out of your price range?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve got a few Benjamins burning a hole in my pocket.” I pat the breast pocket of my coveralls. “Besides, my dad could sure use one of those washers. His balls are always so dirty. I don’t know how he does it, but every time he golfs, his balls get caked in mud.”

I glance over at Helen, her eyes horrified, her mouth a perfect O. The look on her face is priceless — and almost as funny as how clueless Jules seems to be.

Jules nods. “That’s what happens when you play on grass and dirt.”

“I guess so.” I shake my head. “Still, I don’t think I’ve ever seen balls quite this soiled. Do your balls get that filthy?”

“Depends on how muddy the course is. Follow me. I’ll show you the washer.” Jules marches across the store.

Helen and me trail behind. Her brow is tightly knitted. “What are you doing?” she whispers angrily.

“Shopping,” I say, waggling my eyebrows. “Come on, this should be fun.”

“Cooper, knock it off.”

But I pick up my pace, leaving Helen behind and joining Jules in aisle three.

“Here we are.” Jules gestures at a fancy red ball washer like a game show host toward a fabulous prize. “It’s forty-nine ninety-nine.”

“Forty-nine ninety-nine?” I call over to Helen, who’s hovering a few feet away. “That’s not too bad, right?” I turn back to Jules. “It’d be totally worth it. My dad is always making my mom wash his balls in the kitchen sink. It’s pretty gross.”

Helen stares at the floor, her face all scrunched up, like this is causing her actual physical pain.

But Jules is oblivious. “Yes, well, this washer ought to —”

“Oh, wait. I know. The other night, my dad was saying that his driver was old and useless. Something about the, um . . . shaft being too flexible?”

Jules nods like he’s known others with this particular problem. “Yes, that
can
pose some difficulty. It just so happens that I have a very nice driver with a fairly rigid shaft.”

“Oh you do, do you?” I give Jules a conspiratorial wink. “But are you willing to sell it?”

Jules stares at me blankly. “Of course. If you can afford it.”

Helen sighs and shifts her weight. Her neck and cheeks flaming.

“This wood of yours,” I say. “Does it have one of those really big heads?”

Jules leans in. “It’s not called Big Bertha for nothing.”

“Big Bertha?” I give a low whistle. “You don’t say.”

I glance over at Helen. Surely she must find at least
this
much funny.

Apparently not. She’s suddenly gotten very interested in the golf shoes.

“Would you like me to show it to you?” Jules asks.

I call out to Helen. “He wants to show us his Big Bertha, Helen. Aren’t the salesmen here the friendliest you’ve ever seen?”

“Coop.” Helen’s voice is barely contained. “Why don’t we just go look at the clubs by ourselves and let the salesman help someone else?”

“Because he’s helping
me
right now.” I look at Jules. “So, do you want to show it to us right here on the showroom floor? Or should we go in the back?”

Jules seems confused. “Um. No. Wait right here. I’ll just go grab it.”

He shuffles off, his pants sagging in the back like he’s got a big old load weighing him down.

Helen storms over to me, her arms crossed, her jaw clenched. “This is
not
funny, Coop.”

“What are you talking about?” I say, nearly losing it. “This is freakin’ hilarious. The dude has no clue he’s just offered to sell me his wang. What’s funnier than that?”

“You’re being mean.”

“Here we go,” Jules says, wielding a big fancy driver with an enormous silver head. He holds it out to me. “You wanted stiff. Take a feel of that.”

I grab the club and hoist in the air, waving it around a bit. “Wow. That is a stiff one,” I say. “I bet you could do some real damage with this.”

Jules nods. “Your Dad unwraps that bad boy on his birthday and I guarantee it’ll put a big smile on his face.”

“Not to mention my Mom’s,” I say.

This makes Jules laugh, though I don’t think he’s sure why.

“What do you think, Helen?” I say turning toward her. But she’s already stalking off toward the front door.

Jules watches her go, then looks back at me. “Is something wrong?”

I turn to see Helen shove open the front door and exit. “Her uncle was killed by a stray divot. Caught him right in the mouth. Choked to death. It was horrible.” I hand the club back to him. “I better go comfort her.”

I start to leave and Jules calls after me. “Do you want me to hold it for you?”

A thousand funny comebacks flip through my head. But I let it go. “I’ll think about it,” I say as I head out of the store.

I approach Helen, who’s standing at the bus stop. “What’s your prob? I was just getting warmed up in there.”