Beat the Band (5 page)

Her eyes won’t meet mine. “I’m going home.”

“What? Why? Don’t we have to discuss our project?”

“I just . . .” Helen shakes her head. “You’re really rude, you know that?”

“What? Me? That guy was a total dingus.”

“He’s just trying to do his job. He probably has kids to feed. You were wasting his time —
and
making fun of him.”

“Big whoop. Like I care.”

“You
should
care. He’s a person. Just like you. How would you feel if someone said those things to you?”

“I’d think it was pretty damn funny. Hey, look, it wasn’t like he was all, ‘Let me help you up’ or ‘Are you hurt?’ when I fell down. No, it was just, ‘What do you want to buy?’ People get what they deserve.”

Helen looks down the street, like what she wants to say next is somewhere off in the distance. She turns back to me. “You weren’t going to buy anything in there, were you? You just had us meet here so that nobody would see us together.”

My pulse suddenly quickens. “What? No.” There’s a pounding in my ears. “I
was
going to buy something. But not after he started treating me like a tool.”

“I bet you don’t even work with your dad. I bet you put on that outfit to try to disguise yourself. Along with the glasses. Which you
don’t
wear.”

“How would you know?”

“Please, Cooper. You were stumbling around like a drunk. Besides. We’ve been going to school together since fourth grade. And I’ve never seen you wear glasses.
Ever
.”

“Look who’s been keeping a close eye on me all these years. I don’t know whether to be flattered or creeped out. Of course, who could blame you, but still . . .”

Helen’s gaze flicks back down the road. A 66 bus is headed toward us. She hikes her backpack up. “Whatever. You don’t want to work with me, obviously. And I’m happy not to work with you so, why don’t we just go to Mrs. Turris tomorrow and ask if we can do projects on our own?”

“Works for me. If that’s what you want. I don’t know what your big ish is with me, but fine. I can take the rejection.”

“Right. Put this on me. That way you don’t have to feel bad about yourself.”

“I
don’t
feel bad about myself, okay? ’Cause I’m here. You’re the one who’s leaving.”

The bus pulls up and opens its doors. “That’s right. I
am
leaving.
Golf Town
. How could I have been so stupid?” And with that, she steps up onto the number 66.

She must know that I’m waiting for the 66 too, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to ride the same bus as her. Better to wait the fifteen minutes and take the next one.

As the bus takes off, I stand there thinking how perfectly that all played out. It was actually way easier than I thought it was going to be. And tomorrow, I’ll be free as a bird.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,”
Mrs. Turris says, her chair creaking as she leans back. “It’s out of the question.”

Me and Helen are standing around the teacher’s desk after class. I’ve got that tied-the-game-and-lost-it-in-overtime feeling in my chest. I knew that with all Mrs. Turris’s talk about Fate that she wouldn’t be easily convinced, but I was hoping that Helen’s insistence might sway things in our favor.

“These projects aren’t just about alcohol or drugs or contraception. They’re about being able to work cooperatively. They’re about interpersonal communication. Like it or not, there’ll be times in life when you will have to work with somebody you don’t get along with. And you won’t be able to just give up.”

Mrs. Turris starts organizing papers on her desk, clearly having rested her case. Time for me to step in and work some of my Cooper magic.

“Mrs. Turris,” I say, giving her a chill, let’s-talk-about-this smile. “It’s not that we can’t work together —”

“Good.”

“It’s just that we feel the topic you gave us is so . . . big, and . . . important, really, that it deserves two separate lessons. You know, one from the guy’s point of view, and one from the girl’s. We’re just thinking of what’s best for the class here. It has nothing to do with not wanting to work together. We’re good friends, Helen and me.” I sling my arm around her for emphasis. I feel her body go rigid, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead she forces a smile. “We’ve been going to school together since fourth grade, for God’s sake. That’s not the ish here.”

I let go of Helen’s scarecrow-stiff shoulder. I don’t want her frozen grin blowing our story.

Mrs. Turris studies me. She’s not giving me anything by way of a clue. I can’t tell if I’ve hooked this fish or if I’m going to come up empty-handed. She drums her fingers on her desk.

“Okay,” she responds. “You’ve intrigued me. I like the idea of two lessons from the different perspectives.”

“Great!” I say, letting out the breath I didn’t even know I was holding. “You won’t regret this.”

A quick glance at Helen and, I don’t know, but I think I see some newfound respect in her eyes.

“But . . .” Mrs. Turris says, the word like a sucker punch to my solar plexus. “Since you two are such great pals,” she taps her salmon-painted lips with a pencil, “I don’t see why you shouldn’t work together on
both
lessons. You can present the male perspective on contraception one day and the female perspective the next. It’s a fabulous suggestion, Cooper. It’ll be more work, for sure — a great deal more actually — but two good friends like you should be able to get it done without a problem.”

Helen glares at me.

“But that doesn’t mean you have extra time,” Mrs. Turris continues, an uppercut to the chin. “You two are really going to have to buckle down. Now, hurry along. You’re already late for your next class.”

Out in the nearly empty hall, I walk as quickly as I can without breaking into a full jog. But Helen catches up to me, matching my step no problem.

“Nice going,” she says. “Now, not only do we have to work together, but we have to work together twice as much.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t hear
you
chiming in with any brill ideas.”

“Like I had time before you jammed your foot down your throat.”

“It would have worked if you hadn’t acted like I was a skeeve when I put my arm around you.” This is not my normal pace, and I’m out of breath before we reach the stairs. But I force myself to keep my breathing even. I’m not about to let Helen sense any weakness. “She totally picked up on that.”

“What do you expect?” Helen’s not even huffing. “You could have told me what you were going to say before we went up there to talk to her.”

I stop at the bottom of the steps. For emphasis. But also to rest. “It’s called improv, babe. I was working with the pitch we were thrown.”

“Well I don’t
do
improv. I need advance notice before . . . things like that.”

I hold my hands up. “You know what? Just stop. You have nothing to complain about. You’re getting the better deal here. By
far
.”

“Oh, really?” Helen snorts. “And how do you figure that?”

“Because you get to work with me.”

Helen places her hand over her heart. “Oh, excuse me. I’m sorry. I must have missed the memo describing what a privilege that is. Remind me again what you bring to this project? Besides your
D
average?”

“Besides my D-
plus
average.” I start up the stairs. Helen follows. “Let me think. Hmm. Oh, yeah. I also bring this.” I reach into my pants pocket and pull out a big ol’ bird which I brandish in front of Helen’s eyes.

She nods. “Right. Maturity. That’s what I figured.”

“Okay, Miss Maturity.” I stop on the landing. “Why don’t you tell me what
you
bring to the table? I mean, other than your glowing reputation and wild popularity.”

Helen glares at me, her eyes narrowed into little slits. “Screw you, Cooper.” She shoves her face close to mine, which kind of surprises me. “You’re a real prick, you know that?”

It throws me off my stride. Her vehemence. By the time I open my mouth to respond, she’s already headed down the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” I call after her, but she doesn’t turn around. Just keeps going.

“WHY DON’T YOU GUYS
just bring your instruments over this afternoon?” I say, shifting into a lower gear as Matt, Sean, and I cycle up Cardiac Hill. “We’ll just lay down a few simple tracks and see how they sound.”

Matt laughs. “Okay, what part of ‘No, we aren’t doing this’ didn’t you understand?”

“I just don’t see the harm in giving it a shot.”

“Because it’s pointless, Coop,” Sean says, huffing and puffing as we reach the steepest point of the climb. “Recording us playing is only going to confirm what we already know: we stink. And honestly, I don’t see us getting any better in three months.”

My thighs are burning from the slog of pedaling. I can hardly wait until I get a car and I never have to bike this stupid hill again. “Just for kicks, then,” I wheeze out. “We don’t have to . . . hand it in.” My lungs scream for mercy. “We’ll just . . . have some fun.” I think I might hurl. “We can smooth the songs out with my computer and GarageBand.”

“Forget it,” Matt says, “I already told Valerie we’d watch a movie today.”

“And I’ve got to Skype my Uncle Doug,” Sean adds as we reach the top of the hill. “So he can do my Algebra homework for me.”

“Fine, get all your stuff out of the way and we can do it after dinner,” I say. “I’ll be expecting you.” I peel off and race down my street before they can protest.

Matt yells after me, “I’m not coming!”

“Me either!” Sean shouts.

“I can’t hear you!” I call over my shoulder. “Seven o’clock! Don’t be late! We have a lot of work to do!”

I coast up to my house, not entirely confident that Matt and Sean will feel guilty enough to show later. Still, I’m holding on to a tiny strand of hope.

I can hear Mom singing — or rather, butchering — the Beatles when I open the front door.

“She’s got a chicken to ride. She’s got a chicken to ri-hi-hide. She’s got a chicken to ride. And she’s not scared.”

“Those aren’t the words, Mom,” I say as I step into the kitchen, heading straight for the cupboard to forage. “Not even close.”

“What are you talking about?” she says, opening the freezer.

“It’s a
ticket
to ride.” I laugh, reaching past the already opened bag of Doritos and grabbing the brand-new bag of Cheetos hiding in the back. “Not a chicken.”

“Are you sure? I guess that does make more sense.” She pulls out a Tupperware container with something beige in it. “Now what’s this?”

Angela walks into the kitchen, blabbing on her cell phone. “I’m so sure,” she says. “Like I even care.”

“We’re having an early dinner today. Are you feeling more Salisbury steak or pot pie?” Mom asks me, shoving the mystery food back into the freezer.

My stomach heaves. If I have to eat another cardboard encased microwave meal I may put myself up for adoption. “I’m leaning more toward homemade oven-fried chicken, roast potatoes, and corn on the cob,” I say, tearing open the bag of Cheetos.

Mom laughs. “Right. And who’s whipping
that
up in the next,”— she glances at the sunflower clock on the wall —“twenty minutes, before I have to be at Porterhouse Nick’s?”

I groan. “Are we going to be eating frozen foods for the rest of our lives?”

“I don’t want to reschedule,
Graham
!” Angela barks into her phone. “Oh, um, let me think. Maybe because we
already
rescheduled this week.”

Mom sighs, her whole face looking weary. “You know the deal, Cooper. Once your father’s back to regular hours at work, I won’t have to —”

“I know, I know,” I say, feeling like a dick for even bringing it up. “I’m sorry. Pot pie will be great.”

Angela huffs. “Yeah, whatever. Have fun at the gym, asshole. I hope you strain your groin.” She snaps her phone shut and tosses it onto the kitchen table.

“What’s wrong?” Mom pulls a family pack of pot pies from the freezer and places it on the counter.

“He’s going to break up with me. I know it.” Angela flops down into a chair, the legs scraping on the floor. “And it’s all because of my giant schnoz. I need a nose job.”