Beat the Band (7 page)

“Yeah. Sort of.”

Dad smirks and looks at me sideways. “Right. And a dog’s breath smells like fresh baked bread. Come on. What’s the poop and scuttle?” He flops down on the old gray sofa.

It’s bizarre. I feel this welling up of emotion, like I might break down and cry. I force myself to hold it together. “It’s the Battle of the Bands. I have to get in.”

Dad raises his eyebrows as he pulls a packet of nicotine gum from his shirt pocket. “As a one-man band?”

“With Matt and Sean.”

Dad scans the basement, like he’s trying to find them.

I breathe deep and exhale. “The demo’s due tomorrow. But the actual competition isn’t for three months. They didn’t think we could put together a CD in time to enter.”

“Yeah, well, it looks like they were right.” He pushes a piece of gum from the packet and pops it in his mouth.

“If we could just get in, I’m sure we could get good enough by December. I wanted to give it a shot.” I shift on the drum stool, my butt sore from all the sitting.

Dad studies me for a long time, chawing his gum. “Nope. Sorry. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

“What?”

“Look, no offense, Coop,” Dad says, “but you’re not the nose-to-the-grindstone type. The last time you put this much effort into something was when you were lobbying us to adopt the sorriest looking dog at the kennel so you could pretend to be a homeless kid and beg for change outside the PriceMark. So, what’s the angle here?”

I feel my face flush. “There is no angle.”

Dad peers at me, chewing loudly but saying nothing.

I try to stare him down but it doesn’t take long before my resolve evaporates. “It’s a girl,” I say, putting my drumsticks aside and rubbing my aching hands.

He smiles. “Okay. So you’re trying to impress the ladies.”

“No. Well, yes, that. But . . . it’s more complicated.” I don’t know why my chest feels so constricted. Like I’m wearing a straightjacket or something. “There’s this
other
girl. Who I’ve been saddled up with for a school project. Everyone at school hates her. So now I’m . . . reaping all the benefits of that.”

“What do you mean ‘everyone hates her’?”

“She’s got a reputation. You know. There are all these rumors about her . . . and deli meats.”

Dad tries not to laugh. He nods and says, “Hairy Mary.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was Hairy Mary at my school. Mary, Mary, she’s so hairy, yeasty, beasty, everywherey.” He shrugs. “Anyway, go on.”

“Yeah, well, being partners with this girl, now everyone’s saying I’m
with
her. Which means my chances of hooking up with any of the girls in the school are less than zilch.”

Dad lifts his chin. “So, you think being in the Battle of the Bands could help the situation?”

“I know it would. If we win, absolutely.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I can see that. Rock star trumps pretty much anything. It’s too bad really. If you’d told me a few days ago I could have had your grandmother FedEx me my old band tapes. You could have floated one of those as your own until you guys got your act together.”

“You were in a band?” My voice is thick with doubt.

Dad laughs. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“No, I just . . . didn’t know.”

“We were damn good, too. The Spiroketes. Landed me a flock of squanch, I’ll tell you that. Cindy Berman. Alison Hripsack. Kathryn Jaspers. Lynn Skayling. Wendy Figlia.” He’s got this far away, life-used-to-be-so-great expression on his face. He blinks hard, shaking off the memory. “Anyway, we tried to keep the band chugging after high school, but you know how things go.” Dad taps his lips, the wheels turning behind his eyes. “Still, it’s a shame about those tapes.”

“Yeah, that would have been cool,” I say. “I guess I’m just going to have to start looking into the priesthood.”

“Hold on a second. Don’t go hanging up the guns just yet.” He stands and starts to pace. “Three months, huh? Three months. Yeah. We could get you sounding decent by then. But the demo. That’s the rub. And if you can’t use
my
high school band tapes, then what?” He stops. Runs his hand through his thick black hair. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Okay, hear me out.” Dad looks all excited, his fingers twitching. “This going to sound a lot like stealing. But really, I think we can justify it.”

“I DON’T KNOW,”
I say. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.”

“Look,” Dad says, “when the situation is as dire as yours, you can’t apply everyday morals and values. You gotta shove all that stuff to the side. And besides, technically, you’ll just be borrowing the music. Ultimately, your band is going to have to live and die on its own.”

We’re hunched over my MacBook, scrolling through whacks and whacks of unsigned bands on MySpace, searching for someone I might be able to safely crib — I mean
borrow
— a few songs from for my demo.

The door to the basement squeaks open.
“Good night, yellow brick road,”
Mom sings down from the top of the stairs. “What do you say, Walter? You coming to bed?”

“It’s
good-bye,
yellow brick road, hon.” Dad looks up from my laptop. “And I can’t come up right now. I’m helping Coop out with a school project.”

“It’s past midnight. Cooper, you should be in bed.”

“I know, Mom,” I say, my eyes burning from staring so long at the screen. “I have to finish this. It’s due tomorrow.”

“That’s why you don’t leave things to the last minute.”

“We shouldn’t be too much longer.” Dad gestures at a band called Sinus Trouble.

“All right, but don’t wake me up when you come to bed, Walter. I’m babysitting the Bermans’ kids all day tomorrow. I need to have my wits about me.” Mom shuts the basement door. Her footsteps
clip-clop
over our heads.

I click on the Sinus Trouble page and we take a listen. They sound like a mix between Linkin Park and Collective Soul. Not my particular bag of chips, but definitely polished.

“Forget it.” Dad waves them off. “Too good. You’ll get busted for sure.”

I yawn and close my eyes. My head feels like it’s filled with sand. I start to drift off.

“Right there,” Dad says, jolting me awake. “Understain.” He points at the screen. “They do covers and originals. They’re unsigned. And they’re from Canada. Even better. Click on them.”

It turns out Understain does a pretty good rendition of “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper.” Good, but not great. They also play a passable “Paint It Black.” One of their better original songs is some kind of meat protest anthem called “Grind the Rump Roast.”

Again, it’s decent, just not brilliant.

In other words, absolutely perfect.

Dad and I turn to each other.

“Can you download those?” Dad asks.

“Better if I blast them on my computer speakers and record them that way. Then, it’ll actually sound like we were playing in the basement.”

Dad points at me. “Good call. Now, when you hand this in to the teacher, you have to play it completely cucumber. Look him in the eyes. Keep it brief. If he asks you questions, don’t go into long explanations. The best way to approach this is to keep telling yourself that this Mr. Grossman character is a jerk for not giving you more time to make a demo. It’s his fault, really. He drove you to this.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Good luck.” He stands and claps me on the shoulder. “You do know, though, that if the shit comes down, I’m gonna have to deny any knowledge of this. You’re a kid. You’ll recover. It won’t be so easy for me. When you get to be my age people think you should know better.”

“It’s cool,” I say. “I won’t narc you out.”

Dad smiles. “That’s my boy. Now, let me know how it turns out. If you get in, we’re gonna have a buttload of work to do.”

MY CHEEKS AND NOSE
are numbed by the damp air as I ride my bike through the mist that rises off the asphalt. I remember listening to the rain last night, in between bouts of fitful sleep, and praying that it would let up before I had to go to school this morning.

And while everything around me is wet, my mouth is as dry as an empty taco shell.

The pilfered demo whispers to me from my backpack.
“You are going to get expelled from school. This will go on your permanent record. You think babes are going to want to date a thief?”

“Shut up!” I say. “I’m not stealing. I’m
borrowing
. There’s a difference.”

Okay. Be caszh. The demo isn’t talking to me. That’s ridiculous. I am the baron of bull. This is no big deal. I’ve been dishonest to teachers my entire life.

“But never on this scale before,”
the demo warns.

“I said, shut up!”

I take a deep breath. There’s not a chance in hell Mr. Grossman will be able to tell that I jacked these songs. How could he? Does he spend his free time prowling MySpace and listening to mediocre unsigned Canadian bands? Doubtful. So just chillax.

I take the turn onto Division Avenue, my tires slooshing through a puddle.

I had to lie to Matt and Sean so they wouldn’t be wondering why I couldn’t ride to school with them today. I told them I had early detention. It’s weird. I can’t remember ever having actually flat-out lied to my buds before. I have to say, it didn’t feel real good, but it had to be done. It’s
their
fault I’m having to jump through all these hoops. If they’d showed up last night, like I asked, none of this subterfuge would be necessary.

The hallways are pretty barren when I step into the school. Just your early drop-offs and a few pre-caffeinated teachers wandering around like zombies. I adjust my backpack, get myself focused, and start toward the music department.

It’s funny how long and bright the hallways seem when there aren’t a billion kids jostling to get to class. And how you can hear your footsteps so much louder. And how everything smells like fresh pencil shavings and wet newspaper.

I’m hoping that Mr. Grossman won’t be in the chorus room, so I can slide the demo and entry form under the door without having to do a face-to-face.

But when I arrive, there he is, sitting at his piano, scribbling something on staff paper.

I stop in the doorway, a lump in my throat.

Okay. I either do this or I don’t.

“Don’t,”
the demo calls out from my backpack.
“Just throw me in the trash and we’ll never speak of this again.”

“Get the hell in there, chucklenut,”
I hear Dad’s voice in my head.
“Are you going to take advice from an inanimate object? Or from your dear old Dad?”

The demo sighs.
“It’s not too late. The teacher hasn’t seen you yet. Just back away quietly —”

“Mary, Mary, she’s so hairy!”
Dad sings loudly, drowning out the voice of the demo.

“Yes?” It’s Mr. Grossman. Looking at me over his glasses with his squinty eyes. He’s got this pinched-up look on his face, like he knows I’ve done something wrong but hasn’t quite figured out what it is yet.

I swallow and step into the room. “I’ve got a demo for the Battle of the Bands.” Keep it brief. Get in and get out.

“Very good,” Mr. Grossman says. “Give it here.” He gestures toward me. His hand looks enormous. Like it could reach out and snap my neck.

I swing my backpack around and dig out the CD. “Here.” I pass the jewel case off to him, keeping my distance.

He looks at it and raises his eyebrows.

“What?” I say.

“Your entry form?”

“Oh, right.” I pull the folded-up form — complete with Matt’s and Sean’s forged signatures — from my bag and give this to him as well.

Mr. Grossman unfolds the paper and studies it. “Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare?” he says. “It sounds
lewd
. What does that mean?”

“Short and simple,”
I hear Dad whisper.

“It’s not lewd. It’s just an inside joke. From grade school.”

Mr. Grossman levels his gaze on me. Waiting for me to elaborate.

“This kid,” I say. “We dared him to eat an old boloney sandwich. Off the cafeteria floor. It’s just . . . It’s nothing. . . . He moved away. But not because of the sandwich. His father got transferred, I think. I’m not sure. . . .” I feel Dad giving me an internal head-cuffing. “Anyway. That’s it.”