Beat the Band (8 page)

I can tell by Mr. Grossman’s curdled expression that he doesn’t like my answer. “I don’t recognize any of these names from our music program.”

For a brief moment, I consider mentioning that Sean was in chorus for a few days last year, before Mr. Grossman kicked him out, but then think better of it. Instead I just say, “Nope.”

“And why is that?” Mr. Grossman asks.

Yeah, why is that, Coop? Could it be the fact that the three of you are amazingly unmusical?

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

I shrug. “Don’t know.”

He sniffs. “Hmm. Curious.”

What the hell does that mean?

“The committee will listen to the tapes over the weekend. Announcements will made Monday.” Mr. Grossman places the demo and the entry form beside him on the piano bench, then returns his attention to his staff paper.

I guess . . . that’s it.

I spin around and walk out of the room, feeling dizzy and sweaty all over, like I may chum the fish, even though my stomach is hollow from not eating this morning.

“YOU’RE IN LUCK,”
Mrs. Turris says after the bell rings and everyone settles down. “I’m going to let you use the class period today to get some work done on your projects.”

She grabs a stack of papers from her desk and hands them to gerbil-cheeked Trina Boyle in the first row. Trina takes one and passes the stack behind her.

“Since this project is such a large undertaking,” Mrs. Turris continues, “I’ve set a strict timeline to help you pace yourselves.” The class lets out a collective groan, which causes Mrs. Turris to smirk. “These are hard deadlines that I expect you and your partner to meet without excuses. In two weeks, a basic summary of your lesson will be due. Two weeks after that, a first draft lesson plan. And the like. So keep these schedules handy. If you follow the plan, you should have no problem once it comes time to give your presentations.”

I glance over at Helen, who is already taking notes. She’s the only one moving her pen. I wonder if Mrs. Turris would notice if we worked on opposite sides of the room. Probably.

“Once you get your copy of the schedule, find your partner and get to work. There are reference materials in the bookshelves at the back of the room, and of course there’s your Health text, which is a rich source of information.”

Everyone’s up and shuffling around. Matt and Sean scoot their desks together. They’re already talking and laughing it up.

Jerks.

I stand and start across the room, only to be assaulted by the facial-hair-challenged Andy Bennett, who bumps my shoulder.

“Watch it, Corn Dog.” He smirks.

“Is that you, Andy?” I say. “Oh, thank God. I knew that sphincters couldn’t talk, but for a second there —”

Andy shoves me. “You want me to break your face, butthead?”

“Do I want you to give me head?” I say loudly. “No, Andy. I do not.”

Several kids nearby laugh.

“That’s it,” Andy grabs two fistfuls of my shirt. “You’re dead.”

“Head? I already told you, Andy. I’m not interested. Read the poster on the wall, dude.
No
means
no
.”

His face crimsons. He keeps hold of my shirt with one hand and cocks a fist with the other.

“Hello?” Mrs. Turris calls from the front of the room. “Do I need to send you two to the principal?”

Andy grits his teeth and pushes me away. “Watch your back, Corn Dog. ’Cause you’ll never know when I’ll be coming.”

“On my back? Dude, no thanks.”

“You’re a real comedian. Just you wait.” He makes an I’m-watching-you gesture before walking off.

What a dink.

I make my way over to the empty desk across the aisle from Helen, feeling an invisible noose tightening around my neck. She’s already marking pages in her textbook with Post-its.

“So, whadda we got?” I say.

Helen looks up at me for a second, then goes back to her scribbling.

“That’s cool. I’m down with that. We’ll work on our own thing and compare notes later.”

I slap my Health book on the desk and start flipping through it. I pretend to be looking stuff up but really my mind is bouncing around like a SuperBall. The Battle of the Bands. The songs we’ll do if we get in. The Phenomenal Four wearing tight sweaters and dirty dancing to our music.

I glance over at Helen, swaddled in her thick, baggy gray sweatshirt, hunched over her book. I wonder what she’s packing under all those clothes. You never know. Sometimes the biggest diamonds are buried below a ton of rock.

“What?” Helen’s caught me looking at her.

“Nothing.”

“You were staring at me.”

“Was not.”

“I’m not blind, Cooper.”

“If I was going to stare at anyone it wouldn’t be you, I can tell you that.”

“Whatever. You’re obviously getting a lot of work done there.”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” I tap my temple for emphasis. “Not all of us have to write every little thing down. Some of us use our brains to store the information for later retrieval.”

“That would require you to actually
have
some brains.”

“On your period much? I hope you’re not going to be all raggy when we present our lessons, ’cause that’s not going to score us any points with the teach.”

“How’s my wonder team getting on?” It’s Mrs. Turris, the omnipresent-one herself. She grins down on us, hands on hips.

“Super.” I plaster a big smile on my face. “We were just discussing the female menstrual cycle.”

“I don’t see how you can be discussing anything when you’re so far away from each other.” Mrs. Turris grabs my desk and drags me right up next to Helen. Man is she strong. “There. That’s better. Now you won’t have to shout at each other across the aisle.” She nods, satisfied with her work, and moves on.

It’s impossible to miss the sniggers and jeers —“Bet she likes it
doggy
style,” “Put your wiener between her buns,” “Make her use her Cooper Scooper”— that flutter around the room like crickets.

“Quiet down,” Mrs. Turris snaps, ignoring what’s actually being said and instead focusing on the decibel level.

“So.” I plant my feet and surreptitiously slide my desk a few inches away. “We’re here. We might as well get something done.”

“That’s what I was
trying
to do,” Helen says.

“Okay, fine, let’s whip this puppy — I mean,
project
— out.” Note to self: avoid all references to hot dogs, canines, and condiments when around Helen. “How long could it take, right? There’s rubbers, the diaphragm, and the pill. Big deal.”

Helen stares at me. “Coop, there are way more contraceptive methods than that. I’ve been counting them and so far I’ve got at least twenty different kinds.”

“Jesus. Are you twisting me? Do we have to do them all?” My gut clenches thinking about having to stand in front of the whole class with Helen and talk about all this stuff. I can hear the taunts now; “Wrap up that corn dog, Coop, or she might have puppies!”, “Give her the old cocktail weiner!”, “STDs? You’re more likely to get food poisoning!”

“I’m sure Mrs. Turris is going to want us to say something about each of them. Besides, we have two class periods to fill.”

I flip through my Health text and find the list of contraceptive methods. “Alphabetical order. How convenient.” I start to read them out loud. “Abstinence? What’s that?”

“It means not having sex.”

I laugh. “Like anyone is going to use
that
method.”

“A lot of people do.”

“Yeah, but not by choice.” I scan down the list. “Birth control implant. Yikes. Don’t like the sound of that. It’s probably some kind of microchip they insert in your brain that sends out electric shocks every time you think about doing it.”

“Somehow, I doubt it.”

“Don’t be so sure. There’s some pretty sick stuff out there. I heard that Ernie Plingus’s dad had this operation. They filleted his sack right open. Yanked his manstones out. Like what they do to animals.” It makes my tool bag shrivel up just thinking about it.

Helen raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“It’s true.”

“Let’s just stick to what it says in the book, okay?”

“I’m just saying. We could have some fun with this if we wanted to. Introduce some real-life examples and totally gross people out. Maybe even make Mrs. Turris hurl a crustless pizza on her desk. It’d serve her right. What do you think?”

“I think that we should stick to what’s in the book.”

I throw my hands up in surrender. “Whatever you say, Sister Helen.”

Helen sighs and returns her focus to the textbook. “There’s the birth control patch.”

“Birth control patch? Isn’t that what pirates use? Arrrr, I be horny lass, but I dasn’t want t’get ye preggers.”

Helen slams her textbook closed. “Coop! Enough! Knock it off.”

I look around, feel the heat of people staring. “Jeez keep it down, would ya?”

“You’re acting like an idiot.”

“I’m just trying to make this a little less painful. But if you want to be all uptight about it, fine. We’ll just do the most boring project in the history of the universe.”

“Cooper. Helen. May I see you up here, please?” Mrs. Turris makes a come hither gesture with her finger. Her mouth a little annoyed dash on her face.

Helen scowls at me. I glare right back at her.

There are more chuckles and comments from the choir as we head up to the front of the room and stand at Mrs. Turris’ desk. “Bad dog. Bad dog.”

I flip the whole class off behind my back.

“Now, this is the last time I’m going to tell you, so listen closely. This project is as much about the relationship between the two of you as it is about the health topics you’re researching.”

“Um, we’re not in a relationship, Mrs. Turris,” I say.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Cooper. You are in a very close relationship. You’re partners. And as partners, you have to be able to depend on each other. Trust each other.”

Helen blows sarcastically through her lips.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Turris says.

Helen crosses her arms. “How am I supposed to trust someone who doesn’t even want to work with me?”

“Me not want to work with you?” I laugh. “That’s funny. Because it was your idea to ditch me and work on separate projects.”

“Yeah, right. You keep telling yourself that.”

“I don’t have to tell myself that because
you’re
the one who told me. Outside Golf Town.”

“Uh-huh. And why were we at Golf Town again?”

“Enough,” Mrs. Turris says. Her jolly-round-Mrs.-Claus face is not jolly anymore. “I’m giving you one more chance to figure this out. But if you can’t make it work on your own, trust me, I’ll
make
it work for you. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes,” Helen says.

I’m clenching my jaw so tight it’s giving me a migraine.

Mrs. Turris turns to me. “Cooper?”

“Mm-hmm,” I mutter.

“Good. Now, remember, you have
two
outlines due in two weeks. So, why don’t you schedule a time when you can both get together this weekend.”

Yeah, right. Like
that’s
ever going to happen.

“Right now,” Mrs. Turris demands.

I look at Helen and force a smile, pretending I’m willing to give this a shot. “When are you free?”

She sighs. “I have cross country practice from eleven to one on Saturday. But I can do it any other time.”

“Well, Saturday at noon is the only time I can do it, so I guess we’re out of luck.”

“See?” Helen says to Mrs. Turris, like this explains everything.

“Cooper.” Mrs. Turris glares at me.

“What? Our schedules don’t mesh. Is that my fault?”

“I’ll mesh them for you. Sunday from one to three. The Rockville Public Library. Be there, for the entire two hours. If either one of you doesn’t show up, you’ll both find yourselves with three months’ worth of detention. Then, you’ll have no choice but to work together. Are we clear?”

Aw, man. This blows. I was keeping the whole weekend clear to focus on Battle of the Bands stuff. There are set lists to be made. Rehearsal schedules to put together. Convincing arguments to be formulated in case Matt and Sean continue to be difficult.

And now this. A big boil on the beautiful boob of my Sunday — and just a preview of my life to come if we don’t make it into the Battle of the Bands. I swear, if our names aren’t announced on Monday, I’ll be packing my bags and booking a one-way trip to Tibet.